Solace of Lovers. Trost der Liebenden. Helena Perena
The mint master therefore spent several idle years before he finally left the capital without fulfilling his mission. Councillor Pechan first made it his business to collect the disjecta membra. Two Austrian mechanics who happened to be passing through on their way to India were hired, the machines were cleaned and assembled, and finally a large building with a steam engine was constructed for the mint. The latest news is that a mint satisfying all the requirements will be established in a very short time. Only two obstacles still stand in the way: firstly, the need to define the coin standard, which causes a great many difficulties everywhere, and secondly, the shortage of the precious metal caused by the continuing silkworm disease, which means less gold is received in payment, while the country itself has no precious metal resources. At all events, Pechan has certainly achieved as much as can be achieved under the given circumstances.
In conclusion, I believe I am entitled to say that we Austrians have contributed our share to the knowledge of the country and the dissemination of culture in Persia. Every healthy idea cast on fertile ground sprouts and bears fruit, which multiplies from generation to generation. As it says in the Bible: “For just as the rain and snow come down from heaven, and do not return there without watering the earth.”
1 This lecture was given by Jakob Eduard Polak at the Oriental Museum in Vienna on 13 December 1876 and published in book form by Alfred Hölder in the same year. The text appears in this “Studioheft” with the kind permission of the Austrian National Library; it was produced using the digitised version available at http://digital.onb.ac.at/OnbViewer/viewer.faces?doc=ABO_%2BZ256627506 (date of access: 12.8.2020). The orthography of the original text has been modified by the editors.
2 In all countries where punishment is seen as retribution, as revenge on the model of an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, there has to be room for the charitable institution of asylum. In Persia it takes various forms; for minor offences it is enough to enter the royal stable or to grip the cannons and so on, while for capital crimes there are specially designated sanctuaries, such as the temples of Shah Abdol Azim and Qom.
3 With the widespread sectarianism and secret societies of the Asians, including those of the Russians and Jews (sadikim), a relationship often develops between the teacher (murshid) and the students (murids), in which the former is regarded as a higher being, to whom blind obedience is owed and whose most insignificant items, such as saliva and rags of clothing, are kept as relics. Clear examples are provided by Murshid Shamil in the Caucasus and his warlike murids and the Old Man of the Mountain and the Assassins.
4 It may be of some interest to note that this was the first original work in Europe ever to be written and printed in Persian.
LIKE THE WIND IN THIS WORLD ...
Peter Leisch
“Where are we going?
Home, always home.”
Novalis (1772–1801)
TEHRAN
Shariati St. (opposite side of Arab Hosseini Blvd.), Molla Sadra St., Sharmad Dead End no. 11, fourth floor. When I wake up, I look through a large three-piece window topped by two rounded glass panes above into Tehran’s deep blue autumn sky. A crow croaks. From a distance the occasional sound of passing vehicles. A quiet quarter that falls almost silent in the evening, interrupted at times only by voices, slamming doors, sporadic noises and scraps of conversation from neighbouring buildings. On the windowsill a row of succulents and cacti, more potted plants on a wooden flower stand like a stool with long legs, a small palm tree beside the desk. On the wall hang Persian instruments, two baglamas, two Tanburs, a Kamancheh from Lorestan and a Setar. Amir’s music room, a small, intimate, light-filled room leading to a small south-facing balcony. From the fourth floor I have a good view of the quarter’s narrow alleys. When I stepped into the living room today my hosts had already gone to work, leaving the water for tea in the samovar simmering over the full flame of the gas stove. Basically very little has changed here. The scrap iron collector is still doing his rounds; the tinny sound of his constantly repeated calls reaches me from the loudspeaker mounted on the roof of his pickup. A dhikr, a prayer ritual of everyday life, which is part of the familiar soundscape of Persian cities, just like the smells of spices, wood, Sangak bread and uncertain origins, which all at once evoke so many memories in me. Sounds, scents, colours and long forgotten words in Farsi are raised from the depths of my forgetfulness so that I come to understand their meaning once more. Old faces, voices, stories of a hybrid dreamland, into which I can immerse myself again with a quite unexpected feeling of happiness, which everywhere else have long since faded beyond rescue.
“Just like the wind in this world – it blows and lifts the edge of the carpet,
and the rugs become restless and move. It whisks up waste and straws,
gives the surface of the pool the look of a coat of mail,
brings dance to trees, twigs and leaves, and extinguishes the lamps;
it brings a flare to the half-burned wood and a stir to the fire.
All these states seem diverse and different,
but from the standpoint of the object and the root and reality
they are but one as their movement comes from the wind.”
Molavi (1207–1273)
In the Tajrish Metro Station, the three extra-long, steeply rising escalators trigger a dizzying, surreal feeling of ascending into heaven: crowds of people floating upwards, all seemingly stiff as a poker. It reminds me of a scene in a science fiction film, the title of which escapes me. In the film, every human being is only allowed a certain amount of time to live, and when that time expires, an implanted crystal worn on the palm of the hand turns cloudy and dark. Then in a special, almost sacred ceremony, the candidates for death are “elevated” in a kind of coliseum; released from gravity, they float upwards into a cupola where – as if torched by a high voltage current – they are pulverised and fall away in a veritable shower of sparks.
Bombaste/Dead End, Tehran, 2019 / Bombaste/Dead End, Teheran, 2019
REND
In Persian the rend is an equivocal, ambiguous figure, for which there is no corresponding term in English. Hafez’ “Divan”, for example, includes the following passage: “If you want to visit me at my grave, you must be an impostor.” This suggests that the rend lives his life beyond the prevailing norms and obeys his own rules, which may well entail considerable risks – a free spirit, he operates between and often even against the conventions. The young Kurdish film artist Taher Saba strongly denies this interpretation; he sees the rend as someone “who is not sober, who finds the boundaries by pushing them back”. For Golzar the rend is someone who is neither clever nor wise, but both of these things at once. Afsoun says that Shams-e Tabrizi, Mowlana’s master and beloved soulmate, is a rend. “A kind of thief, but in a different, positive sense?” I ask. “Someone who has stolen Mowlana’s heart?” “Not just his heart,” Afsoun replies. It has to do with love. “A rend takes over your whole body, takes possession of you completely – in a way that is based on a higher respect.”