[top photo: If Iran were a woman, it could be described as an ice queen.]

By Chong Chee Kin

IF IRAN were a woman, it could be described as an ice queen.

With a cold, even dangerous facade, it can appear harsh and unforgiving.

This abandoned fortress in Bavanat is said by villagers in Bazm to date back to the time of Mongol rule.

But peel away the layers (and look beyond tags like "state sponsor of terrorism" and "axis of evil") and you will find an Iran with a warm, sensitive and beautiful soul.

When I told my closest friend that I was going to spend two weeks in the heart of the Persian empire, his first reaction was to snigger and then say: "Good luck! Have fun! And don't end up on YouTube!"

It would turn out to be an oft-repeated refrain from colleagues and friends.

But that was not to be.

I fell in love with Shiraz, the city of roses and nightingales, some 900km south of the capital Teheran. It was the birthplace of the greatest Persian poets, Hafez and Saadi, who were to the Persian language what William Shakespeare was to English.

In Persepolis, the capital of the ancient Persian empire, I saw the Apadana Palace, built by Darius the Great and Xerxes I. I witnessed splendour and grandeur amid its ruined columns, which remain after it was razed to the ground by the armies of Alexander the Great.

Farmer Saayed and is wife run the farm which the author stayed at in the village of Bazm.

In the village of Bazm, an old lady plucked three pink blooms from her rosebush, clasped my hands around them and brought them before my nose.

They were the most fragrant roses I had ever come across and their scent reminded me of bandung, sans the artificial, cloying scent of condensed milk.

In Yazd and Esfahan, the intricate designs of mosques, churches and palaces, where each lustrous tile was painstakingly put together on walls, domes and arches, were awe-inspiring.

Yet, all the wondrous beauty of the country's architecture could not hold a candle to the generosity of Iran's people.

After all, if Iran's cities are the gems on its body, then its people are its spirit - compassionate, hospitable and generous.

Take Reza, for example. A burly man a head taller than me and twice my girth, he spontaneously invited me to visit his family at his apartment in Esfahan.

That guileless, totally sincere invitation was extended to me within two minutes of my meeting him.

Then there were Faizad and Ali, who offered me a ride on their motorcycle, cutting through the chaotic and terrorinducing traffic jam in Teheran to take me back to my hotel.

And there was Azin, a 20-year-old woman who chatted me up in a Shiraz garden and folded origami roosters and roses for me.

But Iran's violent past is never far from the surface.

A feline treads the grounds inside Jameh Mosque in Esfahan, which is noted for its architectural eclecticism.

Over the centuries, it has been invaded by Greeks, Arabs, Mongols and Iraqis, then turned inside out by a United States-initiated coup and a revolution.

Now, along the expressways which snake across the country, anti-aircraft guns sit on knolls in the desert, silent sentinels eyeing the skies for potential hostile attacks.

Even Arg-e-Karim Khan, a beautifully restored citadel in Shiraz dating back to the 18th century, was used as a prison as recently as 50 years ago.

In Teheran, the Ebrat Museum (a nondescript compound with high walls) was a former prison for political prisoners who were abused, tortured and killed by the Savak, the secret police of ruler Reza Shah.

Yet, in spite of what history has dealt them, Iranians bubble with life and a curiosity about foreigners which violence has failed to douse.

Their cities teem with history and pride. And in the mountains and amid the squalor of the villages, there is a happiness which Iranians want to share.

So, khodahafez (goodbye in Persian) for now, Iran, and thanks for the memories.

cheekin@sph.com.sg

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