A Zoroastrian Pilgrimage in Yazd, Iran
By Kamin Mohammadi
this article appeared in BMed Magazine, 2003
Iran may be known throughout the world for being the Islamic Republic, practising its own brand of fundamentalist Islam, but this ancient country was once the birthplace of one of the most tolerant religions in history, Zoroastrianism. Followers of the religion still live in Iran today and are based mostly in the town of Yazd, an often-overlooked centre of weaving in central Iran, which also harbours a Zoroastrian fire temple. Outside the town is a site revered by Zoroastrians, a place of many local legends. We decided to find the holy site of Zoroastrian pilgrimage, to track down Chek Chek.
It was a hot day and we had been driving through the scrub-tufted desert for over an hour before we turned onto the dirt track that led to Chek Chek, the fire temple built into the mountains. A path edged with lamps snaked up the slope to dwellings carved into the rocks. Above the buildings, some unexpected greenery burst out – bushes heavy with red berries, trees bearing figs and pomegranates. The plants should not really have been a surprise: Chek Chek means ‘drip drip’ in Farsi – and the mountain stream that has given name to the most significant Zoroastrian pilgrimage site in Iran is still dripping down the rocks.
Zoroastrianism is the ancient religion of Iran, revealed by the prophet Zoroaster some time between the 15th and 6th centuries BC. Combining his own doctrine with existing beliefs in an omnipotent deity and incorporating the fire-worship that fostered ancient Persian communities, Zoroaster devised a religion which has influenced many that have come since. It was one of the world’s first monotheistic religions, teaching that life is an eternal struggle between the god of truth, Ahura Mazda, and the agent of falsehood, Ahriman. Beyond its army of heavenly beings, its creation myths and visions of the afterlife (which have heavily influenced Christianity), the religion rests on three simple central creeds: good works, good thoughts and good deeds; a simplicity that is probably responsible for the religion’s longevity.
Zoroastrianism became the official religion of Cyrus the Great's Persian Empire in 550 BC. As he extended its borders, Persians from the Oxus to the north, the Hellespont to the west and India’s Sind river to the east worshiped Ahura Mazda and housed the holy fire in special temples. It was a fortunate meeting in history: the birth of an empire allied to a tolerant and popular religion.
The Empire – and its religion – survived until the crescent moon of Islam scythed across the region in the 7th century AD. The Arab conquest has scarred Persian minds ever since; and the spread of Islam was certainly swift and irrevocable. Many Zoroastrians fled Persia, migrating to India; the Parsis of Bombay are their modern descendants. But in the desert town of Yazd, Zoroastrianism survived.
Yazd springs up from the desert like a dream of walled gardens, mud ramparts and turquoise domes. It is one of the oldest towns in the world, dating back to Sassanian times (224-637AD) at least, its name thought to derive from the word 'yazdesh', which means ‘to feast and to worship’ in Pahlavi, the Middle Persian of the time. Under Arab rule it was an important town on the silk route, exporting silk, carpets and textiles throughout the world. It flourished in the 14th and 15th centuries, when it was spared destruction by the armies of Genghis Khan and Tamerlane, who razed other Iranian towns to the ground.
Consequently, Yazd today has the best-preserved old quarter of any Iranian city and Iran's largest population of Zoroastrians: some 30,000 of the world’s 120,000 Zoroastrians live here. Splendidly-tiled mosques tower over the clay-coloured town, while sprawling old caravanserai now harbour garages and carpet workshops. Exploring the narrow labyrinthine streets is like stepping back in time, the houses built simply and traditionally, made of sun-dried brick and displaying badgirs (wind-towers) on their roofs. These tall towers are designed to catch any passing breeze and direct it down a shaft into underground living rooms, making for extremely effective (and healthy) air-conditioning. These splendid towers give Yazd a unique look; as Robert Byron in THE ROAD TO OXIANA recognised: 'Yezd [sic] is unlike other Persian towns… Town and desert are of one colour, one substance; the first grows out of the second, and the tall wind-towers, a witness of the heat, are such a forest as a desert might grow naturally.'
To best appreciate this forest of towers, head over to the Friday Mosque, undoubtedly Yazd's most distinguished mosque. This unsung treasure prompted Byron to marvel: 'Do people travel blind? It is hard to imagine how the portals of the Friday Mosque could escape anyone's notice.' Constructed in 14th century, the portals are magnificent, with a remarkably high tiled entrance and splendid minarets on either side, while the 14th century mosaics on its walls, dome, and mehrab are superb. We slipped the caretaker a small fee and he allowed us to climb to the top of the mosque for the fabulous views over the old city.
Away from the centre of town stands a neo-classical building in a walled garden, a pool of water reflecting its six white columns and the curious half-bird half-man symbol that tops its flat roof. This symbol is Fravahar, the representation of the god Ahura Mazda, half-man, half-eagle, standing over this ateshkadeh (fire temple) which houses a sacred fire said to have been burning since the 4th century AD.
The hirbod (priest) who looks after the fire told us of an annual pilgrimage which lasts for 10 days each June. 'But not here,' he replied to my enquiry. 'At a temple in the desert called Chek Chek.'
Chek Chek is unpopulated. The buildings we saw from the road house pilgrims at the annual festival. We clambered up to these khayleh, our surroundings greener with each step. Below us I saw a vulture perched on a rock, and felt that this was a good omen. Vultures played, until recently, a crucial part in the death ceremonies of Zoroastrians. Since they believe in maintaining the purity of the elements, Zoroastrians cannot bury their dead (it pollutes the earth) nor can they cremate them (it pollutes both fire and air). So they would leave the corpses on towers built on mountain-tops to let them be picked clean by vultures. These Tower of Silence were amazingly efficient: the bodies would be clean within hours. The Towers, dotted across the world from India to London, now stand empty: modern Zoroastrians bury their dead in cement-lined graves to prevent contamination of the earth. There are two such towers outside Yazd, where the odd fragment of human bone may still be found.
We climbed to the top of Chek Chek, through the brightly blossoming pomegranate trees. At the entrance to the temple, its doors the colour of gold and carved with the giant winged figure of Fravahar, a man appeared: he was the keeper of the temple, living alone in Chek Chek to guard the fire. He stopped us and told us that as Muslims we could go no further. But a soft voice behind us entreated: 'Oh please, you’re more than welcome. Please do come up.' The voice belonged to a young woman dressed in bright red, a white scarf around her head, a bowl of water in her hands. She mounted the steps behind us, a sign of respect, and at the top we were greeted by a clean-shaven man wearing a skullcap.
We removed our shoes and entered the temple, in reality little more than a cave. The stream dripped through its roof to be caught unceremoniously in a bucket. The floor was wet and in the wall was set an altar with three small flames. In the centre of the room, the sacred flame was burning above a flower-shaped table full of ash and offerings. A group of pilgrims from Tehran placed apples and pomegranates on the central altar and threw incense onto the flame, stoking it up with their offerings and prayers, the thick smoke billowing up and out into the sun.
An old woman came up to us, her hands full of aromatic herbs which she sprinkled over each of our shoulders in turn. 'May your prayers be accepted,' she said, while a small child offered us Yazd's famously delicate pastries and sweets made of honey, rosewater and almonds. The lady in the red dress started to sing, her beautiful voice ringing out. 'She is praying,' explained the clean-shaven man, 'first in Farsi and then in our language. In Tehran, she is the one who teaches the faith to our children, teaches our language, our customs.' Their language, Avestan, dates back to ancient Persia, from the days before the Arabs came and gave the Iranians their alphabet and holy book, burning the old Iranian texts and obliterating the wisdom of Iran's pre-Islamic writers. It is within the Zoroastrian faith that the strongest link with the ancient world of Iran exists, that some of these writings are preserved. Still now Iran's main festival, No Ruz (New Year), has changed little from Zoroastrian times. A celebration of the vernal equinox, the whole ritual is gloriously un-Islamic, despite a Koran being placed on the traditional table. The Wednesday before the New Year, adults and children gather to leap over small bonfires, chanting to let in the pure energy of the fire and cleanse themselves of the old year. The festival of No Ruz has a special place in Iranian hearts, being, unlike many of the Muslim festivals, a time for laughter, a celebration of life and its renewal.
'Zoroastrianism is a joyous faith,' the priestess told us, explaining that the mass mournings that so characterise Shia Islam do not exist in her religion. 'The most important thing is to live in the present and look to the future, not always back at the past.' And with this she invited us to join them for tea outside.
We sat cross-legged on the carpets they had spread outside under the canopy of trees. The pilgrims chatted over sweet black tea and pastries, their faces lit with the fulfilment of their journey. As we left, they pulled out a daf (a hand held drum a bit like a giant tambourine) and began to play. The sound of their beautiful voices singing their joyous prayers, telling the story of Chek Chek and reiterating their simple creeds, followed us on our descent.
© Kamin Mohammadi 2003