After four hours of wandering through the National Museum in Tehran, Rostam and I each ordered a bowl of meat soup.
“Rostam,” I said as I began to glimpse the bottom of my bowl, “when did Iran have its golden age?”
“Two thousand five hundred years ago,” he replied without hesitation.
We were both full—sated by the impressions from the museum and by the rich soup the Iranians call ābgusht. As a guide, Rostam knew the National Museum well, but for me it was a new experience. We could easily have spent several more days in its imposing halls, but new adventures awaited us.
Many years have passed since then. I traveled by bus from city to city across Iran, and wherever I stopped I encountered the past in overwhelming ways. Nowhere more so than in Persepolis, the ceremonial city founded by King Darius in 518 BCE. For the next two hundred years it rose toward the sky like an earthly miracle.
At that time, the Persian Empire was the largest in the world. At its greatest extent, it stretched from the Indus in the east to Asia Minor in the west, and from Central Asia in the north to Nubia in the south. Modern historians estimate its population at between forty and fifty million—roughly a quarter of the world’s population. Unlike today’s ayatollahs, the Persian kings of antiquity distinguished themselves through efficient administration and religious tolerance.
“The Persians adopt the customs of the peoples they rule, and make use of the best they find among each of them,” wrote the Greek historian Herodotus, who lived more than four hundred years before the Common Era.
But then, in 330 BCE, Persepolis was plundered and burned by Alexander the Great. “When Alexander saw Persepolis in flames, he understood that he had defeated more than an enemy; he had brought an era to an end,” wrote Plutarch, another Greek. The city had served as the king’s ceremonial center and housed immense material wealth. Now its vast treasuries were emptied. Ancient sources claim the loot was so great that several thousand mules and camels were needed to carry it away.
Persepolis lies in southern Iran, with Shiraz—another ancient city—as its nearest neighbor. The palace complex was carefully laid out against the protective Mount of Mercy (Kuh-e Rahmat), with a sweeping view across the plains to the west.
Today, Persepolis appears as a magnificent yet almost bare landscape of ruins. We climb the broad staircases that once guided visitors of the past to the Gate of All Nations. Before us lie the remains of the Apadana Palace, where delegations from across the empire were received in audience by the king. Its cedarwood roof was supported by seventy-two stone columns, each twenty meters high; otherwise the building was open and filled with light, with the king at the center of a “perfect” political and cosmic order.
For centuries, Persia was a key hub on the bustling Silk Roads linking East and West. The author and historian Peter Frankopan writes insightfully about the Persian Empire’s role in his bestselling book The Silk Roads (Gyldendal, Oslo 2017). For there was not just one Silk Road, but many. Here, people of all kinds and faiths met—Hinduism, Buddhism, Christianity, and eventually Islam. On their own soil, the Persians developed Zoroastrianism, named after the prophet Zarathustra (Greek: Zoroaster).
“Persia stood as a model of stability and justice,” Frankopan writes of this first golden phase.
Thus arose a diversity that also found expression in art, literature, and architecture.
Persepolis is undoubtedly the most famous symbol of the country’s rich past. Tourists from near and far flock here to admire what once was, during the empire’s first dynasty, the Achaemenid Empire (ca. 550–330 BCE). Later came new dynasties—new empires—that varied in size but were all Persian in spirit and identity.
In the seventh century, Islam emerged, and over time the new religion became dominant in the state apparatus and ruling elite. Yet followers of other faiths were largely left in peace. This is why anyone visiting present-day Iran will discover a country scattered with monuments of many kinds.
Shiraz may be older than Persepolis and has been a living city throughout its history. Historical sources tell us it has enjoyed several great eras, but two stand out clearly: first, the golden age from roughly 1100 to 1400, and then the period of political grandeur in the second half of the eighteenth century. The city is renowned for its rich Islamic architecture, but also for its beautiful gardens. Most famous is the Eram Garden, where we encounter all the elements that define the classical Persian garden: long water channels, cypresses, orange trees, and a pavilion reflected in the pool before it.
Equally important is the garden of the national poet Hafez (1315–1390), who was born in Shiraz. Here people gather to read his poems or to enjoy the scents of the colorful flora. It is said that Hafez, at the age of nine, could recite the Qur’an from first verse to last. As an adult, he took up the pen himself, and although he ventured down new and unconventional paths, he was left in peace. In several poems he writes of the pleasures of wine—such as this:
O lover of wine!
Set my cup aflame with the light of wine!
O minstrel, sing:
The world has fulfilled my heart’s dream!
Deep in the cup, in the mirror of wine,
I see the glow of my beloved’s red cheeks.
He has little wisdom who refrains from seeking
The joys that wine alone can bring!
Dynasties have come and gone, but no one has ever dared to discredit Iran’s national poet—not even Ayatollah Khomeini. After examining Hafez’s myriad poems, he concluded that the poet’s praise of wine was, in fact, a praise of God. Perhaps so? In Shiraz, I was also invited into the home of a local family. And what was I served after the master of the house had made sure the doors were securely locked? A glass of red wine.
After a day’s journey northward, we roll into Isfahan. The city has roots in pre-Islamic times, but it was not until 1598—under the Safavid dynasty—that it was elevated to the status of capital. In return, it became utterly unique through its magnificent Islamic architecture. “Isfahan is half the world,” it was long said.
The Safavids made Shiite Islam the state religion, and in Isfahan it was given physical form. The result was Imam Square, one of the largest in the world. Rectangular and colossal, the square measures roughly 560 meters in length and 160 meters in width.
Space, light, and proportion were carefully calibrated. Along all four sides run two-story arcades that bind the space together. Behind the arches are small shops selling carpets, calligraphy, copperware, and much more. At the southern end rises the Imam Mosque, the square’s spiritual center. Its entrance portal is tall and dark blue, angled so that the mosque is correctly oriented toward Mecca.
On the western side stands the Ali Qapu Palace, the face of royal power turned toward the people. The façade is restrained, but the eye is drawn to the open balcony, supported by slender wooden columns. From here, the shah could observe processions and the life of the square below. Behind the façade lie several floors of reception rooms and richly decorated interiors. To the north, the square opens seamlessly into the grand bazaar, the city’s economic pulse. The transition—from open urban space to narrow, covered торгов streets—is deliberate. The square was meant to unite faith, power, commerce, and daily life into a single composition.
The last shah of Iran, Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, represented the Pahlavi dynasty (1925–1979). The dynasty stood for strong centralization of power, but also for extensive modernization and Westernization. Along the way, in 1935, the country was renamed from Persia to Iran. The inhabitants had long called it Iran, so the name change caused little stir. Opposition to the regime peaked in 1979, when the monarchy was abolished and the country became an Islamic republic.
“All evil in this nation comes from the United States,” declared Ayatollah Khomeini, adding: “Our nation has risen for God. Therefore, we do not fear martyrdom.”
It is both sad and tragic that today’s Iran has painted itself into a corner. Yet throughout its long history, it has repeatedly proven capable of renewal. Perhaps it will do so again soon? When that happens, we will return—and the National Museum in Tehran may be a fitting place to begin.
As Plutarch also said:
“History is philosophy teaching by examples.”
