In a time when Iran dominates the news and the world seems to be falling apart, I send a kind thought to Iran’s national poet, Hafez. True, he is dead, but he still lives on.
I became acquainted with him several years ago, while traveling in Iran. After covering endless miles through barren landscapes, I arrived in the city of Shiraz, a true oasis of water and life. It didn’t take long before I found myself in Aramgah-é-Hafez (Hafez’s garden), where locals came to enjoy the surroundings and listen to the occasional Hafez poem.
Like this one:
O wine lover, set my glass aflame
with the light of wine! O troubadour, sing:
The world has fulfilled my heart’s dream!
Deep in the glass, in the mirror of wine,
I see the glow of my beloved’s rosy cheeks.
They have little wisdom who fail to seek
the joys that only wine can bring!
Hafez was born in Shiraz in 1324. His father died early, but learned Muslims took the boy under their wing and filled him with knowledge. It is said that by the age of nine, he could recite the Quran from the first verse to the last. Later he immersed himself in other literature before picking up the pen himself.
Hafez did what few before him had dared: he combined a burning religiosity with a healthy dose of skepticism and humor, with a rhythm and elegance that put listeners into a trance. Kings and emperors repeatedly tried to appoint him court poet, but he always refused, loving his hometown too much to ever leave it.
Shiraz lies in the southern part of Iran and has for centuries been a gathering place for poets and lovers of beauty. In Hafez’s garden I saw no wine drinkers, but perhaps some of the guests were thinking of a time when it was possible to worship God and enjoy a glass of wine at the same time.
Hafez fell asleep for good at the age of 65 and was buried here, surrounded on all sides by flowers, cypresses, and orange trees. His sarcophagus, beautifully decorated with some of the poems he wrote, rests on a platform under an elegant pavilion. Young and old come here to recite the poetry he left behind, standing with closed eyes, undisturbed by the presence of others.
“Sit by my grave and bring wine and music,” Hafez wrote shortly before his death – and added: “The moment I sense your presence, I shall rise from my grave.”
On the edge of the poet’s garden I found teahouses and restaurants. I was hungry, and without asking, the waiter brought me a plate of “abgoosht,” a traditional lamb stew with chickpeas, potatoes, onions, and tomatoes. I imagine Iranians eat more lamb than any other people. But even here, among the tables, Hafez’s poetry was recited with warmth and feeling.
Just listen:
The rose has blushed, the buds have burst
and the nightingale is drunk with joy.
Greetings, Sufis! Wine lovers, greetings one and all!
For wine shall be poured for the whole thirsty world!
But the waiters in Hafez’s garden served nothing but water, coffee, and tea. They rushed from table to table with copper-red jugs, smiling and bowing, and no glass was left dry. But was it not so that those who fail to seek the joys that only wine can bring have little wisdom?
In ancient Persia much wine was drunk, but then, in 1979, came Ayatollah Khomeini and his strict mullahs. In Shiraz, the vines were torn up by the roots, thrown on bonfires, and burned as Satan’s weeds. Why?
Jesus turned water into wine; he took the bread, gave thanks and broke it, and gave his disciples both wine and bread. In the Bible, wine barrels are always present, even at the Last Supper. Six hundred years later came the Prophet Muhammad and turned wine into water. Both claimed to be God’s messengers on Earth.
So why did one want wine and the other water?
Hard to say, but the Arabian Peninsula was a different and hotter place. The wine locals drank was made from fermented date juice. The result was a poor wine that could leave one quite miserable the next day. Not ideal, for the Prophet needed sober soldiers in his war against other desert tribes. So he ended up establishing laws that would apply to all Muslims everywhere – for all time.
A bit unfair, if you ask me.
And yet, in the beginning, Muhammad was not categorically against alcohol. It is clear from verse 216 of the Quran’s second surah, where he spoke about two of the pleasures of the time, wine and gambling: “Both are associated with great harms and benefits for mankind, but the harms are greater than the benefits.”
Later, he concluded that the Arabs were simply unable to drink in moderation. He had seen not only soldiers abusing wine, but believers performing prayer rituals incorrectly due to high blood alcohol levels.
This led to a new divine revelation, the 93rd verse in the fifth surah:
“O you who believe! Truly, wine and gambling are abominations from Satan’s handiwork. Avoid them so that you may prosper. Truly, Satan seeks to sow enmity and hatred among you by means of wine and gambling!”
But do Iranians still drink a little nonetheless?
Yes, some do, for there is illicit brewing, and each year large amounts of alcohol are smuggled into the country, particularly from Turkey and Iraq. Fine spirits can also be obtained via Christian minorities such as Armenians and Assyrians, who are exempt from the ban. Muslims caught drinking are usually punished with fines or flogging, in the worst case the death penalty for repeated offenses.
With or without alcohol, I left Shiraz a happy man, just as the British diplomat Edward Browne did in 1893:
“I look back upon the three weeks I spent in Shiraz with unqualified pleasure. Vaguely, but as best I can, I have tried to describe the city’s inhabitants – the most native and refined of all Persians, the happiest and liveliest, just as their speech is the purest and most melodious in all Persia.”
MY READING TIPS:
Hafez: In the Mirror of Wine, Press Publishing, Oslo 2010
From Wine House and Mosque: Rumi, Hafez, and Other Persian Poets, Solum, Oslo 2004
Elizabeth Armstrong Reed: Persian Literature, Ancient and Modern, Simon Publications, London 2001
Torbjørn Færøvik: The Road to Xanadu. A Journey in Marco Polo’s Footsteps, Cappelen, Oslo 2001
