Any Given Friday

Touring Iran's capital on the day of prayer, you'll see the expected - and what you never imagined.

TEHRAN,

Today is no different: a gathering of thousands, a sea of faces and bodies standing, kneeling, bowing on command. It is a rippling wave of humanity with every motion. It is also beautiful -- stunning, really.

At a flea market held every Friday in a Tehran parking garage, visitors find a mixture of the expected and unexpected.

Kevin Sites joins a street basketball game in downtown Tehran.

The government's ban on western music means the rock group "Mine" cannot perform in public. As the group rehearses, guitarist Amir Tehrani discusses the band's passion.

The organizers know its visual power. There is a media stand for television and still cameras, stage right, to capture the sound and color. And it has become a regular stop for any Western media organization on an informational pilgrimage to Iran.

Friday prayers have become the visual cliché for Iran, and an audible one as well.

Here two speeches are given by a spiritual leader, one religious, one political. In the mosques of centuries past, the leader would be holding a sword during his remarks. Today, he holds the muzzle of an AK-47 rifle, although it is shielded from view by the podium.

"It's purely symbolic," one of the organizers whispers to me. "It's unnecessary from a practical standpoint. There are security guards everywhere. There isn't even a bullet in the chamber."

At the end of the political speech there is the obligatory chant, "Death to America." Microphones and cameras are always poised for the moment. Today the chant is fairly lackluster. "It doesn't have much meaning anymore," one insider tells me.

But meaningful or not, it is still part of the ritual, the rote gestures on any given Friday, that for some renew their commitment to this theocracy's political and spiritual will.

But this ritual, although a media personification of Iranian culture, is hardly the only or the most accurate one, many here contend. The culture might be dominated by its current political face, but Iran's personality, they say, goes much deeper.

In a downtown parking garage a few miles from Tehran University, more faithful have gathered. But their commitment at the moment is for a good bargain.

Sisters Fahimeh and Fazaneh Reznavi are browsing the very top floor of the Tehran flea market, a five-story garage bazaar.

"We like it," says Fahimeh, "because you can find things here you can't find anywhere else."

Those things include an old book about the former Shah, complete with flattering photographs. But there's also plenty of what you might expect: Persian carpets, old paintings and lamps, coins, watches, jewelry, fabrics and musical instruments.

On one stretch of vendor stalls, Farhad Nayati bangs out the theme to the film "Dr. Zhivago" on a toy dulcimer. He's a rock star, as far as parking garage musicians go. Both children and adults gather as he plays with confidence and virtuosity, making sales and handing out cards for lessons at the end of the performance.

Aroojali Khawi, 43, travels about 90 miles (150 kilometers) every Friday to come to this market. He sells trinkets here -- rhinestone and amber rings, medallions, glass bottles --anything to augment his income of about $8 a day as a construction laborer. He has six children to feed.

"People just aren't buying," Khawi says. "There's just no market for it right now."

Though he's not sure why, he thinks people are uncertain about the economy. Now he makes about $5 at the end of the day at the market when he says he used to make $20-$25.

Aziz Olah doesn't seem to be having any problem selling his handmade fabrics. He, his father and younger brother are all Turkmen from the East. They say they make an eight-hour journey here each Friday, just to make $10 or $20.

But if there were an award for most popular vendor at the Tehran flea market it would almost certainly go to record seller Ali Aughar Moosavi. An old hi-fi spins some jazz while customers flip through his stacks.

It's not just his vibrant smile and good nature; Ali has the numbers to back him up. He says he makes about $100 every Friday selling all kinds of vinyl and giving away priceless music lore in reverential tones.

"I used to work in a record shop," he says. "It was called Beethoven's. It was one of the most popular, but the government shut it down in 1978."

So Ali started selling his albums. He says he has 10,000 altogether, neatly arranged in his home. He brings just a small sampling here every weekend. He shows me an eclectic mix that might make a Virgin Megastore envious: The Monkees, Simon and Garfunkel, Cat Stevens, Iron Butterfly, Milt Jackson.

Ali says he got into music when his father died. He was just 12, but took refuge in rock 'n' roll. He says there are records in his collection he would never sell.

"I have 5,000 just for me; Pink Floyd, Eric Clapton, B.B. King, Eagles, Dire Straits, The Beatles."

"You won't part with these?" I ask.

"No, no, no. No sale. No sale!"

"Why not?"

"This is my life," he says, pointing to his heart.

* * *

Driving through a Tehran neighborhood called Flowers, my driver, Ibrahim Mahmoodi, who has been working with foreign media for 25 years, spots some guys playing basketball in a small playground and asks me if I want to stop to videotape them.

He remembers that I said something earlier when we had passed them on the way to Friday prayers. I was surprised to see them playing.

The hoopsters say they come to this court every Friday ready for some serious streetball.

"The first thing I was ever handed as a child," says Mujtaba Ghateh, a 25-year-old surveyor, "was a basketball." He tugs at his Boston Celtics jersey, eager to get back to the game.

I ask them why they play basketball instead of football (soccer).

"Football? Why play football?" says Ali Turabi, a 21-year-old student who wears a Los Angeles Lakers Kobe Bryant jersey. "Basketball is everything," he says with pride.

They're happy for the attention and put on a quick show of slamming and jamming for the camera before getting back into their three-on-three game. The backboard is metal and the rim is bent from Ali hanging on it after his dunks.

"Why don't you guys have a net?" I ask.

"We did," says Sarmad Salimi, 23,  "but somebody keeps stealing it."

After taping them for a while, I get tired of watching and ask them if I can jump in for a game. I haven't been on a court in five years, but figure I might be able to hold my own for a half-court match. I'm quickly winded and throw up a few bricks before finding some rhythm and putting up a couple of decent shots.

But regardless of how I was playing it felt good to put the camera down and participate in people's lives a little, rather than just watching and asking questions. I was playing basketball in Iran. How many people can say they did that?

* * *

Every weekend, to get away from the stultifying pollution of the city, many Iranians head to the Alborz Mountains in north Tehran. At this time of year they are snow-capped and beautiful. Fast-moving cable cars take you to any number of peaks, but many here would rather hike. It's the place where young people can have some privacy, where young adults can mix with members of the opposite sex without a lot of hassles.

"If they're going to make us go underground, we thought, let's go really underground then."— Amir Tehrani, Iranian rock musician

A group of six is coming down the mountainside when I stop them to talk. The young men huddle around me, eager to know where I'm from, while the young women almost automatically move to the side and begin talking amongst themselves. I tell them that in the U.S. the women would never leave the conversation to just the men.

At first, they are a bit hesitant to tell me about what life is like for them in Iran. But then one of them, Aidin, a university student, begins to open up.

"I'm a musician. I play guitar and I want to publish a cassette," he says. "But we can't because the Ministry of Culture and Guidance said your poems should be limited and verified. Young people don't have a lot of freedom here."

He tells me he wants to go to America.

"My cousin and I both participate in the lottery to go to the U.S. because we live in a country that is limited," he says.

"But what do you know about America?" I ask him. "Not much, I bet."

"Not much," he agrees, "but in film."

"It's not like in the films," I say, and we all laugh. "But do you see something in the American lifestyle that you like, and if so, what is that thing?"

"I think the people of the United States have good culture. They have respect for rules. I saw it in films, but I can believe it's true."

The others gathered around nod their heads.

"But what else is it?" I press. "You want to be able to play your music, hold hands with your girlfriends?"

"Oh that problem has been solved," Aidin says. "That changed just this year."

"You can hold hands with your girlfriend, no problem?" I ask.

"No problem," he says.

(Note - be sure to check the Hot Zone Tuesday for the full video of this discussion). 

* * *

In another upper middle-class neighborhood, also in northern Tehran, a group of artists and academics gathers for a Friday dinner party. They are dressed in Western clothes as if they were gathering in a living room London or San Francisco. There are no headscarves or hijabs here. Most have spent time in the West, either working or attending university. Interesting art adorns the walls. The conversation is spirited and open.

And though alcohol is forbidden in Iran, with some exceptions for religious minorities, some sip homemade red wine or drink a punch made with Absolut Citron.

"Oh it's easy to get," one man tells me. "You just make a phone call and they deliver it to your door."

I ask a university professor at the party if his students are afraid to speak out politically in class, for fear of some kind of retribution.

"No, no, they say whatever they want," he says. "These guys (the Iranian government) are smart enough to know they can't crack down on every kid. The Shah did that, and look what happened."

But while a little middle-class lawbreaking may be ignored, the government does seem to be cracking down in other areas -- areas that offer more challenges to their authority. Everyday there are small court items about Iranian journalists being charged with "contributing to the distortion of public opinion" or editorial cartoonists being charged with creating images that ridicule public figures.

Some of that cultural crackdown is felt more indirectly by young people who just want to express themselves musically, but can't. A recent decree by newly elected hardline President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad bans the performance of Western music.

Amir Tehrani, 25, and his friends, Kousha Mostofi, Eshan Nabavi and Sina Mahmoudazadeh, formed a heavy metal band six years ago called "Mine." The name is a reference to "landmine." But legally, the only place they can play is in Amir's cramped bedroom, which is jammed with a drum set, keyboard, guitars and amps.

They've tried to perform legally but couldn't get a permit from the Ministry of Culture and Guidance. So now they perform underground concerts. They've even gone so far as to hire a female singer.

"If they're going to make us go underground," says Amir, "we thought let's go really underground then." (Read the full interview transcript).

He says the first performance was everything he could have imagined it would be.

"The first time we played, we were not alone in that moment," says Amir. "When we're playing it's usually just the band or five or six guys here, but in that place there were about 100 people. We were not alone. And they were supporting us and we liked it," he says, wistfully recalling the moment.

In between our conversations, he and the other guys perform a couple of their songs, but without their lead singer, who is ill. They are skilled musicians, and metal fans anywhere might headbang or pump their fists to their sound.

Amir and the others were all born around 1980, at the start of the Iran-

"I feel like we lost the best years of our lives," he says. "We weren't able to have any fun, and now today in Iran, what can we do? We just want to play our music. I mean, Madonna says time goes so slowly. But here in Iran time goes so fast... We're running out of time."

"Why are you running out of time?" I ask.

"Because we're getting old," he says.

Driving back to my hotel after interviewing the band, I think about the different aspects of Iran that I've been exposed to so far: the traditional image of a fiercely conservative Islamic nation whose newly elected president has openly called for the destruction of

But there is also some broad and legitimate anger toward the West. It's fueled by Western support of the dictatorial regime of Shah Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, as well as the West's initial support for Iraq during the Iran-Iraq War, even though Iraqi dictator

Underlying that anger and anti-Western political pose, however, many here, it seems, yearn not so much for Western culture but for the ideals of Western freedom. (Persia, after all, was a historical center for science and the arts going back thousands of years.)

Iran is a nation, one reader e-mailed me, that lives in two worlds: "The way we live outside our homes is very different from the way we live inside."

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