"Yes, it is," she insisted dismissively, turning to face me. "Isn't it?" she demanded, adjusting her chador, pulling it tight under her chin. it?" she demanded, adjusting her chador, pulling it tight under her chin.

"What is it you think is beautiful?" asked Mr. M., drawing out the words.

"The buildings, the modern technology, everything!"

"I hope you'll be able to see it someday," I said. She lowered her eyes and fell silent. Right then her husband, the soccer-playing youth I had seen eighteen months earlier, walked in. I stood up and shook his hand. "How are you?" I asked in as friendly a tone as I could muster, even though I had sensed a little hostility from him the last time.

"Very well," he said, taking my hand in his. "It's nice to see you again." His hair was shorter than the last time and wasn't gelled, and he had a short, uneven beard. He sat down by his wife.

"So what are you up to these days?" I asked. "Still playing soccer?"

"Yes, whenever I get a chance," he replied. "But I'm doing my national service."

"Wow, in the army, eh?" I said.

"No," he said, "I signed up for the Revolutionary Guards."

"You can join the Sepah for your military service?"

"Yeah."

"And how is it?"

"It's easy. I just sit in an office most days, and get plenty of days off."

There was a knock at the door, and Mr. M. went into the hallway. He reappeared moments later with a small bag, and then stepped into the kitchen to pick up the paraffin burner and his homemade pipe. He sat down and began to prepare the shir'e.

"So," said the son-in-law, "what kind of guns do American soldiers carry?"

"Gee, I'm not sure," I said, "but I a.s.sume they're given M16s."

"Wow, M16s!" He smiled, his black eyes twinkling with excitement.

"And what do you have?" I asked, sensing he wanted to tell me.

"Kalashnikovs," he said, "although I'm not allowed one. I get to shoot one occasionally for target practice. They're not bad, but they're not M16s."

"Have you seen an M16?" I asked.

"No, but friends have!" He started to absentmindedly pull the short hairs on his chin.

"And you grew the beard for the Guards?" I asked.

"I suppose so," he said, "but my beard isn't really a proper Pasdar beard. I'm not a regular, so it doesn't really matter, as long as I don't shave." His father-in-law had a pipe almost ready, and he gestured for me to join him at his side.

"I can't smoke much," I said. "Last time it really knocked me out."

"It'll be better this time," he said. Indeed, I thought, stretching out and resting my head on a pillow. We smoked for a couple of hours, watched by the rest of the family, who chatted endlessly about matters such as Mr. M.'s unfortunate habit, which had caused him to lose most of his a.s.sets and was about to cause him the loss of the house we were in; his siblings' exploitation of his situation by offering to buy the property for far less than its worth; and the daughter's attention deficit disorder, which of course they didn't describe as such but which she oddly seemed quite proud of. Mr. M. had been a senior city government official at one time but had been dismissed following a corruption scandal, and his descent into full-time opium use had taken a greater toll on the family than I had thought the last time I saw them. But unlike working-cla.s.s addicts who have in many cases ended up on the streets abandoned by their relatives, this family soldiered on, together and intact, and I could only hope that they would continue to do so.

As we lay on the floor, I was often asked my opinion on all their family issues, and I tried to be politely noncommittal, for I found it unnerving not only to be included in what should have been private matters but also to speak on the subject of my host's opium habit while I lay on the floor happily puffing away at his pipe. There was, much as the last time I had visited, no talk of politics or the U.S.-Iran dispute, even with a son-in-law in the Revolutionary Guards who might be called to the front lines of a war someday, for this family, like most in the middle and working cla.s.ses, had bigger problems and issues to worry about. I hoped that other guests would arrive, to save me from both the uncomfortable conversation and having to, out of ta'arouf, which makes it rude and therefore impossible to do as one really wants, smoke far more than I should, but no one else showed up. I did endorse the idea of the daughter continuing her education, an endeavor she has so far found exceedingly boring, and I also seconded Mrs. M.'s entreaties to her husband not to sell the house (which despite its poor condition was actually quite lovely), at least not for a quick buck. Perhaps it was, I thought, battling my drooping eyelids after a pipe by staring at a picture of the revered Shia saint Imam Hossein on a wall next to a large poster of Ayatollah Fazel Lankarani, that I, the Iranian from foreign lands, was the perfect person for the family to air their issues in front of. I would, after all, be gone soon, possibly never to return, and none of their neighbors knew me. Me and their Ayatollah, it seemed, were the closest to therapy that this family would ever get.

When I finally summoned the energy to stand up and excuse myself for a visit to the outhouse, I heard drumbeats coming from the street. Mr. M.'s young son, now probably thirteen or fourteen and quite a bit larger than when I'd last seen him, came running in from the hall to announce a mourning procession outside. "For whom?" I inquired.

"Zein-ol-Abedeen-e-Beemar," he said, "Imam Sajjad." I must have looked puzzled, for he then added, "The fourth fourth Imam!" He must've thought me a complete half-wit. Zein-ol-Abedeen ( Imam!" He must've thought me a complete half-wit. Zein-ol-Abedeen (beemar means "the sickly," for he was ill at the Battle of Karbala in 680 means "the sickly," for he was ill at the Battle of Karbala in 680 C C.E. and unable to fight alongside his father, Hossein, the more revered Imam) had a Persian mother, the daughter of Yazdegerd, the last Sa.s.sanid Iranian king. Imam Hossein, grandson of the Prophet Mohammad, who married her, and his half-Iranian son, who had her as a mother, hold a special place in Iranian hearts, for they inextricably link Iran and Persian blood to the Arab religion that conquered their land. I followed the boy outside and watched the marchers, all dressed in black, some beating their chests with one hand while holding colorful banners with the other and some whipping their backs with chains to the rhythm of the drums. Another day, another procession, and even the spectators looking on seemed weary. A few women in black chadors listlessly followed the colorful funeral-like procession, and after watching it pa.s.s the house, I went inside through the living room murmuring, "Excuse me," and into the yard.

A yellow cat, busily licking the lunch dishes piled up outside the kitchen entrance, froze and stared at me. "Shoo him away!" Mrs. M. shouted through the gla.s.s pane of the door. "He's so b.u.mptious, and we can't seem to get rid of him." I made a sudden movement toward the cat, and he gave me what I was sure was a disgusted look before calmly, and arrogantly, walking away. Another neighborhood laat, I thought as I made my way to the outhouse. It was getting late when I returned to the living room, and I begged my leave. Antic.i.p.ating a few rounds of ta'arouf, I said that I had to make a pilgrimage to the Shrine of Fatima Masoumeh before I left Qom, and that seemed to suffice as both an excuse and a verification of my religious credentials. The daughter left the room as I kissed her father and her husband three times in the Islamic manner, and she returned quickly with a small box.

"Here," she said. "This is for you, from Imam Reza's shrine in Mashhad. I picked some up when I went on pilgrimage last month." I opened the cardboard box, and inside was a small string of prayer beads.

"Thanks so much," I said. "I really appreciate it." I knew my mother, whom I'd be re-gifting them to, actually would would.

"It's auspicious," she said, staring straight at me. "Blessed, because it comes from the shrine." Mr. M.'s daughter, who watches PMC and other satellite television stations, who sees Iranians abroad happily living luxurious lives, and who might wish, hopelessly, to join them, perhaps takes comfort in believing that she has something many of those exiles don't: faith, and proximity to where the Messiah will appear one Tuesday night to set all the wrongs of the world right.

I put the prayer beads back in the box and into my pocket, taking out my cell phone and turning it on. She glanced at the phone in my hands. "It's different from the last one, isn't it?"

"Yes," I replied. "I got this one quite recently."

"Is it also a Motorola?" she asked.

"Yes," I said, handing her the phone to examine, surprised to learn that she had noticed the make of my phone over a year ago.

"Gosh. It's so beautiful!" she said, caressing the phone. "They make such beautiful things in America," she continued, throwing a glance at her father. I didn't have the heart to tell her that it, like almost all American electronics, was made in China. She handed the phone back to me.

"Is it expensive?" she asked.

"No, not really," I said, "about a hundred dollars: cell phones are pretty cheap in America." She paused, converting the sum into rials in her head. I started for the door, the family following my footsteps as good Iranian manners dictate. I, as manners also dictate, begged them to remain in the room, saying that I would see myself out, but of course they followed me anyway. "Goodbye again," I said, putting on my shoes by the door. "Thank you so much, and I again apologize for imposing on you."

"Please," they all said, Mrs. M. adding the cla.s.sic ta'arouf line: "Sorry you had a bad time."

"I had a wonderful time!" I said, and I meant it, although they, unaccustomed to anything but ta'arouf, would never know whether my words were spoken sincerely. I noticed the daughter was still looking at the phone in my hand.

"Excuse me," she said, looking up. "Does it give good antenna?"

PRIDE AND HUMILITY.

The Iranian Foreign Ministry sits on parklike grounds in the center of downtown Tehran: a visually stunning low-slung building built at the time of Reza Shah but with more art deco and cla.s.sically Persian flourishes than other government buildings, all of which exhibit the German fascist architecture so popular with the Shah at the time.1 It is also one of the few large government buildings where you will very rarely encounter a cleric, or even someone not wearing a proper suit, for the Foreign Ministry is where the Islamic Republic gets down to the now critical business of interacting with the outside world at a time when its power and influence are on the rise. Joining the foreign service is the most difficult career choice for would-be civil servants (as it is in most other countries), and the legions of gray-suited men and elegant hijab-wearing women who march purposefully up and down the vast marble-floored corridors of the Foreign Ministry have all, at one time or another, had to endure cla.s.ses, lectures, and study at the ministry's North Tehran campus: the Center for Research and Education. Nestled in the foothills of the Alborz Mountains on a street named for a war martyr and in the very far reaches of the northern part of the city, the campus is not unlike a college, with numerous nondescript buildings strewn about on acres of parkland. It is also one of the few large government buildings where you will very rarely encounter a cleric, or even someone not wearing a proper suit, for the Foreign Ministry is where the Islamic Republic gets down to the now critical business of interacting with the outside world at a time when its power and influence are on the rise. Joining the foreign service is the most difficult career choice for would-be civil servants (as it is in most other countries), and the legions of gray-suited men and elegant hijab-wearing women who march purposefully up and down the vast marble-floored corridors of the Foreign Ministry have all, at one time or another, had to endure cla.s.ses, lectures, and study at the ministry's North Tehran campus: the Center for Research and Education. Nestled in the foothills of the Alborz Mountains on a street named for a war martyr and in the very far reaches of the northern part of the city, the campus is not unlike a college, with numerous nondescript buildings strewn about on acres of parkland.

On a warm winter day in 2007 it was snowing lightly when I arrived at the facility, from a sunnier downtown, twenty minutes early for my appointment with the deputy foreign minister in charge of research and education, and the man essentially responsible for instilling Mahmoud Ahmadinejad's ideology in Iran's diplomats' heads. I decided to linger just outside the gates for a few minutes, and I took shelter under the overhang of the large bookstore accessible to the public, but not yet open for business in the morning. In the windows of the store there were copies of every political tome imaginable, from East and West, Persian auth.o.r.ed as well as many translated into Farsi, displayed on stands and stacked in artful piles as they would be in any commercial bookstore in the West.2 Prominent among the t.i.tles, almost center stage in the middle window, was the Farsi translation of Prominent among the t.i.tles, almost center stage in the middle window, was the Farsi translation of Mein Kampf Mein Kampf, complete with a photo of a serious-looking Adolf Hitler on the cover. A jarring image that I couldn't help but stare at, wondering if President Ahmadinejad had personally directed the ministry to display the book for all to see or if an employee had taken it upon himself or herself to antic.i.p.ate the president's taste in political literature. I noticed that books on Marx and communism, an ideology that is anathema to the Islamic Republic, were also available, but it was hard to tell from the t.i.tles if they were critical of the ideology or merely critiques of it.

It stopped snowing rather suddenly, and the sun shone brightly as I made my way past the security gate and onto the lavish grounds of the center, asking directions to the deputy foreign minister's office, which could have been in any one of a dozen buildings in my view. It was quiet on campus, hardly anyone was around, not even in the building where I finally found myself, and I had to knock on a few doors to find someone who would tell me on which floor and where their boss's office actually was. At the end of one empty hallway near a window I saw a blond young man in jeans, a Briton, complaining loudly into his cell phone about various visa issues and the troubles he was encountering. What an Englishman was doing at the center was a mystery to me, for it's not where foreigners come to extend their visas, but presumably he was a student who, like an English girl I'd met before, had managed to penetrate Iran's normally secretive Foreign Ministry. He turned and looked at me, and I reluctantly moved on, knowing that if I lingered, he'd a.s.sume I was spying on him, which I'll freely admit held some appeal to me, especially since my Persian conspiracy-minded opinion was that he he had to be a spy, or budding spy, himself. had to be a spy, or budding spy, himself.

I finally found the office I was looking for at the end of a wide corridor on the third floor of the building, and within minutes I was ushered by an a.s.sistant into the cavernous office suite of Manouchehr Mohammadi, Ph.D. (as it points out on his business card), the deputy foreign minister for research and education. (Ph.D. is seemingly not adequately prestigious for Dr. Mohammadi, for his business card also shows his e-mail address as beginning with "professor.") Dr. Mohammadi, dressed in a three-piece suit and the cla.s.sic collarless white shirt of the Foreign Ministry, stood up and shook my hand, and indicated that I should sit on a sofa some distance from his desk. He sat down on the chair facing his desk and opened a file, presumably mine.

"What can I do for you?" he asked, looking through the papers. I told him that I wanted to chat about various things, that I was a writer, and that I hoped he didn't mind if I took notes. He smiled and waited for the attendant who had walked in with a tray to place a gla.s.s of tea on the table in front of me. He waved the attendant away when he approached him with the tray, and looked at the file once more. "Happy to meet you," he said, closing the folder and putting it back on his desk. "I have fond memories of America," he said, "of my time at university there, in Wisconsin."

"Which school did you go to?" I asked.

"Madison," he said. "You know, I've never felt as comfortable anywhere outside Iran as in America."

"Yes," I said, "I think most Iranians feel that way."

"You know, the era of Mr. Nice Guy is over," he suddenly said, seriously, "because it didn't work." He was referring to Khatami, and he must have gleaned from my file that I was close to the ex-president. I thought he wanted to see my reaction, but I showed none except to nod my head and write in my little notebook. "Ahmadinejad is working," he continued matter-of-factly, "and the United States must accept the Islamic Republic as a reality."

"I can't speak for the government," I said, "but I think many ordinary Americans are worried about President Ahmadinejad and the policies of the Iranian government."

"We're not after public diplomacy," said Dr. Mohammadi with a broad and insincere smile. "One and a half billion Muslims have woken up after five hundred years of Western hegemony," he continued, "and we don't want d.i.c.k Cheney or Condoleezza Rice to give us orders. We are interested not in compromise compromise but in but in coexistence coexistence." He had used the English words, and he proudly smiled again as I furiously underlined "no compromise" in my notebook. And as if antic.i.p.ating my pen strokes, he repeated, "No compromise."

"So how did the Holocaust conference relate to a position of 'no compromise'?" I asked, trying to steer the conversation to that touchy subject. Manouchehr Mohammadi had been the man responsible for organizing the infamous Tehran Holocaust conference of December 2006, on direct orders from President Ahmadinejad. And he had, it seemed, relished the task, beaming in every photo of him at the event.3 "Ah," he said, looking at me carefully. "We have a saying in Iran that I'm sure you know. It goes: 'You say something; I believe it. You insist; I begin to wonder. You swear on it; I know you're lying.' The Holocaust conference was an academic affair, looking to find answers to unanswered questions. The West insists-no, swears-it happened, so we wanted to see what we could discover."

"But why would you invite someone like David Duke," I asked, "who has no credibility whatsoever and is a known racist and anti-Semite?"

"Listen," he said, smiling again, "we received a resume and request to attend from Kiev, Ukraine, from Mr. Duke, and after he arrived in Tehran, there was all this fuss-I think it was CBS News that started it-and he personally came here and told me that it was all Zionist lies and propaganda."

"With all due respect," I said, "David Duke is very well-known in the United States, at least to anyone over a certain age. I myself remember the headlines and the scandal when it was revealed that he was KKK all those years ago, and of course it's not that he's just an anti-Semite; he's a racist exKlan leader who actually believes that blacks, and I presume Iranians too, are inferior to whites like himself. Surely that is a problem for the Islamic Republic, a country greatly popular in Africa, even if the Holocaust denial or anti-Semitism isn't?" I really wanted to also ask him whether anyone in his office was aware of Google, but I bit my tongue. Mohammadi stared at me for a few moments, but not angrily. It was as if a realization, that perhaps Duke's racism has additional targets inconvenient to the Islamic Republic's repute, had hit him for the first time.

"Well, we didn't know," he then said with finality, "and when the whole thing happened, I summoned him to my office for an explanation-he sat right where you're sitting-and he denied it, as I just told you, but I had him put on a plane anyway. And I denied his request to meet President Ahmadinejad." We were interrupted by his cell phone, ringing with a Muzak-like soft rock tone, and I unconsciously shifted in my seat. David Duke, after all, had been sitting on the very same cushion only a few weeks earlier. When Mohammadi finished the call, he went into a monologue about how wonderful the hard-line policies of President Ahmadinejad were and how the West was beginning to realize that it couldn't shove Iran around any longer. I stopped taking notes and just looked at him, in a sort of wonderment that the training of Iran's young diplomats had been put under the charge of a person who exhibited about as much diplomatic finesse as John Bolton had as an American amba.s.sador. After a few more interruptions of his cell phone (didn't people know his office number?), he looked at his watch and I took the cue to excuse myself.

"Thanks very much," I said, standing up. "This was enlightening."

"You're very welcome," he replied. "On the Holocaust, by the way, you should know that I conducted my own very extensive research into it. You know I'm a scholar, of course."

"Really," I said, a little surprised that he'd want to revisit the topic.

"And I discovered the truth," he continued proudly. "There was no Holocaust." He gave me a knowing smile. "Sure, some people died," he carried on, perhaps because of my hanging lower jaw and dead stare, "but you see, there was an outbreak of typhus in the prison camps, and in order to stop its spread, the Germans burned the corpses. All told, something like three hundred thousand people died from typhus." Mohammadi smiled again, a little triumphant smirk.

I stood still in disbelief, not knowing what to say. In the s.p.a.ce of minutes he had gone from being Holocaust agnostic, like his president, to a full-fledged denier, like Duke. It was, of course, an old theory put forth years ago by various Holocaust deniers, and something he had probably read somewhere in his "scholarly" research. And, although head of research at the Foreign Ministry, he had undoubtedly not availed himself of the ministry archives, archives that might have revealed to him that Iranian diplomats in Paris, from this, his own Foreign Ministry, had taken it upon themselves to issue Iranian pa.s.sports to Jews escaping the very Holocaust they they were aware of, but that he now denied. Or he could have simply asked an ex-amba.s.sador or two, say, someone like my father, who knew one of those diplomats himself, a diplomat who had been the uncle of the onetime prime minister Amir Abbas Hoveyda and as such had been a well-known figure in the Foreign Ministry. (An Iranian television historical miniseries a few months later depicted an Iranian diplomat's role in rescuing French Jews, and became the highest-rated show on television in 2007. were aware of, but that he now denied. Or he could have simply asked an ex-amba.s.sador or two, say, someone like my father, who knew one of those diplomats himself, a diplomat who had been the uncle of the onetime prime minister Amir Abbas Hoveyda and as such had been a well-known figure in the Foreign Ministry. (An Iranian television historical miniseries a few months later depicted an Iranian diplomat's role in rescuing French Jews, and became the highest-rated show on television in 2007.4 Presumably the producers did Presumably the producers did not not ask for Dr. Mohammadi's input.) But I quickly decided there was no point arguing with him, smiled back at him, and just shook his hand and left. ask for Dr. Mohammadi's input.) But I quickly decided there was no point arguing with him, smiled back at him, and just shook his hand and left.

I felt relieved to be out of his presence, and as I walked across the perfectly manicured lawns outside, I wondered just how much influence men like him could have on Mahmoud Ahmadinejad's thinking. Ahmadinejad may be open to questioning the Holocaust, I thought, but he was a far smarter man than the deputy foreign minister. A few days later, when I was relating my meeting with Mohammadi to President Khatami, he screwed up his face in disgust at the first mention of his name. Mohammadi has held senior positions at the Foreign Ministry even under the reformists, just as other hard-liners have, and their apparently untouchable status only serves to ill.u.s.trate that the "Ahmadinejad element," always a factor, will remain a constant in Iranian politics long after he is gone.

President Ahmadinejad and his government deserve much of the scorn heaped on them if for no other reason than his and some of his officials' singular and puerile obsession with the Holocaust, which most Iranians feel has nothing to do with them. But if Ahmadinejad is best known in the West for his outbursts on the Holocaust, Israel, and Iran's more forceful defiance in pursuing a nuclear program, he represented far more to average Iranians the summer they elected him to the presidency.

On a hot night a few days after Ahmadinejad's inauguration in August 2005, in a comfortably air-conditioned hired car in Tehran, I sat next to the college-educated driver, a clean-cut man in his late twenties who, with his impeccably clean car, manner, and dress, could easily be from the wealthy tree-lined neighborhood in the north of the city where I was headed. When I asked him about the elections that had brought Ahmadinejad to power, the subject of every conversation in Tehran at the time, he pointed to a group of girls in the car next to us: heavily made-up, on their cell phones, and with scarves barely covering their well-coiffed heads. "Some people," he said, "think that freedom means men being able to wear shorts or women to go about without the hijab. Others think that freedom means having a full belly." He paused for a moment. "There's just more of the latter," he said, forcefully changing gears as if to emphasize the point, which I took to mean that he had voted for the president. When we arrived at the slick apartment building that was my destination, I felt almost embarra.s.sed that to him I must have represented one of the people who, with a stomach about to be made full, felt that freedom did indeed mean that people might dress as they please. But there was no tension in the car, and in fact he enthusiastically engaged in the most traditional form of ta'arouf, which in a taxi ride means having to sometimes beg the driver to take your money. "How much do I owe you?" I asked, fumbling with the thick stacks of well-worn Iranian money in my hands, all of which added up to less than thirty dollars.

"It's unworthy" came the standard ta'arouf reply.

"No, please," I insisted.

"Please, it's nothing," said the driver. Normally, at this stage one more "please" from me and the bill would be settled, usually to the driver's advantage, but this young man was going for a bout of extreme ta'arouf.

"Please," I implored him, counting out some bills.

"Absolutely not, you're my guest," he said.

"No, thanks very much, but really, I must pay you," I insisted.

"I beg you," he replied. For a moment I questioned whether this was not in fact cla.s.sical ta'arouf but the more sinister form of the art that requires a decisive winner and loser in the verbal sparring, with the winner's philosophical point having been acknowledged by the loser. Was he suggesting that he didn't want to take my money because he was so scornful of the full bellies?

"Please," I implored again, no longer caring if I appeared desperate or if I lost this round. "Please tell me how much the fare is." That did it. He had made me really beg, and with a slightly scornful but not malicious smile he said, "Thirty-five hundred tell me how much the fare is." That did it. He had made me really beg, and with a slightly scornful but not malicious smile he said, "Thirty-five hundred tomans tomans" (about four dollars), and about five hundred more than the ride should have cost at the time. I paid him without disputing the amount and watched him turn his car around and leave, his smile, a little triumphant, not quite disappearing as he watched me through the window until he stepped heavily on the gas pedal, the car shrieking away down the narrow street.

Mahmoud Ahmadinejad had counted on my taxi driver's definition of freedom, or really on the Iranian preoccupation with rights, or haq, haq, which define that freedom, in his campaign for president in 2005. And later his history-challenged deputy foreign minister, at least in his encounter with me, seemed delighted in Iran's apparent change of tact in international relations from an emphasis on ta'arouf to one on haq: from Khatami, the master of ta'arouf who had presented a benign image to the world, to Ahmadinejad, for whom ta'arouf cannot exist without a forceful, and unambiguous, defense of haq. Ta'arouf and the preoccupation with the issue of haq form two aspects of the Iranian character that are key to understanding Iran, but are often overlooked or misunderstood by non-Iranians. The concept of ta'arouf goes way back in Iranian history, and if it is true, as some historians maintain, that nations that fell to the Persian Empire were often happy collaborators with their conquerors, perhaps the Persians' ta'arouf enhanced their reputation as benevolent rulers, as did their emphasis on rights (it was Cyrus the Great, after all, who had the world's first declaration of human rights inscribed on a cylinder at Babylon). which define that freedom, in his campaign for president in 2005. And later his history-challenged deputy foreign minister, at least in his encounter with me, seemed delighted in Iran's apparent change of tact in international relations from an emphasis on ta'arouf to one on haq: from Khatami, the master of ta'arouf who had presented a benign image to the world, to Ahmadinejad, for whom ta'arouf cannot exist without a forceful, and unambiguous, defense of haq. Ta'arouf and the preoccupation with the issue of haq form two aspects of the Iranian character that are key to understanding Iran, but are often overlooked or misunderstood by non-Iranians. The concept of ta'arouf goes way back in Iranian history, and if it is true, as some historians maintain, that nations that fell to the Persian Empire were often happy collaborators with their conquerors, perhaps the Persians' ta'arouf enhanced their reputation as benevolent rulers, as did their emphasis on rights (it was Cyrus the Great, after all, who had the world's first declaration of human rights inscribed on a cylinder at Babylon).5 If Persia later succ.u.mbed militarily to the Greeks, the Mongols, and the Arabs, but did not lose its ident.i.ty as a nation and in fact became home to conquering armies, perhaps ta'arouf played a role in Iranian defense of its culture. Ta'arouf, which can often be employed to catch an opponent off guard, momentarily lulling him into believing he's in the company of a like-minded friend, has been used by Iranians with varying degrees of success ever since. If Persia later succ.u.mbed militarily to the Greeks, the Mongols, and the Arabs, but did not lose its ident.i.ty as a nation and in fact became home to conquering armies, perhaps ta'arouf played a role in Iranian defense of its culture. Ta'arouf, which can often be employed to catch an opponent off guard, momentarily lulling him into believing he's in the company of a like-minded friend, has been used by Iranians with varying degrees of success ever since. "I've never felt as comfortable anywhere outside Iran as in America." "I've never felt as comfortable anywhere outside Iran as in America."

Western observers often define ta'arouf as extreme Iranian hospitality, or as a Persian form of elaborate etiquette, but since Westerners naturally engage in ta'arouf too (as everyone who has ever complimented a host or hostess on what was actually a bad meal knows), it's easy to miss its true significance and its implications in Persian culture. The white lies that good manners dictate we tell in the West and general polite banter or gracious hospitality cannot begin to describe what for Iranians is a cultural imperative that is about manners, yes, but is also about gaining advantage, politically, socially, or economically, as much as anything else. One might be tempted to think of ta'arouf as pa.s.sive-aggressive behavior with a peculiarly Persian hue, but although it can be, it cannot be defined solely so. American businesses and businessmen are known to succeed with brashness, determination, and sometimes even a certain amount of ruthlessness; Iranian businessmen succeed rather more quietly with a good dose of ta'arouf and in such a way that doors are opened before the ones opening the doors realize they have done so. A friend in Tehran once told me at a dinner, after a frustrating business deal had not yet reached fruition, that "all business in Iran is like first-time s.e.x: first there are the promises, then a little foreplay, followed by more promises and perhaps a little petting." He had a disgusted look on his face. "At that stage, things get complicated-you're not sure who's the boy and who's the girl, but what you do know is that if you continue, you might get f.u.c.ked." Another guest standing next to him nodded in agreement. "So you decide to proceed cautiously, touching here and touching there, showering the other party with compliments, and whispering an undying commitment, and then maybe, just maybe, it will all end in coitus, but it is rarely as satisfying for one party as it is for the other."

Self-deprecation, a part of any businessman's dance with another, is one aspect of ta'arouf, a central theme even, that fits nicely with Persians' admiration of dervish asceticism and selflessness, but in common use is by nature linked with the Persian penchant for gholov, and very much an element in the power plays the two together incite. Purer self-deprecation, perhaps even its root in Persian culture, is evident in a tale told of the Sufi Farid od-Din Attar, one of Persia's greatest poets, who lived in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries and is reputed to have been killed during the Mongol invasion of Persia, specifically by a Mongol soldier who captured him and dragged him about the streets of his hometown of Nishapur. A common version of the story of his death tells us that as the Mongol was leading Attar through the streets, a man came up to him and offered him a bag of silver for the poet's release.6 Attar advised his captor not to accept, telling him that the price was surely not right. The Mongol, following Attar's advice and encouraged by the apparently high value of his prisoner, refused to sell him and continued on his way, dragging Attar behind him. Soon thereafter, another man approached. He offered the Mongol a bag of straw in return for Attar, who this time advised the Mongol to accept. "Sell me now," legend tells us he said, "for this is the right price and it is what I am worth." Furious, the Mongol beheaded Attar and left his body on the street, aware of neither the lesson of selflessness that Attar had given him nor the ta'arouf that often takes self-deprecation to heights outsiders might consider farcical and absurd. Sufis would undoubtedly disagree with me if I were to claim that Attar was merely engaging in ta'arouf, for his spirituality and mysticism (which by necessity demand extreme modesty) were obvious, but his story nonetheless ill.u.s.trates that some aspects of ta'arouf, the single defining characteristic of a people that struggles daily with notions of its own superiority or inferiority, have philosophical and spiritual roots. Attar advised his captor not to accept, telling him that the price was surely not right. The Mongol, following Attar's advice and encouraged by the apparently high value of his prisoner, refused to sell him and continued on his way, dragging Attar behind him. Soon thereafter, another man approached. He offered the Mongol a bag of straw in return for Attar, who this time advised the Mongol to accept. "Sell me now," legend tells us he said, "for this is the right price and it is what I am worth." Furious, the Mongol beheaded Attar and left his body on the street, aware of neither the lesson of selflessness that Attar had given him nor the ta'arouf that often takes self-deprecation to heights outsiders might consider farcical and absurd. Sufis would undoubtedly disagree with me if I were to claim that Attar was merely engaging in ta'arouf, for his spirituality and mysticism (which by necessity demand extreme modesty) were obvious, but his story nonetheless ill.u.s.trates that some aspects of ta'arouf, the single defining characteristic of a people that struggles daily with notions of its own superiority or inferiority, have philosophical and spiritual roots.

The Persian form of self-deprecation, perhaps originally an acknowledgment of one's irrelevance in the universe, may have spiritual roots ("Other than G.o.d, there was no One"), but it is more often used to flatter another with exaggeration than to make a philosophical point, and can also be a means to lower the guard of a rival or an opponent. It has its practical benefits too-in a country where manners and social intercourse still have a nineteenth-century air about them-when two people of the same cla.s.s meet in the course of human interaction and ta'arouf requires that each make an effort to elevate the other's rank at the expense of his own. "I am your servant," one might say, and the other might reply, "I am your slave," or "I'm your inferior," both knowing full well that the exaggerations may be meaningless, but they bestow a level of respect on the recipient that may be the only kind of respect or acknowledgment he receives in the course of a day.

Iran was a kingdom for over twenty-five hundred years before becoming a theocracy, which is in itself more akin to a monarchy than any other political system, and was ruled by kings who were happy to make the point whenever they could that every subject was their servant. If a n.o.bleman who had to genuflect and demean himself in the presence of royalty met a fellow n.o.bleman, what better way for them to wash away the bitter taste of their servile behavior in their king's presence, even while seeking some political advantage over a peer, than to engage in a little ta'arouf with each other? If a merchant met a fellow merchant, what better way for them to alleviate the humiliation of daily reminders that they were servants of the n.o.bility? And if two street toughs, laats who'd never know what it was to have a servant, met, how better for them to forget their lowly rank than to engage each other in the art of ta'arouf? In recent times, the laat of Iran injected a vulgarity into self-deprecating ta'arouf that in its waggish artfulness could put literate men to shame. In the back-and-forth banter of self-deprecating ta'arouf, the one who gets the last word wins, even though he has lowered himself the most. In a prime example of lower-cla.s.s extreme ta'arouf, a laat somewhere, sometime, put an end to rounds of greater and greater expressions of humility by declaring to his companion, "Beshash sheerjeh beram!"- "Beshash sheerjeh beram!"-"p.i.s.s, and I'll dive in!" Gotcha!

Women, of course, also engage in ta'arouf, but theirs takes a slightly different form. Self-deprecation doesn't descend to the depths that it does with men, but women's same-s.e.x banter also often involves expressions of extreme modesty and even unworthiness. Women outside the home, and they have been venturing outside the walls of their gardens for almost a century now, will engage in ta'arouf with men; however, they will generally not belittle themselves; rather, they may compliment the man and elevate his status, but not at their own expense. The ta'arouf that requires that someone providing goods or services always refuse payment at first-the implication, often stated explicitly, being that neither the goods nor the services are worthy-is practiced equally by men and women, as is the insistence by the purchaser that the payment is but a pittance and an unworthy sum for such grand goods or such superlative service. It makes even the trivial buying of a newspaper or a pack of gum a sometimes tiresome transaction when conducted in Farsi, but to Iranians such is the price of civilization.

A traditional expression of ta'arouf, "pishkesh "pishkesh," meaning "it's yours" and uttered when one is complimented on items of clothing, household goods, or any material object for that matter, is also equally utilized by men and women. When my parents were diplomats in London in the 1950s, a time when few Iranians traveled abroad or understood Western culture, a story would be told to every new Iranian arrival as preparation for (and a warning of) the uncouth ways of foreigners. A senior Iranian diplomat and his wife, it seems, once threw a party for their British contemporaries, and at dinner the wife was complimented by an Englishwoman on her Persian silver flatware. She immediately (as would have been correct in Iran) made the offer of pishkesh, but perhaps a little too sincerely in her English translation. The next morning the wife was astonished to find the Englishwoman's butler at her front door, ready to collect the flatware, which the Iranian, out of proper ta'arouf, had to have packaged up and handed to the fellow. The story is probably fict.i.tious (although I remember my mother insisting that it was true), but pishkesh, like other forms of ta'arouf, is not merely about the appearance of generosity and graciousness: had the item being offered been less valuable, the gesture would have been as much about advantage as good manners, and depending on how good one was at ta'arouf, one might gain (in defeat) or lose (in victory) a bauble whose significance, and value, would only later come to light. meaning "it's yours" and uttered when one is complimented on items of clothing, household goods, or any material object for that matter, is also equally utilized by men and women. When my parents were diplomats in London in the 1950s, a time when few Iranians traveled abroad or understood Western culture, a story would be told to every new Iranian arrival as preparation for (and a warning of) the uncouth ways of foreigners. A senior Iranian diplomat and his wife, it seems, once threw a party for their British contemporaries, and at dinner the wife was complimented by an Englishwoman on her Persian silver flatware. She immediately (as would have been correct in Iran) made the offer of pishkesh, but perhaps a little too sincerely in her English translation. The next morning the wife was astonished to find the Englishwoman's butler at her front door, ready to collect the flatware, which the Iranian, out of proper ta'arouf, had to have packaged up and handed to the fellow. The story is probably fict.i.tious (although I remember my mother insisting that it was true), but pishkesh, like other forms of ta'arouf, is not merely about the appearance of generosity and graciousness: had the item being offered been less valuable, the gesture would have been as much about advantage as good manners, and depending on how good one was at ta'arouf, one might gain (in defeat) or lose (in victory) a bauble whose significance, and value, would only later come to light.

While ta'arouf defines Persian social interaction outside the home (and is engaged in only with guests inside), by definition it cannot be employed in anonymity, which perhaps explains some contradictory Iranian behavior. Foreign observers of Iran have often remarked on how demonstrators in the streets, yelling at the top of their lungs about the evil nature of America or Britain, will, when confronted individually, rather sheepishly explain that they're not really anti-American or anti-Western. But this is the essence of ta'arouf: as long as they were anonymous, they could say whatever they wished, insulting though it may have been, but when they are face-to-face with a person who might take offense, politeness takes over. "I have fond memories of America." "I have fond memories of America."

Any visitor to Iran will also describe Tehran traffic as perhaps the worst in the world with, paradoxically for people known for their extreme hospitality and good manners, the rudest drivers of any country. True, for someone behind the wheel of an automobile, man or woman, is anonymous. There is good reason why Iranian drivers avoid eye contact with other drivers and pedestrians, for if they make eye contact, their veil of anonymity has been lifted, the gates to the walls of their homes have been unlocked, and they must become social Iranians, which means that they must practice ta'arouf. Many a time as a pedestrian I have made every effort to make eye contact with a driver bearing down on me at full speed as I step off a curb, and when I manage to, the car inevitably stops and the driver, usually with a smile, gestures "you first" with his hands. Women drivers, I've found, and perhaps reasonably in a still-s.e.xist society, are the hardest to make eye contact with, and they can be as ruthless as the men in denying a pedestrian the right-of-way or another driver even an inch to maneuver in, but on the occasion a woman's eyes have locked onto mine, even if only for an instant, she has begrudgingly become a polite driver, all the while with her eyes then averted in case further ta'arouf becomes an unwelcome and exhausting necessity.

Although Ahmadinejad, like all Iranians, is a keen pract.i.tioner of traditional ta'arouf, he almost invariably balances his more streetlike ta'arouf with a.s.sertions of haq. His deceptively blunt language has always been laced with ta'arouf, just as much as it has been an unequivocal defense of haq. Even though it may seem that in his provocative speeches at the UN he has always singled out the United States as an evil enemy, he in fact has not mentioned the United States (or any individual American) by name even once, cla.s.sical ta'arouf that not only deems it impolite to insult directly (and he might have given a lesson on ta'arouf to his friend Hugo Chavez, at least in 2006, when Chavez labeled George Bush as Satan at the UN) but also can include an obvious, but easily retractable, accusation. When in 2007 Ahmadinejad, contrary to diplomatic norms for nations that do not recognize each other, sat and intently listened to George Bush's speech at the UN (while the entire American delegation walked out on his his), he was engaging in silent ta'arouf, a ta'arouf that sought to show the world that he was clearly the more reasonable man, and a lesson not lost on his audience back home. But while other Iranian leaders, silver-tongued and not, may have chosen to extend polite ta'arouf to even discussions of their nation's rights, Ahmadinejad generally employed the darker and more subtle form on the international stage.

When Ahmadinejad arrived in New York in 2006 to attend the UN General a.s.sembly, because of his standing up for the haq of Muslims everywhere and because of the recent war in Lebanon, where Hezbollah, openly backed by Iran, had been able to claim a victory of sorts over the Israelis, his stature in the Muslim world, at least on the streets of the Muslim world, was at an all-time high. And he knew it: Ahmadinejad had a hubristic air about him every time I saw him, even while he enthusiastically engaged in ta'arouf that might come across merely as polite behavior to Americans but held greater meaning for Iranians. He had given an interview to Mike Wallace for 60 Minutes 60 Minutes earlier in the summer, an interview where even in America opinion seemed to be that he had (again, thanks to his ta'arouf skills) outmaneuvered the at times frustrated-sounding master of the combative television interview, and according to people close to him he felt supremely confident that he could handle any question posed to him by the media during his brief stay in the United States. Ahmadinejad was, as he always is in public, quite charming. A very small man in stature, though, he is acutely aware of and uncomfortable about his height disadvantage, and he displayed a sense of image control during his television interview with earlier in the summer, an interview where even in America opinion seemed to be that he had (again, thanks to his ta'arouf skills) outmaneuvered the at times frustrated-sounding master of the combative television interview, and according to people close to him he felt supremely confident that he could handle any question posed to him by the media during his brief stay in the United States. Ahmadinejad was, as he always is in public, quite charming. A very small man in stature, though, he is acutely aware of and uncomfortable about his height disadvantage, and he displayed a sense of image control during his television interview with NBC Nightly News NBC Nightly News (where I was present as a consultant to NBC, and not to the Iranians, as I had been on other occasions). Brian Williams and Ahmadinejad were to face each other in armchairs set up in a suite at the InterContinental hotel on Forty-eighth Street, and when I saw the chairs, I knew that the Iranian president would be displeased. Williams, a tall man, would overshadow Ahmadinejad, and indeed, when the president entered the room and sat down, he looked absurd in an (where I was present as a consultant to NBC, and not to the Iranians, as I had been on other occasions). Brian Williams and Ahmadinejad were to face each other in armchairs set up in a suite at the InterContinental hotel on Forty-eighth Street, and when I saw the chairs, I knew that the Iranian president would be displeased. Williams, a tall man, would overshadow Ahmadinejad, and indeed, when the president entered the room and sat down, he looked absurd in an Alice in Wonderland Alice in Wonderland sort of way, reminding me very much of the music video for Tom Petty's "Don't Come Around Here No More"-all Ahmadinejad needed, I thought, was an oversized gla.s.s of water and a floppy top hat, and the image would be complete. Williams immediately saw the comical aspect and sensed the discomfort; he looked at me and, speaking slowly so the president could follow, as Americans are wont to do when confronted with a nonEnglish speaker, suggested that perhaps different chairs should be brought in. Ahmadinejad confirmed to me in Farsi that the chair was a little too big, a ta'arouf-appropriate understatement, to be sure, for he had sunk in and could barely reach the arms or touch the floor with his feet, and the producers scurried about, finally settling on a pair of dining chairs that Ahmadinejad seemed to find agreeable. (He smiled throughout the whole process, almost apologetically, which only made the producers more intent on pleasing him.) sort of way, reminding me very much of the music video for Tom Petty's "Don't Come Around Here No More"-all Ahmadinejad needed, I thought, was an oversized gla.s.s of water and a floppy top hat, and the image would be complete. Williams immediately saw the comical aspect and sensed the discomfort; he looked at me and, speaking slowly so the president could follow, as Americans are wont to do when confronted with a nonEnglish speaker, suggested that perhaps different chairs should be brought in. Ahmadinejad confirmed to me in Farsi that the chair was a little too big, a ta'arouf-appropriate understatement, to be sure, for he had sunk in and could barely reach the arms or touch the floor with his feet, and the producers scurried about, finally settling on a pair of dining chairs that Ahmadinejad seemed to find agreeable. (He smiled throughout the whole process, almost apologetically, which only made the producers more intent on pleasing him.) The interview proceeded, and Ahmadinejad was his usual confident and ebullient self, his speech exoteric in contrast with his predecessors' sometimes esoteric wanderings in their public comments. By far the most interesting revelation, though, was not any new explanation of his statements on the Holocaust or his opinion on Israel's fate, but in the clue to his personality, which revealed itself when Williams, in a lighthearted moment, asked the president if he'd like to see more of America, and the president's response was a simple and nonchalant "Sure." Pressed for details about what or where in particular he'd like to visit in America, and perhaps Williams was hoping to elicit an unexpected response such as "Disneyland," Ahmadinejad stuck firmly to generalities, and finally said, "Albateh, "Albateh, esrary esrary nadareem," nadareem," which was correctly translated as "Of course, we're not insistent." But the actual meaning, and nuance is difficult to translate from Persian, was much closer to "Of course, we don't really which was correctly translated as "Of course, we're not insistent." But the actual meaning, and nuance is difficult to translate from Persian, was much closer to "Of course, we don't really care care." While Mahmoud Ahmadinejad thought that America might be interesting, it was apparently not that that interesting, at least to him, but he found a way to say it that was politely insulting. And that remark spoke volumes about Ahmadinejad, a man who had never shown much interest in travel and who believed pa.s.sionately that Iran had as much to recommend it as any other country, but also volumes about a generation of nationalistic Iranians who often winced at the onetime fawning, beyond-ta'arouf att.i.tude of Iranian leaders, and many of their subjects, toward the West. It was also a cla.s.sic ill.u.s.tration of the superiority/inferiority complexes that many Iranians suffer from, and it was a signal to his audience back home that he was not about to be seduced, as many of them have been or might be, by the glitter of the West, even though he was, naturally, civilized enough to respond graciously to a question. interesting, at least to him, but he found a way to say it that was politely insulting. And that remark spoke volumes about Ahmadinejad, a man who had never shown much interest in travel and who believed pa.s.sionately that Iran had as much to recommend it as any other country, but also volumes about a generation of nationalistic Iranians who often winced at the onetime fawning, beyond-ta'arouf att.i.tude of Iranian leaders, and many of their subjects, toward the West. It was also a cla.s.sic ill.u.s.tration of the superiority/inferiority complexes that many Iranians suffer from, and it was a signal to his audience back home that he was not about to be seduced, as many of them have been or might be, by the glitter of the West, even though he was, naturally, civilized enough to respond graciously to a question.

Ahmadinejad's personality and image consciousness revealed themselves again when, in another attempt at lighthearted banter, Brian Williams asked him about his attire-a suit (and open-neck shirt) rather than his trademark Windbreaker-and the Iranian president replied, "Sheneedeem shoma kot-shalvaree hasteen; manam kot-shalvar poosheedam," "Sheneedeem shoma kot-shalvaree hasteen; manam kot-shalvar poosheedam," which was translated as "We knew you wear a suit, so I wore a suit." But the phrase is actually much closer in meaning to "We'd heard you which was translated as "We knew you wear a suit, so I wore a suit." But the phrase is actually much closer in meaning to "We'd heard you are are a suit, so I wore a suit," a sentiment much in keeping with his ordinary, "man of the people" image, as well as his, and many of his supporters', disdain for symbols of cla.s.s and wealth, but it was also another example of his employing the darker language of ta'arouf. a suit, so I wore a suit," a sentiment much in keeping with his ordinary, "man of the people" image, as well as his, and many of his supporters', disdain for symbols of cla.s.s and wealth, but it was also another example of his employing the darker language of ta'arouf.

Ahmadinejad's darker ta'arouf goes hand in hand with the issue of haq, which is for him a critical political concern (as it is for Iranians of all stripes), whether it is expressed through complex and flowery ta'arouf or the more straightforward language, albeit still infused with ta'arouf, of the common man. Iranians, who've had no history and, until the age of communication, barely a knowledge of Western liberal democracy, do not necessarily equate their rights with democracy as we know it. In almost every noisy public demonstration in recent years, whether it be trade unionists demanding better pay as their right right (as teachers and bus drivers have done) or the general public protesting gas prices or rationing (objecting to the infringement on their right to cheap fuel, for Iranians believe that the oil under their country's ground belongs to the people), issues such as free speech, social freedoms, and even democratic elections have taken a backseat. (as teachers and bus drivers have done) or the general public protesting gas prices or rationing (objecting to the infringement on their right to cheap fuel, for Iranians believe that the oil under their country's ground belongs to the people), issues such as free speech, social freedoms, and even democratic elections have taken a backseat.

Students at university have been an exception, and their protests have often been violently broken up by the government or quasi-governmental forces (and by Basij fellow students), but, strangely, many ordinary Iranians view the students as hopelessly naive, forgetting that it was students, inside and outside Iran, who were in the vanguard of the Islamic Revolution.7 The Islamic government, keenly aware of university students' role in bringing it to power and aware of the potential for unrest on campuses spreading elsewhere, has always taken a two-p.r.o.nged approach to ensuring that a new revolution does not start in academia. The obvious approach has been to crack down on any student movement that has the gall to publicly challenge the government, whether by expelling protesting students, arresting and jailing them, or shutting down their newspapers and limiting their speech. The other approach has been to populate universities with the children of the children of the revolution, with the Basij, and with underprivileged and deeply religious youths from working-cla.s.s families: exactly the kinds of people that the government can reasonably rely on to counter any threat to an Islamic Republic that has taken extremely good care of its own. And reliable they are, for every time a student pro-democracy movement crops up on any campus, other The Islamic government, keenly aware of university students' role in bringing it to power and aware of the potential for unrest on campuses spreading elsewhere, has always taken a two-p.r.o.nged approach to ensuring that a new revolution does not start in academia. The obvious approach has been to crack down on any student movement that has the gall to publicly challenge the government, whether by expelling protesting students, arresting and jailing them, or shutting down their newspapers and limiting their speech. The other approach has been to populate universities with the children of the children of the revolution, with the Basij, and with underprivileged and deeply religious youths from working-cla.s.s families: exactly the kinds of people that the government can reasonably rely on to counter any threat to an Islamic Republic that has taken extremely good care of its own. And reliable they are, for every time a student pro-democracy movement crops up on any campus, other Islamic Islamic student organizations are there to challenge it, even violently. (It mustn't be forgotten also that the government mounts its biggest and most influential public gathering, weekly Friday prayers attended by thousands of pro-regime Iranians as well as every foreign journalist, on the campus of the University of Tehran.) The situation contrasts sharply with prerevolutionary times, when pro-democracy students-and all the Islamic students' organizations were "pro-democracy" then-faced no challenge from royalists (or strict secularists), who either kept quiet in the face of the increasingly overwhelming odds against them or in some cases couldn't believe that their all-powerful Shah might one day be gone. student organizations are there to challenge it, even violently. (It mustn't be forgotten also that the government mounts its biggest and most influential public gathering, weekly Friday prayers attended by thousands of pro-regime Iranians as well as every foreign journalist, on the campus of the University of Tehran.) The situation contrasts sharply with prerevolutionary times, when pro-democracy students-and all the Islamic students' organizations were "pro-democracy" then-faced no challenge from royalists (or strict secularists), who either kept quiet in the face of the increasingly overwhelming odds against them or in some cases couldn't believe that their all-powerful Shah might one day be gone.

Students looking to a.s.sert their "rights" today face a measure of public apathy as well as the wrath of the government, a wrath that was unchecked even under reformist Khatami's rule. In one of the biggest challenges to the government, at a time when Khatami had ushered in reforms unthinkable to hard-line conservatives, student protests in 1999 led to street riots, causing a level of unrest that conservatives viewed as threatening to the regime. The students themselves were in reality hardly a threat to the regime, for the peaceful protests had started in support support of Khatami, who after all was a part of the system, and against the closure by the judiciary of a reform newspaper, of Khatami, who after all was a part of the system, and against the closure by the judiciary of a reform newspaper, Salam Salam, that was closely a.s.sociated with him. The protests extended into the dormitories and across the nation's universities, but the police, along with pro-government students and vigilantes, brutally broke up any demonstrations or sit-ins, burned dorm rooms, and made hundreds of arrests. While the violence and unrest continued for a week, resulting in conflicting accounts of numbers killed and injured, a top Revolutionary Guard (who is today the commander of the force) sent an ominous letter to President Khatami warning him that if he didn't crack down on the students, the Guards certainly would. Khatami's enemies saw an opportunity to both reverse some of his reforms and discredit him with his supporters, and Khatami's powerlessness in the face of government brutality-his weak stand on the haq of students-did indeed lead to a loss of prestige for him (but not enough to deny him a landslide reelection two years later) and constant challenges to his policy of promoting his vision of "Islamic democracy" in Iran.

But despite student dissatisfaction, and perhaps a reason for the apparent public apathy toward the student protesters, the Islamic Republic has been astute in understanding what "rights" Iranians cherish above all others, and is careful not to trample on those, as various Shahs' governments did. One important right for Iranians is that of being free to do as one pleases inside the walls of one's home or garden. Other than liquor raids in the early days of the revolution by overzealous komiteh or Basij members, intrusions into private life are extremely rare, and Iranians have no fear of expressing their opinions in what they deem private s.p.a.ce, their "movable walls" if you will, which can include a cafe table or a taxi and which would have been unthinkable under the so-called progressive last Shah.

Publishing is a different matter, for that is public expression, but Iranians who have long been used to very specific codes for public behavior, whether Islamic, cultural, or political under the Shahs, have adjusted to the newer limitations on free speech. They have done so partly by taking to the Internet with hundreds of thousands of Farsi blogs, and partly in the constant game of chicken that newspaper editors play with the government, pushing the envelope to the point of being shut down, only to emerge under a different name, sometimes just days later, often to be closed yet again.