| Soccer in Iran |
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In the run-up to the 1998 World Cup, Bill Thomas Braved Iran’s morals Police over Soccer  I USED TO THINK that for pure culture shock, nothing could beat landing in Cold War Moscow. My opinion changed when, a decade ago on a flight from Vienna to Tehran, our pilot announced that the plane had just entered Iranian airspace. That’s all it took. Suddenly, passengers turned grief-stricken. Forlorn-looking women began covering up their outfits in head-to-toe black chadors, while men braced themselves with their last sips of Scotch—maybe ever.As the only Americans on board, my friend James Reston Jr. and I watched this with a degree of apprehension. In an hour, we’d be arriving in a theocratic police state where everything fun, as we knew it, was off-limits. Neither one of us had been to Iran before, but I could tell James was thinking the same thing I was: If Iranian airspace got that kind of reaction, what would it be like on the ground? It was 1998, and I was the editor of a magazine in Washington and had assigned the two of us to cover Iran’s national soccer team. The Iranians had qualified to play the U.S.—a.k.a. the Great Satan—in the World Cup. James, who had played soccer in college, would be writing about the team. I, who knew virtually nothing about the sport, would focus on the mood of the people. Everywhere in Tehran, there were pictures of the late Ayatollah Khomeini: on posters, painted on buildings, displayed at major intersections. The guy’s relentlessly angry expression was all over town. Along with banners denouncing American imperialism, the only other signage I saw was a billboard showing Karim Bagheri, the star of Iran’s World Cup team, promoting a product called Public shampoo. “Don’t use it,” I was warned by an Iranian. “Your hair will fall out.” Disaffected consumers, however, were the last thing authorities were worrying about. In a place where the only official celebrities were famous ayatollahs, the chance to cheer on the national soccer team presented a rare opportunity for Iranians to have a good time. And that was becoming a problem. When Iran qualified for the World Cup, celebrations broke out in the streets. Female fans, who were banned from soccer games, joined the parties, alongside the men. Off came their chadors to reveal designer jeans and T-shirts; rock music played, and couples danced. The morals police, a state-run goon squad that enforces the country’s strict behavior codes (but who can be bribed to look the other way), could do nothing to control the cheer. Iranian women had turned soccer into a serious political crisis. Fascinated by the dilemma, James and I, with our translator, Farshid, headed for the holy city of Qum to talk to Iran’s sports ayatollah. Every activity in Iran has a spiritual supervisor, and Ayatollah Makarem Shirazi, the man to see in this case, was reputed to be a hardliner. Armed with a letter of introduction from the Ministry for the Propagation of Virtue and Suppression of Vice, we were led into the ayatollah’s office. James asked him if recent excitement about the World Cup indicated a breakdown of law and order. “Certain dissidents took advantage of the situation to promote unhealthy ideas,” the ayatollah sternly replied. Like letting women watch men in shorts kick around a soccer ball? “The prohibition is necessary for a wholesome spiritual atmosphere,” the ayatollah explained. “A sporting event is like turning on the ignition and starting a car. The car needs gas to keep going.” In Iran, where most of the population was under 35 and fed up with the government, it was obvious why the ruling ayatollahs wanted everyone running on empty. That made the resolve of the female soccer fans all the more impressive. Thousands were showing up at World Cup practice matches, ditching their chadors and demanding to watch. Pressure was building on the regime either to give in or to crack down. On the return to Tehran, Farshid pointed out Ayatollah Khomeini’s tomb. We’d heard that the mammoth edifice looked like the Superdome, with a roof that glowed in the dark. It wasn’t on our approved itinerary, but this we had to see. Inside, a crowd of pilgrims surrounded Khomeini’s final resting place. Farshid cautioned us to avoid eye contact and not to say a word. We made it inside undetected and, for an eerie few minutes, the three of us stood a foot from the sarcophagus as Revolutionary Guard troops stood watch for foreign agents. Driving to our hotel, we joked about what might have happened if the soldiers had spotted us. Farshid, with his grim sense of humor, suspected he would have been arrested, stoned to death, and had his body parts fed to street dogs. James and I would probably have been given a show trial and convicted of spying for the Great Satan; then, in a gesture of good sportsmanship, we’d have been released in time for the World Cup. The next day, while I was checking in at the Center for the Suppression of Vice, Mary, one of the secretaries, told me that a group of women had stormed a stadium to see the soccer team—and the morals cops had done nothing. This was a milestone, according to Mary, who was so encouraged by developments that she’d worn a defiantly lime-green chador to work. I was starting to like her. But Farshid cautioned me to play it cool: It might be a setup. Any encouragement of Mary’s rebellion and I could be in serious trouble. A few days later, with our assignments complete, James and I left Iran. The national soccer team would go on to make their global soccer appearance in France, where they would be knocked out of competition in the first round. The silver lining: They would beat the U.S. 2–1, eliminating the Americans in the first round. On the return flight to Vienna, the announcement that we had departed Iranian airspace was greeted by applause. Suddenly, the woman sitting next to me had transformed from an amorphous, black-clad lump into a total knockout. She was going to Europe for “a mental vacation,” as she put it. Maybe it was the whiff of perfume or my second glass of champagne, but I knew the feeling. We talked about soccer. I complimented her on her hair, which would have been a crime in Iran. She asked me if there was anything about her country I had liked. Yes, I said. The women. |
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