A Rabbi's Journey to Iran | Tikkun Magazine

By Lynn Gottlieb

TWILIGHT CASTS A MYSTICAL GLOW UPON THE MOUNTAINOUS desert of Qom as Shia worshippers stream through the gates of Jamkaran Masjid where the twelfth hidden Imam is said to have appeared a hundred years ago by "the well of requests." Pilgrims tie prayer knots around the iron grid covering the well to express humanity's urgent prayer for an end to suffering. The mosque takes a more active role, serving a free meal to thousands of people every Tuesday evening. Tears overflow as I walk toward the sky-blue dome and soaring minarets, trembling with the call to prayer on the last stop of our journey to Iran.

Allah hu Akbar

Allah hu Akbar. God is great. Come to prayer.

I pause at the reflecting pool that mirrors above and below, dip my pilgrim hands into the water and wash my hands and face in preparation for Muslim prayer. In Iran, everyone knows the words of the poet Saadi by heart: "Are we not cut from the same jewel? If one member is struck, do we not all feel the blow?" Only someone who cares for the pain of others can take the name "human being."

The seventh Fellowship of Reconciliation delegation to Iran, whose purpose is to promote civilian diplomacy, is ushered to the interior courtyard of the masjid where men and women separate for prayer. Muslim sisters offer plastic bags for shoe storage and pass out optional chadors. Suad wishes she had not polished her nails as this place evokes piety and simplicity. Our brilliant, emancipated Persian rose, who is the delegation's interpreter of language, culture, and history turns off her cell phone, wraps herself in white and hands me a clay stone, cool and smooth, upon which I will rest my forehead during salat. The Prophet, peace be upon him, used to say that the best spot for prostration is the earth (Kanz-ul-Ummal Part 4. p.113).

The insight that wisdom arises from the earth is ancient and universal.

The previous evening a few of us meet Jewish, Muslim and secular youth in an apartment in northern Teheran. Here hijabs are removed and people are free to reveal their true thoughts. The conversation drifts to the widespread Iranian belief that we are one humanity and should not let religion divide us. Michelle Cook, a Navajo woman on the delegation, shares the core principle of indigenous thought. The earth is our common ground, the soil of our existence, the place our dreams arise. As we reflect on indigenous wisdom, I mention this region's oldest written story. Inscribed on earthen tablets, it recounts the myth of the Goddess Inanna who initiates her quest for wisdom by placing her ear on the earth and then descends into the interior rather than climb the heights to seek knowledge. Iranians love poetry and stories and the youth request the entire tale. Because I am a storyteller, I am delighted to oblige them.

Now I am here, bending my head to the earth in order to touch the clay stone, like my ancestor Yaakov, whose first divine awakening occurs when he places his head upon stone in a place he does not know. Our ancestors taught, "The Creator formed the first human from brown, yellow, red and white clay so that no one can claim, 'My ancestor is greater than yours."' Everywhere I travel in Iran, people repeat the same sentiment. We are one religion, one people, one family, bound together in one all-embracing destiny upon the earth, mother of us all, as Michelle would say.

The Qur'an teaches there shall be no compulsion in religion. I willingly bow my body in thanksgiving for the invitation that has brought me unexpectedly to this place at this time. I kneel, prostrate, rise, kneel, prostrate, rise in the rhythm of salat. Bismillah HaRachman HaRachim. May we have the courage to turn away from fear. May we embrace each other as brothers and sisters. May we learn to see each other as one family striving not in war, but in righteousness. May we behold the tapestry of difference as a beautiful gift emanating from divine abundance given to us in order to enrich our spirits. May we take the great leap of faith and place our trust in the path of peace. La ila hu il'allah. There is no god but god. Ein atar penui minei. There is no place empty of Presence.

Evening prayer comes to a conclusion, as does our two-week journey to Iran. I stand and kiss my American and Iranian sisters in Persian style on each cheek, an expression of affection. No words are necessary. We are filled with gratitude for the remarkable opportunity to travel as peacemakers in a time of hostility. The twenty-one members of our delegation have experienced Iran as a place of welcome. We are quite aware, of course, of the challenges that various communities and individuals face in relation to the Islamic Republic. However, despite cultural and linguistic differences, almost every Iranian we meet as we wander unsupervised through the streets and mountains of Teheran, Shiraz, Esfahan, Persepolis and Abyaneh, greets us warmly.

In response to the many stares of incomprehension when we are first noticed, I place my hand over my heart (a gesture I first learned from my dialogue and peacewalk partner, Abdul Rauf Campos Marquetti), smile and say, "Salaam, salaam!" People stop. "Where from?" "America." "America?!!" Many people tell us, "We love America!" They ask, "Bush?" Once we say, "No, not Bush. We believe in peace with Iran," we are showered with appreciation. People smile, hold our hands, invite us to dinner. Given the hostile messages that infuse the American press about Iran, along with George Bush's characterization of Iran as an axis of evil, and given the messages we read on murals throughout Teheran that call for death to America, I am not prepared for the overwhelming hospitality we receive from strangers on the street. They say, "We, too, have problems with our government. That should not stop us from being friends."

I have found Iran to be a land of poets and mystics, both secular and religious, whose idea of a good time is to meet at the tomb of the poet Hafez in Shiraz to recite mystical verse, or at the bridge in Esfahan to sing in harmony as the river rushes underfoot, or at tea houses in Teheran to discuss politics while smoking flavored tobacco from a hookah. Among the hundreds of people we have met, almost everyone speaks of the need for co-existence and interreligious understanding.

Iranians mention Cyrus the Persian as author of the world's first document of human rights and protector of the Jews. They express pride at being home to an ancient community of Zoroastrians and Jews, who, although minorities, are regarded as national treasures. As Jewish Persians remind us again and again, they have lived in Iran for thirty centuries. Jews are allowed at present to travel to Israel and the United States to visit family. They pray in synagogues, sell Judaica visible from the street and remain in contact with the tens of thousands of their Iranian Jewish relatives who left Iran after the fall of the Shah. "We cannot separate our Persianness from our Jewishness, we are one body," says the editor of the Jewish magazine Binah. "Please, do not bomb us. You will jeopardize our safety and our very existence. We are happy here," he tells us as he drives Charles and me past a kosher restaurant on the way to a Jewish day-school.

I am here on behalf of the Department of Inter-religious Dialogue, which is trying to organize a Jewish delegation to Iran. Because my primary concern is keeping the doors of communication open, I am careful not to put anyone in a precarious position. I know there are many challenges facing this ancient community, some of which are being addressed by the Jewish parliamentarians, such as restrictions around inheritance. Other issues remain a source of tension such as the extensive anti-Israel stance of the Iranian government. The larger question is how to best support Jewish Iranians who want to stay in their own country. Bombing Iran will surely not contribute to their safety.

As the delegation reassembles in the interior courtyard of Jamkaran, stars cover the night sky. The Mahdi (a redeeming force) is said to be hidden but active in the world, helping the needy. This seems like a fitting place to conclude our trip. We stand in a circle, men and women together, and pray for the people of Iran and the miracle of this amazing journey behind the veil. I am standing next to the only other Jewish delegate, Charles London, a young journalist who has written a book about Ugandan children called One Day the Soldiers Came: Voices of Children in War. In the place of Shia messianic longing, he offers his first Hebrew prayer in public. We recite the Shehechianu.

We don't want to leave, but our time is short. We have to catch a plane back to the United States and begin the next phase of our work: the difficult task of organizing people to take action against a possible attack on Iran, either by Israel or the United States, which would be a disaster of untold proportions. Iraq has been on my mind the whole time. Will the United States destroy yet another ancient civilization? Why do we place our faith in the terrible violence of war when war only makes life ten thousand times worse? There is no such thing as a surgical strike. If struck, Iran will respond with full force. Whom will they target, if not Israel? And they will feel justified. Any possibility of internal reform will be swept away. Jewish Iranians will suffer the consequences and the world Jewish community will lose another ancient treasure. Why is this acceptable? Surely, we have the imagination for other alternatives.

Our guide leads us toward the exit. Before we cross the threshold into mundane time and space, he stops to explain the custom of leaving string knots on the grid over the well of requests. He turns to me. "Rabbi," he says, "this question is for you: Is it not true you have a custom of placing paper in the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem? Is this a comparable custom to the strings of prayer over the well?" And I answer, 'Yes." He continues, "Western journalists misunderstood the symbolic nature of this practice and that is why they are barred from entry. Because you come in peace, we allowed you to enter. You see, no place is intrinsically holier than any other place. The whole earth is holy, and every place and every person, every moment and every action is a reflection of the divine. If only we could open to each other in this way, peace would finally appear on earth."

I feel like I am standing in the presence of a Hasidic master and I respond in kind. "Yes this is true for us as well. No place is intrinsically more holy than any other. Like Jamkaran, Jerusalem is simply the place we collect and offer prayers in public so all of us can see and hear the truth uttered by our prophets and sages, may their memories be a blessing. The whole earth is holy. The purpose of Torah is to be a messenger of peace. If Torah is not being used to seek peace and pursue it, it is not being used correctly." We continue to speak to one another of holiness and peace. A large crowd gathers around us listening to our religious dialogue. I am being translated into Persian, and our host into English. I see the moon hovering over us, on its own journey toward the fullness of reflected light. Here I am, in Jamkaran, under the same sky that illuminates Jerusalem, surrounded by Muslim worshippers nodding their heads in respect for our message of peace and my heart bursts open, once again, to the truth that one can create peace anywhere--if only we will it, it is not a dream.

Rabbi Lynn Gottlieb is director of Shomer Shalom Institute for Jewish Nonviolence, cofounder of the Muslim Jewish PeaceWalk and a performing artist.