Encounters in Iran: Merchants, poets and ‘assassins’

(By Southern Weekly journalist Li Jin. All photos courtesy of Southern Weekly unless otherwise stated.)

Travelling to Iran during Ramadan is truly frustrating, especially with a car. I couldn’t help but feel that way after standing at the Turkey-Iran border for an hour, and still not getting into Iran.

Night had fallen, and we hadn’t eaten anything all day apart from breakfast. Due to clashes between the Turkish military and Kurdish forces near the border, we had encountered repeated roadblocks, checkpoints and traffic jams. It took us from noon until evening to detour our way to the Iranian customs post. There was no issue with our visas; the problem lay with our small car, which we had driven all the way from China. Apparently, it was missing a specific document required for entry by car into Iran. 

Our travel guidebook mentioned a Mr Hossein, a well-connected Iranian known for handling such matters. But we had contacted him too late, and his quoted price was far too high. When you’re travelling along the ancient Silk Road, you inevitably have to bargain with the descendants of caravan merchants — but the price was so steep that I lost all desire to negotiate.

In the end, the customs officers proposed a solution: leave the car in a lot where confiscated items are stored and enter Iran on foot. We had no choice but to agree. Finally, at 9 pm, we set foot on Iranian soil, famished and exhausted.

After a rough night at a small inn in the border village of Bazargan, we headed to Tabriz by car. Located in northwestern Iran, Tabriz is the region’s largest city and a historic Silk Road hub where Azerbaijanis and Persians live side by side. It was once the capital of the Qara Qoyunlu (Black Sheep) dynasty and, for a brief period, served as the capital of Persia during the Safavid empire. In the 13th century, Marco Polo passed through and described it as “a great city… The place is so well situated that merchants proceed hither… Around it are very fine gardens…”

Upon arriving in Tabriz, we headed straight to its UNESCO-listed bazaar. The Bazaar of Tabriz dates back over a thousand years and boasts 24 caravanserais and 22 domed halls. Piles of ruby-red cherries formed little mountains at the fruit stalls; the heady fragrance of rose petals sold by the sack filled the air; carpets, sorted by type and size, filled hall after hall; children ran and laughed between toy shops… Entering the market felt like stepping into a kaleidoscopic labyrinth. I was quickly lost in the maze of passageways and the dazzling array of goods.

“Ni hao!” A greeting in Chinese drifted out from one of the shops, clearly meant for us. Delighted, we turned around to see a young shopkeeper smiling at us from inside. Upon learning we were from Shanghai, he responded in heavily accented but surprisingly fluent Chinese. “Shanghai, I know — it’s right next to Yiwu. I often go to Yiwu to stock up on goods.”

I was astonished. I looked around his store: robes hung on the walls, headscarves neatly stacked on the table — everything was in black. It was a shop selling clothing for Muslim women. We had already seen Chinese-made kettles, slippers, toy trains, and plush dolls, but I hadn’t expected Islamic clothing to also come from Yiwu. At that moment, I truly grasped how diverse and adaptable the flow of goods is along the trans-Eurasian trade routes. 

Equally adaptable was the bazaar merchant himself. Sensing a potential customer, he promptly began showing me different styles of headscarves — after all, Iranian law requires female travellers to wear one, and to him, I clearly looked like a business opportunity. Just as he was about to offer some black tea to prolong the conversation, I gently waved my hand, signalling that I wanted to keep browsing. His warm calls echoed behind us as we said our goodbyes and moved on.

Our next leisurely stroll through a bazaar came a few days later, in Isfahan. Along the way, the bazaars in Tehran and Kashan had largely shut down for Ramadan, but many shops in Isfahan remained open. This splendid city is arguably Iran’s most popular travel destination. Even in the sweltering summer heat, with temperatures soaring above 40°C, travellers from all over the world braved hunger, thirst and the blazing sun to wander around the majestic Naqsh-e Jahan Square, gazing in awe at the Safavid empire’s most magnificent architectural treasures while quietly reciting the ancient, well-known line: “Isfahan is half the world.”

In 1602, during the height of its power, the Safavid empire moved its capital to Isfahan under Shah Abbas the Great. There, it built what is now the second-largest public square in the world. Surrounding it are architectural masterpieces: the exquisitely tiled Shah Mosque, the Sheikh Lotfollah Mosque with its vast dome like the cosmos, the opulent Ali Qapu Palace, and Iran’s most enchanting bazaar.

The brick-arched corridors shielded us from the scorching sunlight. I lingered among intricately detailed miniature paintings, inlaid wooden boxes, hammered metalwork, and vividly enamelled ornaments. Shafts of light beamed down through rows of small domed skylights, casting a soft glow on the craftsmen absorbed in their work.

Before realising it, we had been invited into a carpet seller’s shop. Iranian silk carpets are lustrous and smooth, charming in their beauty, but this carpet merchant said he carried something different. He invited us to admire the carpets hanging on the walls, each one appearing to combine multiple weaving techniques: flat weave, embroidery and pile. 

The designs were whimsical and free-spirited. One depicted just two trees and a few sheep; another showed a towering dovecote. The merchant smiled in satisfaction at our astonished expressions. He explained that these weren’t the works of ordinary craftsmen, but of nomadic tribes from the southwestern mountains. While tending their flocks and riding horses, the herders would weave their surroundings and daily lives into these vivid carpets during moments of rest.

Nomadic life is gradually fading away, and many of the items in his shop were essentially antiques, priced accordingly. We returned two days in a row to bargain, but no matter how hard we tried, we simply couldn’t bring down the price. Still, the merchant showed no displeasure. “No worries, come have a cup of tea and let’s just chat.”

Even without a deal, the bazaar merchant’s hospitality remained unchanged. His carpets were exported worldwide, and he had travelled extensively for business. It was a pleasure talking with someone so worldly and so fluent in English.

“You can take off your headscarf,” he said as he handed me a cup of black tea. “I’m not Muslim. I follow Zoroastrianism. This shop is my private space, so it’s fine.”

I hadn’t expected to meet a Zoroastrian in a place surrounded by mosques. In fact, before visiting Yazd, I had assumed this ancient Persian religion had long vanished into the ashes of war, like the Persian empire itself.

“I want to talk to you about marble,” the merchant suddenly shifted the topic. “Iran has the best marble in the world, and I want to export it to China. No one’s doing this business yet. China doesn’t have marble; it must be in great demand.”

We were caught off guard. No one had ever proposed a business venture to us, complete strangers, while travelling. But for a bazaar merchant, opportunity often matters more than religion. Just like their ancestors, who ventured into the unknown and built the trade routes that once linked East and West, a sharp commercial instinct seems to be etched into their DNA.

But this time, the carpet seller had it wrong. We quickly explained that China also produces marble in abundance — how else would there be a city named Dali? (NB: Dali in Yunnan is known for its marble, called Dalishi or Dali stone.)

He refused to believe it, shaking his head again and again. “No, I’ve never heard of Chinese marble. And even if it exists, the quality and quantity can’t compare with Iran’s. I’ve never seen marble anywhere in the world better than ours. It’s like carpets — Turks weave them too, but theirs just aren’t as good as Iranian ones.”

By the end of our conversation, he was only half-convinced. We didn’t know how to explain that our correction was sincere, not just a polite excuse — but there was no changing the mind of a seasoned bazaar merchant.

As our journey continued, I often found myself reflecting on that moment. Travelling further doesn’t always lead to deeper understanding — especially if we bring our assumptions with us. Ramadan, headscarves, the morality police… Iran is more than these headlines. What I’m drawn to most are the everyday people, navigating their own struggles, whose lives deserve to be seen beyond the frames of religion and politics.

“You’d better be prepared — Iranians are extremely warm and hospitable,” my travel companion had warned me at the start of the trip. It was his second time in Iran, and he clearly remembered how, during his previous visit, strangers would strike up conversations, take selfies with him and even invite him home for a meal.

Maybe it was the sparse crowds during Ramadan, but not until we reached Isfahan did I fully experience the famed Iranian hospitality.

Every day, several strangers came up to talk to us, especially in the golden hour before sunset on the city’s grand square. As I stood admiring the magnificent iwan of the mosque rising behind the fountains, someone would always approach with a courteous “Welcome to Iran” followed by the same three questions: “Where are you from? What’s your name? Do you like Iran?”

We chatted with an English teacher visiting from Tabriz during the holidays, and also met a programmer who was saving up to emigrate to Australia with his wife and children. Neither religion nor homeland could deter his desire for a better life. He told us earnestly, “We are Persians.”

Many travellers have heard this before — Persians take immense pride in their profound history, culture and art. It made me all the more eager to meet a poet. 

In Iranian culture, poetry holds a sacred place; it is not merely art, but a necessity of life. Politicians quote the 10th-century poet Ferdowsi in their speeches; hotel receptionists recite lines from 13th-century poet Saadi with ease. When my companion first visited Iran, he met a real poet on the famous Si-o-se-pol, the Bridge of 33 Arches. They wandered through the city together under the night sky, marvelling at the way the lights played upon the stone reliefs. After they parted ways, the poet even emailed him a short poem in Chinese:

窗，并无感情或心，
但当它蒙上一层水雾，
当我用手指在它上面写出我爱你，
窗格也开始哭泣

A window knows no feeling, holds no heart,
Yet when mist gathers softly on its glass,
And I trace “I love you” with my fingertip,
Even the window cannot hold back its tears.

Drawn by our longing for Persian poetry, we arrived in Shiraz, the city of roses, nightingales and poets, being the birthplace of Hafez. When it comes to Persian literature, the 14th-century poet Hafez holds a place of unparalleled reverence in the hearts of Iranians. He wrote hundreds of lyrical poems about love and wine, and nearly every Iranian can recite his verses. People even use his poetry for divination, drawing cards inscribed with lines from his works to glimpse hints of their fate.

The Tomb of Hafez is nestled in a beautiful garden, where crowds of Iranians gather. At other sites like the Arg of Karim Khan or the Shah Cheragh shrine, we would see foreign tourists and Islamic pilgrims, but at Hafez’s tomb, most visitors were Iranians from across the country. The poet’s gravestone rests beneath an elegant octagonal pavilion. We sat beneath climbing vines, taking refuge from the heat and the fatigue brought on by hunger, resting until the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the garden and making the roses appear even more delicate.

A group of pretty female students opened a copy of Hafez’s Divan in front of the tomb, posing for photos. A young man approached us with the familiar opening lines of a friendly chat — but this time, he added an extra question: “Can I chat with you? I’d like to practice my English.”

By the poet’s tomb, it was only natural that our conversation turned to Hafez. The young man was pleasantly surprised that we had read some of Hafez’s poetry (even if I had only skimmed a few verses during long car rides in a last-minute effort). He described Hafez as a romantic poet, one who wrote beautiful love poems. But romance and love poetry — like the wine so tenderly praised in Hafez’s verses — are now secrets to be hidden in today’s Iran, and that quiet truth settled over us like a sigh.

Shiraz itself became part of our conversation. When the young man learned that my companion was visiting for a second time, his reaction was like that of so many Iranians — a burst of genuine, heartfelt joy that needed no translation. I began to notice this everywhere: Iranians truly want visitors to love their country, to return again and again, and to carry away a good impression. Much like consulting Hafez’s poetry for fortune-telling, they always hope the verse you draw will be one of beauty and luck.

When we said goodbye, the young man insisted on walking us to the intersection and pointing out the way back to our hotel, even though we knew it perfectly well.

Early the next morning, we rose before dawn to visit the Nasir al-Mulk Mosque, better known as the Pink Mosque. As sunlight filters through its stained-glass windows, it casts kaleidoscopic patterns across the pink, sea-blue and pale-yellow tiles, creating one of Iran’s most dreamlike and photogenic scenes. But when we arrived, we found the doors firmly shut. 

A kind passerby explained that today was a public holiday, and all major sites were closed. Back at the hotel, the receptionist confirmed the news and told a few European guests nearby: “You’d best not go out today. There’s a demonstration on the streets.”

A Ramadan holiday that foreign tourists should avoid? That piqued my companion’s curiosity. He grabbed his camera and headed out. But I knew that as a woman, one often has to be more cautious in Iran, so I stayed behind at the hotel.

Two hours later, he returned. The demonstrators had told him it was Quds Day (Quds referring to Jerusalem), when Iranians march in protest against “Jewish Zionism and the violation of Palestinian and Quds rights”.

He described what he saw on the streets: people waving Iranian flags, holding portraits of Ruhollah Khomeini, the founder of Iran’s Islamic Republic, and burning American flags and banners bearing the Star of David. Yet at the same time, parents brought their children up to him, smiling brightly for the camera. The children tossed aside their protest signs and flags to chase after made-in-China cartoon balloons. 

After being stopped twice by police and having some photos deleted, he decided to return to the hotel. We sat together flipping through the images he had managed to keep. The children’s eyes were filled with excitement and curiosity, but no trace of hatred.

That afternoon, after the march had ended, I finally felt safe enough to step outside. The streets still bore traces of the protest: scorched ashes on the pavement, blood-red posters hanging from lampposts, and a few forgotten balloons rolling aimlessly in the blinding sun.

At that moment, I longed to meet a poetry diviner — someone who could open Hafez’s Divan and let him tell me what I should do.

“I am a free man,” sang the rocker in Chinese, strumming his guitar and improvising with this line that he had just learned from me. His previous English lyrics were: “Jesus, get lost…”

His angst echoed through the small café, despite a portrait of Khomeini still prominently displayed on the counter. We had met this guitar-toting singer on the streets of Qazvin, and he invited us to sit and chat at his cafe. In Iran, where hospitality often borders on overwhelming, travellers quickly learn one might as well just accept, especially when the singer mentioned he wanted to join us on a trip to Alamut.

We spent the whole morning talking and singing, and soon realised — like many rock musicians around the world — he was somewhat down on his luck. The cafe wasn’t his, after all; he just worked there. Our visit had simply brought in a little extra business. 

Wanting to help, he even called up a friend with a Mercedes to take us to Alamut, but the quoted fare was steep. While Iranians are undeniably warm and welcoming, that doesn’t prevent the tourism industry from quietly operating on a two-tier system: foreign travellers often pay more. Some locals, under the guise of small talk, would offer a few sentences about a site and then boldly ask for a tip; cafes near attractions might scribble questionable bills, trying to charge tourists extra for their meals.

Sensing that we were reluctant to be taken in by such “price assassins”, the singer called for a second car — this time a Peugeot, at half the price of the Mercedes. We decided to leave immediately. Just then, the singer made an excuse: something had come up, and he couldn’t join us after all. We could see he was a little embarrassed, so we simply waved goodbye and let it be.

The car wound its way toward the Elburz Mountains, passing through vast groves of shadowy green cherry trees. It was harvest season in the summer villages, and bright red fruit was piled high along the roadside. 

As the mountain road twisted higher and higher, I drifted into a doze, lulled by sweet imaginings of juicy cherries. When I woke, the scenery had changed. The world outside was now a vivid alpine landscape, where bold purplish-red soil mingled with patches of yellow-green grass, and cherry groves stretched through the valleys below.

In Persian, Alamut means “Eagle’s Nest”. The fortress is perched atop a cliff, steeped in myth and legend. At the end of the 11th century, Hassan-i Sabbah, leader of the Isma’ili sect of Islam, fled with his followers into the remote mountains and seized a stronghold nearly 3,000 metres above sea level. 

According to legend, Hassan led a mysterious network of assassins. His disciples were allegedly drugged with a high dose of hashish, then transported while still in a trance to a secret garden of earthly delights. After days of bliss, they were brought back and convinced that, by completing their mission, they would return to that paradise. These followers were called Hashshashin, and from that term, the English word “assassin” is said to have originated.

By the time we struggled up to the Eagle’s Nest, the stronghold had already been in ruins for over 700 years, destroyed by the Mongol invaders. Alamut had held out for years behind its impregnable walls, and even sent an assassin after Möngke Khan. But in the 13th century, Hulagu Khan captured the fortress, carried out a brutal massacre, and had the final leader trampled into pulp beneath the hooves of horses. The stronghold was razed, and countless books and manuscripts were burned to ashes.

From the summit, the ruins stretched stark and silent across the barren peaks. There were no bubbling springs, no fabled gardens of paradise, no assassins making leaps of faith — only a few scattered tourists hiding from the scorching sun in mountain caves, besides a handful of archaeologists at work.

Our journey through Iran had finally come to an end. Three days later, we took a train back to Tabriz, then went straight to the bus station by taxi and hopped into a shared car. Four hours later, we found ourselves once again in Bazargan. Without stopping, we immediately sought out another shared taxi bound for the border. Two men were already seated inside; with the two of us, the car was full, and we set off.

The other passengers were just as curious and eager to chat with foreign travellers as any Iranian we had met. Unfortunately, due to the language barrier, our conversation was still limited to the same three questions: “Where are you from? What’s your name? Do you like Iran?”

We answered the first two questions truthfully. And when it came to the third, I finally found myself able to respond almost without hesitation: “Yes, I do.”

How could I not? After more than 20 days of travel, how could I not love Iran? Ramadan had ended; I could now eat cherries anytime, from morning till night. The bazaars, now fully open and bustling, dazzled my eyes with their vivid energy. The high altitudes between Tabriz and Bazargan made the summer heat far more bearable… And really, where else in the world could I find a country so rich in culture and so steeped in history, yet so full of contradictions, forever suspended in quiet reflection and restless uncertainty?

No other place had ever urged me to observe so closely, to weigh my thoughts so carefully, as Iran did. And as that truth settled within me, our car reached the border.

The other passengers handed their fare to the driver, then gestured towards us and said something. The driver nodded with a smile. Only then did I realise that they had paid for our ride. One of the men smiled warmly and placed his hand over his heart in a gesture of respect.

Once again, Iran had shown us its boundless hospitality.

We walked into the customs office, completed the exit formalities, and a staff member led my companion to retrieve the car. After a while, he returned to the border crossing, driving our dust-covered little vehicle. We loaded our luggage, ready to bid farewell to Iran.

My companion shrugged and said, “I just paid over three million rials (US$70) in parking fees. And they also charged me 80,000 rials as an emergency release fee.”

“Emergency release? But it’s working hours,” I said, puzzled.

He looked at me, smiled, and said nothing. And soon, I understood.

Iran had sent us off with one final price assassin. But to my surprise, I didn’t feel the least bit annoyed.

This article was first published by Southern Weekly as “遇见伊朗人：商人、诗人和‘刺客’”. Southern Weekly, founded in 1984, adheres to the principle of “Understanding China Through Reading Here” and the fundamental guideline of “Justice, Love, Conscience, Rationality”, delivers in-depth news coverage and enjoys China’s nationwide influence and credibility.

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