The Iran we knew

Our family lived in Isfahan, Iran, between 1976 and ’79. We taught children of parents working for international companies. We explored desert and mountains, found where the Zayanda-Rud (River) originated full force from a crevice in sheer cliffs and followed it through Isfahan to where it ends, quietly disappearing into a shallow, salty lake, like a mirage. One time we came upon an isolated ancient caravanserai where tribal families were camped, who offered us sweet melons.

To us, Iran was exotic; the qanat system delivered mountain waters to cities miles away, making them green spots in a brown desert; bazaars with barrels of colorful spices, racks of cloth and carpets; the tapping of artisans hammering beautiful designs into metal plaques; the sensuous blue tiled roof of Isfahan’s mosque.

People were friendly, curious about foreigners, and very hospitable. On stopping to ask directions, we often were invited for a meal. Shopkeepers supplied items not familiar to Iranians but which Americans thought they needed. And when the revolution began, Iranians went out of their way to keep us safe. Yet our government was supporting the Shah of Iran, a strict dictator who didn’t allow dissent. We were warned that politics was not a subject to be discussed, even in our own homes.

Today, news concerns trade blocks and a buildup of weapons against Iran. We think back to the Iranians we knew and hope our government is now not acting out of revenge, but will attempt to establish a conversation leading to a peaceful agreement.

PAM STEWART Jasper