Exiled to Freedom

A Memoir of Censorship in Iran

Mahmood Karimi-Hakak

This memoir is dedicated to the struggle of Iranian youth for the right to live in a free society

I would like to share my story, a story of the struggle for liberty, of the sup- pression of creativity, and finally of my exile to freedom. Unfortunately, I don’t know if I can continue because the editorial staff of TDR has not yet approved the content of what I might say. You see in my country, Iran, just about anything we say or do in the public arena must be preapproved by the censors, and no explanation will ever be given if it is not approved. In the United States of America, also, there are reasons why my story would not be published. For example, if my writing were bad or blatantly offensive, vio- lently racist, or sexist. Or, if my story did not fit the subject matter of TDR, had no relation to performance, etc. It could always be rejected as a matter of style and taste. But censorship would not be the primary factor. In Iran, censorship is not only common, but also expected—in the theatre, in Parliament, and even in the Friday Prayer. There was one time I was asked to address an audience without a prepared, preapproved, edited text. That was the night of 23 February 1999, when my production of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream was closed. On that night, I was ordered to explain to my audience why the production had been summarily canceled. What could I say? To this day, I do not know from where the order to close the show came, who issued the order, or why it was issued. That night, our Midsummer Night’s Dream instantly changed into a midwinter nightmare, followed by a long unpleasant ordeal that led to my prosecution and exile. I was prosecuted for the crime of “Raping the Public’s Innocence,” and forced into exile. I still do not know what that charge means. In English, the word “censorship” relates back to two different offices in the Roman Empire. One censor was responsible for the census, a head count of the population. The other censor was responsible for guarding public morality. In Iran, the censorship is of the public morality sort. The public is considered “chaste,” and I was a “rapist” who spoiled that purity—a serious charge in today’s Iran.

The Drama Review 47, 4 (T180), Winter 2003. Copyright ᭧ 2003 New York University and the Massachusetts Institute of Technology

Downloaded from http://www.mitpressjournals.org/doi/pdf/10.1162/105420403322764007 by guest on 01 October 2021 18 Mahmood Karimi-Hakak Censorship exists all over the world, but there is a difference between the veiled censorship in Iran and the transparent censorship in the United States. An example of transparent censorship is Mayor Giuliani’s attempt in 1999 to punish or even close down an exhibit at the Brooklyn Museum of Art because it included a painting of the Madonna with elephant feces incorporated into it. Everyone knew where this censorship was coming from, who was behind it, and why. People could and did speak out, write, publish, and otherwise protest the censorship without fear of prosecution or the murder of their family members. In Iran, on the other hand, one never really knows who issues the order to censor or even why something has been censored. The danger to oneself and one’s family is real. In my case, I knew who was behind the censorship, but I could not prove it 1. From left: Mohammad or defend myself against it. My being educated in America had very little to Sareban as Theseus, Leila do with it. There are many other American-educated Iranians in Iran working Davari-Zand as Hermia, with and/or for the regime. They promote, advertise, and do propaganda and Afshin Katanchi as work for the governing religious hierarchy. I know that my troubles stemmed Lysander in Mahmood from the fact that I refused to submit. I refused to use my art to promote an Karimi-Hakak’s production idea I did not, and do not, support. of A Midsummer Night’s Artistic Censorship in Iran usually involves intervention at any one or all of Dream. The play ran for three stages: the artist’s intention to create; the artist’s engagement in the cre- four nights at the Azadi ative process; and the artist’s presentation of what he/she has created. In “sol- (Freedom Museum) Theatre itary art,” such as painting, writing, and photography, the ﬁrst two stages may in Tehran, Iran, before it escape censorship. The painter may paint, the writer may write, and the pho- was shut down on 24 Feb- tographer may photograph whatever they like; as long as the work is not pub- ruary 1999. (Courtesy of licly exhibited they probably will not be censored. But in collective work like Mahak International Artists the theatre, censorship takes place at all three stages. Inc.)

Downloaded from http://www.mitpressjournals.org/doi/pdf/10.1162/105420403322764007 by guest on 01 October 2021 Censorship in Iran 19 At the first stage, the script must be approved. The principle artists—director and/or playwright—must be approved. The actors, designers, production staff, and even the gofers must be approved. The physical spaces, both for rehearsals and for the performance, must be approved. The rehearsal and performance schedule must be approved, and so on. Maddeningly, each approval is issued by a different office. As you can imagine it takes months, or even years, before a production secures all the necessary approvals. It took me over five years before I was allowed to begin work on A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The production was closed down on its fourth public performance. Only after all these approvals are secured can the group meet for the first time. This begins the second stage: the censorship of the creative process. In this phase, to make sure that nothing against the unspoken, unwritten, unspeci- fied laws of moral conduct happens during rehearsals, the male and the female group members are not to address each other in any manner that might suggest personal or unprofessional communication; they are not to call each other by their first names; they are not to use the informal second person pronoun when addressing each other; they are not to make repeated eye contact; they are not to wear tight-fitting clothes; they are not to sit comfortably next to one another; they are not to smile too much or laugh. Touching, even a simple handshake, is unimaginable, and may result in blacklisting the person or persons involved, closing down the show, a public whipping of up to 80 lashes, and/or imprisonment. Therefore, there are no improvisations during rehearsals because that may lead to a line or an action in violation of these laws. If the group survives the first two stages, there remains the third stage of censorship: the scrutiny of the presentation by the authorities. A group of observers are sent to see the play prior to its public performance. After they watch the play, the director must respond to their criticisms, which can range from choice of costumes to a possible hidden meaning of an image or a spoken phrase, from a movement to a specific color used in the painting of the sets, from the overall meaning of the production to the director’s concept and artistic vision, the style of the play, its language, and of course the plot. If a production survives the stages of censorship up to this point, and if it is eventually issued a Performance Permission, that still does not guarantee that the production will run its course. Such was the case with our A Midsummer Night’s Dream. A few good citizens, or even one individual, ignited by zeal or assigned by invisible forces, might decide that your play is indeed detrimental to the public interest. The remaining performances of your show can then be canceled. Furthermore, as was the case with our Dream, the director, designer, cast, and crew might be prosecuted and punished. Thus, my 1999 production is a perfect example of Iranian censorship. Be- cause of my translation, direction, and design, I was charged, prosecuted, and told to leave Iran. The invisible forces of censorship had made their decision long before Theseus claims that, “Four happy days bring in another moon.”

Why Did I Return to Iran? Feeling exhausted by the treatment I received as an adjunct, teaching theatre at various universities here and abroad (including CCNY, PCC, and Uni- versity of Antwerp in Belgium), I started searching for a “real” university position once I completed my education at Rutgers University in 1987. In 1989, I accepted an offer from Towson University in Maryland to teach theatre and head their directing and stage management programs. In summer of 1992, I received a small grant from Towson to travel to Iran as part of my ongoing research on the post-revolutionary Iranian theatre. While

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A Summer Midnight’s Dream in Winter Ebrahim Afshar

The play is in performance at the Azadi Museum. Shakespeare says: “Why have you named my Midsummer Night’s Dream as Summer Mid- night’s Dream?” The girls onstage say their lines. Strange men among the audience cast the latest postmodern curses, with all their hearts, upon the acting girls. Shakespeare explains: “Brother! We have [performance] permission from Ershad Ministry [The Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance].” The Brother says: “We don’t recognize the Ershad Ministry. This ‘Dream’ is sacrilegious. Because if it were [religiously] permissible, why should a midnight summer dream be performed on a winter night?” It is night. The city walls have become vocal with the tearing and torn posters. “The City Green for Living”1 is a mere slogan, which has been daringly challenged. A Dreamy Slogan. And now Azadi [Freedom] is the name of a museum in which a winter midnight dream is in progress. Shakespeare looks at a “City Green for Living” and utters, “Ah!”

Translated by Mahmood Karimi-Hakak, from Zan Daily Newspaper 1:157, 28 February 1999

Note 1. Ed. note: Shahr-e Sabz-e Zendegi (City Green for Living) is an ofﬁcial slogan im- printed on city walls by the then-mayor of Tehran.

in Iran, I was asked by some of my ex-professors to speak to their students at universities and schools in which they taught. At one of these lectures, I was scolding the students for being lazy in com- parison to the students in my generation. A brave young woman stood up and spoke. What she said cemented my decision to return to Iran. With a combi- nation of pity, anger, and envy apparent in her voice she cried out:

You are here bragging about what you knew and we do not. What you do not realize is that it was your generation that created this revolution. I was just a small child at that time. As soon as your generation realized that this was not what they had expected, they left, leaving my generation to deal with the aftermath of what they had started. We did not ask for this, nor did we have the means to leave like they did. For all these years not many worthwhile books have been published. Our progressive artists and intellectuals, those who could not leave, are either dead or in jail, or, as Forough [late Iranian woman poet] wrote “Swamps of alcohol [...] have dragged [them] down to its depths.” We are being taught by those who, in most cases, are chosen not because of their knowledge in the ﬁeld but because of their loyalty to a certain ideology, or so they pretend. These people hardly know much about anything. What many

Downloaded from http://www.mitpressjournals.org/doi/pdf/10.1162/105420403322764007 by guest on 01 October 2021 Censorship in Iran 21 of us struggle with is trying not to sell our bodies to pay for our tuition. I cannot believe that you have the nerve to come here and chastise us. And then of course you will leave too.1

Her words pierced my heart. I sat down and cried. She cried too. It was really a depressing scene. I promised her, the other students, and myself that I would return. The next year I made good on my promise—and I remained until 1999 when I was told to leave. From my summer’s experience, I knew that a family of four could comfortably live in Iran on $250 a month. I calculated that my savings from years of working in the United States would allow me to be ﬁnancially independent. I was very lucky not to have to depend on income from theatre productions or government paychecks.

124 Play Proposals Immediately upon my arrival in Iran in 1993, I began teaching at various theatre and film schools, universities, and artistic institutions as well as to independent groups of young theatre artists. I also wrote, translated, continued my research on the state of Iranian theatre after the Islamic Revolution, traveled throughout the country, and shot many hours of documentary videotapes. I requested permission to direct a play. The first play I proposed to the Center for Performing Arts was an adaptation of the epic of Gilgamesh, a Meso- potamian poem of the third millennium bce. After waiting three months for an answer, I approached the Center, asking for their response to my proposal. I was told that I’d better look for another play, “because,” the gentleman said, “this poem speaks about many different gods.” I was reminded, “We live in a Muslim country. We all know that there does not exist more than one God, Allah, the merciful.” I responded, “But this story was written thousands of years before Prophet Mohammad...” He quickly cut me off: “But there has always been only one God. Don’t you believe that?” Fearing his rage and anger, I said respectfully, “Yes, of course I believe that. But, sir, the people who wrote this poem didn’t know that.” He abruptly responded, “Well, they should have.” I was stunned. At a loss for what to say, I remained silent. A few moments later (I think, he realized what a stupid comment he had made), in a conciliatory tone, he added, “Well, you and I know that this story belongs to ancient times, but what about the people who come to see this play? They do not know this.” Thinking that we may resolve the problem, I suggested that we put the information in a program note and/or have someone announce this at the start of the show. He paused for a while, looked at me in a fatherly manner, then, offering me tea and sweets, he advised, “You are new here. I know that you are a good man. I know that you mean well, and that you have returned with good intentions to help our society, but not everyone else knows this. We should find a way that people realize your good intentions.” I thought he had a point. I was new and people didn’t know me. I said, “Yes. You are right.” Then I explained that the only way people will know me was for me to do what I was trained for, to direct a play. “By doing this play,” I said, “people will get to see my work, and learn about me.” He was not convinced. He suggested kindly, “What we need to do first is to introduce you. Tellpeople what an educated director you are.” Offering more sweets and asking if I would like another cup of tea, he added, “You see, we can have you interviewed, and there you can talk about yourself and your experiences.” This sounded like a good plan, so I agreed. We talked about other subjects for a while, until he spoke again about the interview. He wanted me to speak of

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Hakak: Why should I not work in theatre?!

Dr. Mahmood Karimi-Hakak, actor, writer, director, and instructor of theatre, who returned from America several years ago and now lives in Iran, is said to be staging Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream in the near future. In reference to this, he remarked, “So far I have presented 12 [sic1] project proposals to The Center for Performing Arts, The Office of the City Government’s Vice President for Cultural Affairs and Artistic Domain of the Organization of Islamic Propaganda, but none has been accepted, and no justification has been given.” When asked the reasons for this official inaction, he replied, “I do not know why, but I have received neither a ‘no’ answer nor a ‘yes.’ It seems like they have all joined hands in a conspiracy of silence against me. If they accept any of my proposals I will stage either Sophocles’ Antigone or Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I have expressed to the Cen- ter for Performing Arts that all I need from them is a space to perform in; I will produce the piece myself. Therefore, if it is well-received by the audience, fine; otherwise, I will take the loss myself, and will agree to pay for any other losses as well.” Karimi-Hakak, with much experience in theatre, is determined to direct a play this year. He continues, “I believe, and always have, that theatre should pay for itself. That is why I say let the director(s)/producer(s) have the Box Office.” He adds, “The last time I went to the Center for Performing Arts, they said, ‘We have no objections to your proposals, and see no difficulties in any of them,’ but I am still waiting to hear why they do not offer a direct, decisive, and clear response. I do not understand why I should not be working [in theatre] when everyone else is allowed to do theatre?”

Translated by Mahmood Karimi-Hakak, from Farhang Va Cinema [Culture and Cinema] 8:76, May/June 1998

Note 1. This number is a misprint in the newspaper. The actual number I gave was 120. —Mahmood Karimi-Hakak

the “corrupted theatre” of the prerevolutionary epoch and praise the “puriﬁ- cation of the arts” that had taken place since the Islamic Revolution. He also wanted me to talk about how “dismayed” I felt by the “lack of moral values and disrespect for education in America.” And to say that my having “witnessed the high values of Islamic society” during my past visit in the summer of 1992 constituted the sole reason for my decision to return to Iran. I was really confused. “Where did he get these ideas from?” I asked myself. He continued, “And for your ﬁrst production you will do a Taziyeh” (a Sheii Muslim ritual performance commemorating the martyrdom in the seventh century of Mohammed’s grandson Hussein). He added, “We can provide you with an excellent budget, and let you use any theatre space you want.” He was going on too fast for me. I was not going to agree with such an interview, nor

Downloaded from http://www.mitpressjournals.org/doi/pdf/10.1162/105420403322764007 by guest on 01 October 2021 Censorship in Iran 23 would I ever submit to such demands. I had to interrupt him. I said, “But I don’t want to do a Taziyeh—” He cut me off again to say, “But you have done Taziyeh, in America, in English. I understand that it was the first presentation of Taziyeh in the United States.” He took a breath and asked, “Didn’t you do that for your MFA thesis?” “Yes, I did.” I shouted, “But that was America. I wanted the American audience to learn about this genre of theatre. Here everyone knows what Taziyeh is.” Trying not to be offensive, I continued, “Plus, if I stage a Taziyeh here, it may be interpreted as propaganda for the Islamic Republic.” In an obviously offended voice he said, “Are you saying that you do not believe in the Islamic Republic?” I tried very hard to explain that I was an artist and not a political activist. I said, “I don’t believe in using my art in the service of any political ideology, this or any other.” He did not like this. He proceeded to tell me how other artists have taken similar steps. If I wanted to work in Iran, I must first prove that I am in agreement with the ruling regime that, in his words, “is loved and respected by every individual person in this country.” This claim was in direct contrast with what I was experiencing living there. As I left his office, I knew that I was not going to be allowed to direct Gil- gamesh. I thought that I should, as he put it, “consider other plays” and “submit new proposals to the Center.” From 1993 to 1998 I petitioned the authorities to stage 124 various plays. My extensive list ranged from Sophocles to David Mamet, from tragedy to farce, from myths to contemporary plays, from comedy to developmental experiments. The list spanned theatre history. It included: Antigone, Oedipus, Lysistrata, Trojan Women, Agamemnon, Medea, Electra, The Persians, Hamlet, The Tempest, Dr. Faustus, School for Wives, Doll’s House, Enemy of the People, Peer Gynt, The Three Sisters, The Seagull, The Cherry Orchard, The Maids, The Balcony, Miss Julie, The Dance of Death, Each in His Own Way, Six Characters in Search of an Author, Measure for Measure, Mother Courage, Man Is Man, Caligula, Dirty Hands, The Respected Prostitute, The Les- son, Rhinoceros, Endgame, Waiting for Godot, Marat/Sade, Woyzeck, Long Day’s Journey into Night, Streetcar Named Desire, Death of a Salesman, Barefoot in the Park, Look Back in Anger, The Children’s Hour, Mud, Raisin in the Sun, The Is- land, Sizwe Banzi Is Dead, Fences, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, Zoo Story, and Streamers, as well as few plays based on Persian poems and myths such as the Conference of the Birds. In addition, I submitted a few original works such as Gilgamesh, Seven Stages, Little Black Fish, Survivals, Me and My Mirror, and Hanging of Mansour (about a Persian Sufi who was hanged when he achieved enlightenment and declared himself a god). It must be noted that the first 40 or so proposals were drafted as complete documents, including a synopsis of the play, the author, possible cast list, ten- tative budget, etc. Later I only sent in the title of the play and its author. To- ward the end I sent in lists of 10 or more plays at a time asking them to pick their choice. None were accepted. None were rejected. I faced a wall. It was as if I had never petitioned.

The New Administration After the election of 1997, President Mohammad Khatami named Dr. Ataollah Mahajerani as his Minister of Culture and Islamic Guidance, a position which Khatami himself held until 1992. Called the Ministry of Culture and Arts in the days of the Shah, it was renamed the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance after the Islamic Revolution of 1979. This ofﬁce determines whether intellectual and artistic activities conform to the laws, recommenda-

Downloaded from http://www.mitpressjournals.org/doi/pdf/10.1162/105420403322764007 by guest on 01 October 2021 24 Mahmood Karimi-Hakak tions, and values of Islam as interpreted by the Iranian regime. The Ministry also monitors the behavior of artists, intellectuals, and reporters; the content of theatre productions, films, books, newspapers and other publications. It issues various permits and licenses. It is customary that each new minister addresses his constituencies soon after he takes office. One evening, in September 1997, Dr. Mahajerani spoke at a gathering of theatre artists. I was invited to this gathering. Before the arrival of the Minister, it was announced, “Those who may have concerns and/or suggestions about improving the policies governing theatre, may address the Minister directly.” We were asked to sign up with the MC and were told that each individual would be given five minutes to speak. I was the third person who signed up. The Minister arrived and the ceremony began. The MC called the names of the people on the list. A dozen individuals spoke, some as long as 15 minutes, before the MC called for an intermission. My name was never called out. I was not surprised. The Minister was to address the issues in the second half of the meeting. During the break, I moved close to the Minister, who was busy speaking to Mr. S.,2 the newly appointed Director of the Center for Performing Arts. I said to a friend (in a voice audible enough for the Minister to hear), “It seems that we are in for a new kind of censorship.” My friend was not sure what I was speaking about, so I explained, “My name was the third one down on that sheet of paper yet I wasn’t called up to speak.” I felt Mr. S.’s head turning toward me. “I wonder,” I continued as I began walking away, “how many other names were left out.” A few moments later, Mr. S. approached me. Introduc- ing himself (I already knew him), he said, “You have been back and teaching theatre for a few years now. Don’t you want to be directing?” I knew that he knew the answer, but I decided to go along. “I’d love to direct, but the Center for Performing Arts won’t allow that.” He liked my response. “Well, that is all in the past.” He said proudly, “Now I run the Center.” Reminding me of his title, he bragged, “I am the Center.” Then, putting his hand on my shoulder, he continued, “Why don’t you stop by one day next week and have a cup of tea with me?” When we met a few days later, I realized that I was being pushed, however gently and indirectly, to align myself and my theatre work with this new administration and its “vision.” I did personally agree with many of President Khatemi’s ideas about the country, but for two reasons I could not allow my artistic work to be used publicly as instrument for political propaganda: (1) The personnel in the Center (and the Ministry) were such that even though the top administrators had changed, the lower offices are occupied by the same people whose judgments were still based on who-you-know not what-you-can-do. For example, the attitude in the Center’s Office of Observation and Evalua- tion was (as it had been before Khatami took office) what-is-in-it-for-me. Having lived in Iran for a few years, I had learned that it is not so important what a high official like a minister wants to have done. It is rather what the little people are willing to do in order to get something done. This means that even if the top administrator of an organization issues an order that the lower level employees do not want to see done, the order will be passed from one desk to another until it is either forgotten or until the person issuing the order changes his mind or is replaced; (2) I felt then, as I always have, that the way to educate the younger generation through theatre (and I do want my theatre to educate) is not to promote or oppose one specific political ideology, but to strengthen the ability of the audience to question their environment. I expressed to Mr. S. that as a theatre artist, I believed a work of art should not be used as political propaganda for any ruling ideology, regime, or govern-

Downloaded from http://www.mitpressjournals.org/doi/pdf/10.1162/105420403322764007 by guest on 01 October 2021 Censorship in Iran 25 ment. I said, “What I am interested in, as a theatre director, is to encourage a dialogue among differing ideas.” I tried to explain. “The fact that I, as an individual, supported Mr. Khatami’s presidential candidacy does not mean that I, as an artist, must promote his, or anyone else’s ‘vision’ for this country.” This Mr. S. could not understand. A series of meetings with Mr. S. followed. Each time we spoke of a few of the plays from the 124 previously proposed. Each time I was given an obscure reason for why I should consider another play. Meanwhile a few progressive newspapers and periodicals, including Jameah, Iran, Khabar, Abrar, Khordad, and Farhan-o-Cinema (which were issued Publication Permissions after Kha- tami took office), questioned the Center for Performing Arts about why my petitions had been ignored. (Most of these periodicals were later closed down by the conservative mullahs.) Finally, in January 1998, Mr. S. agreed to A Midsummer Night’s Dream—a play that, according to him, was, “A comedy, with little similarities to the present society of Iran.” Presenting himself as a caring friend, he declared, “There are polluted minds in this country that have nothing better to do than to find faults in an absolutely innocent production. We must choose a play that would minimize such sick interpretations.” I was to come back with a detailed proposal including the budget, cast, etc. I was extremely happy. I was approved. As I prepared to leave the meeting, Mr. S. suggested that I prepare the play for the upcoming theatre festival that was to take place early February. I felt a chill running through my spine. I thought: There simply isn’t enough time to write a proposal, translate the play (there already existed two Persian translations of this play, neither of which I liked, and Mr. S. knew that), find suitable actors, train them, and rehearse. I explained, “This is going to be my first production in this country, in my native tongue. I have waited five years and made 124 proposals. I need to do justice to myself and to those who will collaborate with me on this project.” Mr. S. did not like my argument. We agreed, however, that I would come in with a detailed proposal in February once the festival was over. He promised to try his best to accommodate me. I left the meeting thinking I would finally be given the chance to direct in my own country. But just in case, I only shared this good news with a few close friends and dedicated students. I stressed that they were not to speak of it until I had official approval in February. During that year’s theatre festival, a reporter asked Ms. T., the official spokesperson for the Center for the Performing Arts, why I didn’t have a play in the festival. She responded that I “have been given all the approvals and the permissions needed, but [I] refused to direct.” When the reporter asked the reasons for my refusal, she said, “I guess he was scared!” Ms. T. was also quoted as saying, “This man doesn’t know the first thing about theatre, how could he ever direct?” Upon reading the report, I called the Center and asked that Ms. T. explain her remarks about my directing ability. I was told that she had mis- taken me for some other individual.

The Midsummer Journey Begins In my meeting with Mr. S. in late February, I was given a verbal “go ahead.” The news traveled fast. A few of my closest students offered to help to secure the myriad of other approvals needed. We needed approvals for the script, the people who would be my collaborators and assistants, the cast, the rehearsal and performance space and time, and the budget, to name only a few. Immediately I began my own translation of the play because the existing

Downloaded from http://www.mitpressjournals.org/doi/pdf/10.1162/105420403322764007 by guest on 01 October 2021 26 Mahmood Karimi-Hakak translations were too literal, neither doing justice to Shakespeare’s poetry nor suitable for a live theatrical production. I decided to translate A Midsummer Night’s Dream into a language more relevant to the present society Iran. In this translation I employed four different kinds of spoken Persian. These styles are clearly recognizable within today’s Iranian society. For the elder royals (Theseus, Egeus...) I used a formal, mannered tongue spoken in the early part of the century. This style is recognized today as be- longing to the educated, wealthy, reputable, and respected aristocratic families of the past. After the Islamic Revolution, these families lost their wealth and their place in the society. Their only connection to their royal past is through memories and their decreasing hope for the return of the monarchy. For the lovers I used a youthful, slangy language spoken by today’s educated and liberal-minded youths. This includes the majority of young people living in the inner cities who continually defy the laws regarding male-female rela- tionships. They come from all different economic backgrounds and are most resistant to the regime. The mechanicals spoke a broken, grammatically incorrect yet elegant sounding Persian that is used today by working-class people (almost always men). These individuals served the past aristocracy. During the early days of the revolution, this group gained access to high offices for which they are not equipped. They suffer an inferiority complex in relation to the past aristocrats whose positions they now fill. They imitate the elegant language of their past masters, but due to lack of education, their words and sentences appear out of place and nonsensical. The fairies speak in verse—a mystical, lyrical language that connects the Iranian people to their ancient history. Various forms of Persian poetry are used in different scenes: Lyrical blank verse for Oberon and Titania. Rhythmic free verse, now childish, now comic, now symbolic for Puck and the other fairies. Puck uses Gazal, a specific form of lyrical poetry that is used by more traditional poets, when he addresses the audience at the end of the play. This translation was completed on 14 April 1998. An earlier prose translation was delivered in March to the Committee of Play Approval. Having heard nothing from the Committee, I went to the Center for Performing Arts on 18 April with a copy of the new translation. The head of that office, Mr. Sh., told me, “Do not worry. The play was approved.” On 24 May I received an official letter stating that my translation of the play was approved. I began preparing for rehearsals. I sketched designs, made production notes, and so on. I scheduled a production meeting with officials from the Center on 25 June to discuss the budget, the cast, and the performance space. On 25 June, as I walked to where we were to meet, I learned that the meeting was canceled. The next day I was told to reschedule it. The second meeting was scheduled for a month later. In that meeting I presented a model of the sets and full color drawings of the costumes. I also submitted, as I was required, the names of prospective cast members. The production design was approved. The production budget of approxi- mately $18,000 was approved. Everything was approved. A handwritten contract was drafted, and I was told that the official typed contract would be ready for signing the next day. For the next four weeks, every time I asked for the contract I was told by the director or by the deputy director Mr. Sh. (also the head of the Office of Observation and Evaluation, the censor) something like, “My word is the contract,” “Stop worrying and get on with your creative process,” or “Everything is and will be as we discussed in the meeting.” By mid- October there still was no contract. I worried that I might not have enough time to prepare the play by 11 February, the first day of the 1999 Theatre Fes-

Downloaded from http://www.mitpressjournals.org/doi/pdf/10.1162/105420403322764007 by guest on 01 October 2021 Censorship in Iran 27 tival. So I approached the director of the Center for the Performing Arts and complained that I had not even been able to cast because I had no contract. He explained that there was a small problem with the administrative staff. He told me, “The contract is what we have agreed on,” he said, “Cast your show. Start rehearsing.” I ignored all the bells and whistles going off in my head and decided to advertise auditions. On 23 October over 250 professional actors and actresses, and students of acting showed up for auditions. After the callbacks we selected 23 actors. The list was taken to the Center for approval and three weeks later the list was approved. However, we were not assigned a rehearsal space. Nonetheless, I decided to begin rehearsals in my mother’s living room. At the first rehearsal, I learned that the performance space that we were originally assigned had been given to another group. I contacted the Center the next day, spoke to the director, and he denied it. When I asked about the contract I received the usual answer, “Don’t worry!” On 23 November, one of my group members smuggled a copy of the other theatre director’s contract with the Center. In this contract, he was assigned Vahdat Theatre (known as the Roodaki Hall during the previous regime), the same performance space that was assigned to us. He was to produce Blood Wed- ding during the same time as our performances were scheduled. I made an ap- pointment with the director of the Center and showed him the contract. He only then admitted to the conflict. Once more presenting himself as a caring friend, he said, “What can I do? This has been ordered from above. I will try to resolve it somehow. Just give me some time. Please don’t tell the cast, continue your rehearsals and do not worry.” He strongly emphasized this last. Meanwhile, because of my students’ perseverance and various write-ups in the more progressive papers, I was invited to appear on a weekly TV show to discuss the state of theatre in Iran. The Islamic Republic TV (the main national broadcasting service) is controlled by the conservative mullahs, the group led by the Iranian supreme leader, Ayatollah Khamenaie. After Khatami took office, the IRTV argued that the new administration was not doing much for the country, so a series of talk shows was created to debate current issues. The moderates, too, seized this opportunity to present their struggle to the people. A weekly talk show dedicated a portion of its programs to debate about the state of Iranian theatre, but only those theatre people were invited to speak whose opinion was known by the authorities to be in line with the official stance. When the first few programs aired featuring theatre directors and/or teachers, a great number of Iranian youth called or wrote demanding to have the producers invite me to one of their programs. By this time over a dozen articles of mine and interviews with me had appeared in various professional and progressive publications. In almost all of these, I openly criticized the policies of the Center for Performing Arts, both prior to and since President Khatami’s election, in regards to the treatment of theatre artists, theatre productions, and theatre education. I argued that the Center for Performing Arts was enforcing policies that “reduce the artist to a beggar” thus making it easy for the authorities to bend artists into whatever shape they so desired. My point had raised a lot of eyebrows, both among the submissive artists and the oppressive policy makers. However, many of the more passionate, younger generation of theatre artists and students agreed with me. My words became a new slogan in their struggle for artistic freedom. The producers of this specific TV talk show, under the pressure from the public, contacted me to participate, along with two other theatre directors, both of whom were known for their loyalty to the Center. The program was meant to convince the public that the quality and the numbers of Iranian the-

Downloaded from http://www.mitpressjournals.org/doi/pdf/10.1162/105420403322764007 by guest on 01 October 2021 28 Mahmood Karimi-Hakak atre productions have improved since the Islamic Revolution. I was a promi- nent spokesman against such a claim. I knew that if I participated in a taped program, my words would definitely be taken out of context and their mean- ings changed at the editing table (a common strategy). I insisted on appearing only if the program would air live. After about five weeks and much time spent negotiating, the producers agreed to let me appear in a live TV debate about theatre on 24 November 1998. That night, one of the theatre directors did not show up. A filmmaker, who had just arrived from an international festival with an award for his first film, was asked to take his place. On the set, I was placed between this filmmaker and another theatre director who, I was told, was educated in the West. When he first returned to Iran in the early days of the revolution, he was forced into bankruptcy because of his opposition to the new regime’s oppressive theatrical policies. He repented and submitted to the will of the Center. He became a relatively wealthy man with numerous TV, radio, film, and stage productions to his credit. For the first 55 minutes I was not addressed even once by the moderator. Later I learned that my name never appeared on the screen and every time my face was shown it was in an extreme long shot. A few minutes before the program ended, the moderator addressed me for the very first time, apologizing that there was no time left for me to speak. He said that he “hoped I wouldn’t mind coming back again to appear on another show.” I thanked him and said, “Since you did ask if I mind...” and went on an eight-minute tirade, seizing the opportunity to speak about the present state of Iranian theatre, the absence of worthwhile theatrical education for university students, and the lack of clear policies governing the theatre. I also spoke about our production, the treatment this young group of theatre artists had received, and invited the audience to attend our production. I gave the dates and said, “Please plan to come and see our production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream” even though we were putting it on in the middle of winter. “We will perform outdoors in open air if necessary, right in front of the Vahdat Theatre, the performance space originally promised us, which is now ‘ordered from above’ to be given to another theatre group.” I also mentioned that, “although we still have no contract, no budget, and no rehearsal space, we are rehearsing in my mother’s living room.” I gave her address and invited theatre lovers to attend our rehearsals. The next day I was summoned to the office of Mr. Sh. He first chided me for my remarks on TV about the state of Iranian theatre. Then he expressed his disappointment with some newspaper write-ups that he believed “must have been printed with [my] knowledge.” He added, “There are forces that do not want you to present this play,” pointing at the director’s office, “and your behavior to go public with every small problem does not help.” I pointed out that it was the Center that was behaving inappropriately. “The Center an- nounces that I have been approved to work but I still have not been given a contract, a space to rehearse, or even permission to rehearse at my own mother’s house. I asked interested people to sit in just in case someone accused us of gathering without permission and/or decided to label us as a political group.” I smiled, “That way I would have some witnesses to the contrary.” He paused for a moment then said, “Your contract is ready. It only awaits us receiving a copy of your script, the new translation.” My assistant director, who was present at almost every meeting, reminded the deputy director that he himself had brought the new script to this office over four months ago. My assistant showed Mr. Sh. the receipt from his secretary and the approval letter from his office. Mr. Sh. looked at my assistant with disgust, glanced at the re-

Downloaded from http://www.mitpressjournals.org/doi/pdf/10.1162/105420403322764007 by guest on 01 October 2021 Censorship in Iran 29 ceipt, and said, “Oh, there must be some mistake. The secretary must have misplaced your text. We don’t have it.” My assistant then reached in his bag and pulled out a copy of the play. The deputy director promised to read it himself that night and have the contract ready for signature first thing in the morning. It may be worth mentioning that this same assistant, an educated theatre artist, later applied to direct half a dozen plays but none has been approved. In the summer of 2002, due to the extenuating circumstances of the presidential election, he was given the go ahead to perform one of his plays. This was a production that he and his group had been working on for over a year. He was allowed 45 performances. Two days after the election, however, the permission was revoked. He was allowed to perform the play only three evenings and for private audiences only. I saw all three performances and in my opinion, this play was one of the best I have ever seen on an Iranian stage since the Islamic Revolution. To get back to the narrative concerning Dream: First thing next morning I went to the Center. There was a contract, but the production budget was ap- proximately $5,000, less than one-third of what we had agreed on in our production meeting back in July. There was also no mention of a performance space. I asked for a copy so I could share its content with my group. I was told that unless I signed that contract, I would not be given a copy. Having become very familiar with the censor’s games, I could not sign such a contract without consulting my collaborators. The next couple of weeks were spent writing letters to the office of the President, the office of the Minister of Culture and Islamic Guidance, and even to the office of the Assembly of the Experts (a High Assembly whose members are chosen by the Supreme Leader, and whose most important task is to select the Supreme Leader himself). We tried different ways of gaining approval for our production. I fully intended to present this production to the public outdoors in the middle of winter, if all else failed. All the while we continued rehearsing Shakespeare sitting quietly in my living room. There was not enough room to stand and '18 ן 'mother’s 12 move. We could not be loud because the other residents in the apartment building needed to rest. Understanding our need for a rehearsal space, a former graduate student of mine, now an official working for the mayor’s office, offered us a basement space of an educational institution. This was a city-run private school where well-to-do people paid to learn various skills, such as computer operation and programming. We used this space after hours for our rehearsals. About this time President Khatami gave a series of speeches about minimiz- ing state censorship and allowing artists and intellectuals more freedom. I was ecstatic. The timing couldn’t have been more propitious. We wrote a letter directly to the President asking for a suitable theatre. We received no response. Instead, I received a call from my former student saying that we could no longer rehearse in the space he had provided. He was very apologetic. I believe he had been pressured to take back the space. We returned to my mother’s living room and kept on working. Finally, some good fortune struck on 10 January, when one of my students obtained a ticket to a private gathering where President Khatami was to deliver a speech. We thought if I attended, I might be able to personally deliver a letter to Mr. Khatami. Using the ticket I went quietly, carrying an open en- velope with a two-page letter inside it, and sat down in the front row. Unfor- tunately, Mr. Khatami did not attend. Dr. Ataollah Mahajerani, Minister of Culture and Islamic Guidance spoke in his place. I wrote a note on the enve-

Downloaded from http://www.mitpressjournals.org/doi/pdf/10.1162/105420403322764007 by guest on 01 October 2021 30 Mahmood Karimi-Hakak lope asking Dr. Mahajerani to read the letter and pass it to the President if he saw ﬁt.

Everything Changed That Day The next day I was called into the office of the director of the Center for the Performing Arts. The contract was prepared. The budget was $5,000. A performance space was assigned to us, the Azadi (Freedom Museum) Theatre. Although this was a much smaller space than the Vahdat Theatre, I signed the contract. We were given permission to move our rehearsals into Azadi starting the next week. Furthermore, the Center’s scene shop was ordered to begin building our set. As I was leaving to give the good news to my cast and crew, I heard a censor official saying to another, “If he thinks by writing to the Min- ister he can get his play presented, he better think again.” I left knowing this would not be a smooth ride. The Azadi looked like a warehouse where the leftovers of the revolution were piled up. There was no theatrical lighting, no sound system, and the theatre was filled with old sets, including an automobile from a TV game show which had been taped there. I was introduced to the director, Mr. R., a former Evin Prison Warden. Evin is a prison located in the north of Tehran where, in the early years of the revolution (and according to some accounts, even today), tens of thousands of opponents of the regime were executed. Today a large number of political prisoners such as members of the Parliament, defense at- torneys, students, liberal mullahs, and progressive journalists are jailed there. In our first meeting Mr. R., who took pride in having executed eight people with his own hands, made it very clear that he did not wanted any theatre production, especially if it required sets and lighting such as what we had in mind, in his space, because he “had promised the space to another TV game show” and had already “received the money for its use.” I tried to explain that I had been assigned this space not out of my own will or request, but because the original space promised us was given to someone else upon “orders from above.” I showed Mr. R. my contract and suggested quietly that if he had any objections he should take them up with his bosses, Mr. S. and Mr. Sh. I was as polite as possible, not wanting to be victim number nine. Our cast included a man and wife, both professional actors with many TV and screen credits to their name. Early in rehearsals, because of their acquain- tance with the Center’s directors and other government officials, this couple was selected as the group’s representatives. They were to sit in on any and all meetings making decisions and/or plans for the production’s future. By the end of the rehearsal period, I was certain that this couple was informing on us at the behest of the office of censorship of the Center for the Performing Arts. As soon as we moved into the Azadi, we noticed that this couple’s behavior changed drastically. They became apprehensive, negative, and argumentative. We realized that they frequently went in and out of the Azadi director’s office. They were also summoned to the Center regularly. A few times I asked ques- tions in this regard, but never received a clear answer. Other members of the group took issue with this couple’s attitude and behavior. Neither the cast nor I trusted them anymore. Tensions were running high. What finally led us to identify these two individuals was the fact that the Center seemed to have learned some of our plans, options that were discussed in extremely private meetings where these two, as group representatives, were present. From the time that this couple conferred with the official of the Center in private, we noticed that we were being watched more closely. The censors

Downloaded from http://www.mitpressjournals.org/doi/pdf/10.1162/105420403322764007 by guest on 01 October 2021 Censorship in Iran 31 were looking for any sign of un-Islamic behavior to use as an excuse for closing the production even before it opened. We were all very cautious and on our best possible behavior at all times. We also noticed that the Center was aware of the few alternative paths we had considered in order to avoid possible ob- stacles placed on our way. So far we had received all approvals legally needed for our production. We had also gained the support of many people, both inside and outside of the artistic arena. The Center was interested in learning about our plans for en- suring that this production would not be closed down. They wanted to find out who the influential people were that we may have contacted or may contact in the future. In short they wanted to know our game plan. In a way, we were working on two productions: the play, and our scenario for making sure we would be able to perform the play. However, all that was needed to stop us from proceeding was simply a questionable moral issue. We knew that women cast and crew were not to touch, address in a friendly manner, joke with, or even laugh with any male member of the cast and crew. They were also to remain dressed in a hejab (head and body cover) throughout the rehearsals. A few days after we moved into Azadi, a veteran actor, the only one over the age of 30, joined the aforementioned couple in adapting a negative and uncooperative attitude, trying to create warring camps within a unified ensem- ble. The strategy of divide and conquer, commonly used by the regime, was applied to the already overworked, pressured, and tired company. In several private meetings with these three actors, I pointed out that their behavior was unacceptable. I told them that if it continued I would ask them to leave. Even the contents of these meetings were not kept secret; later I heard about these discussions from a student of mine working at the Center for Performing Arts. On 18 January we were told that the presentations of Dream were scheduled to begin on 24 January. We still had no sound system or lighting. We discussed whether we should cancel the Festival presentations and wait for the public performances. But with the exception of these three actors, the group decided to go ahead with the production even without technical support. They were concerned that canceling the Festival performances would make it appear that the production was not ready. That would provide the Center with an excuse to cancel or indefinitely postpone the public performances. Early on 19 January the actors, the crew, and I worked very hard to clear the space of unwanted debris, transferred the set pieces, which weighed over 2,000 pounds, from the Center’s shop, assembled the set, and ran through the entire play making the necessary adjustments—all in one day. Throughout the day the couple was uncooperative, complaining and even harassing other company members. The older actor arrived only in time to participate in the run-through. During the run-through the couple, at times joined by the older actor, continued to insult other actors and mock the directing. They stopped the process as often as they could. Their actions drained and weakened the cast. Although the couple was playing major roles, Peter Quince and Helena, I fired them at the start of rehearsal the next day. I assigned Peter Quince to my assistant director, and hired a new actress to portray Helena. The third actor, playing Theseus, apologized for his behavior and, based on the recommenda- tion of my two assistant directors, I let him continue. He was much older than the rest of the company and appeared on the stage only at the beginning and the end of the play. On 21 January we were to have a team of observers sent by the office of Ob- servation and Evaluation look at the production. This was the first of several official and unofficial observation sessions both before and during the Festival performances and the play’s short public run. The observation team included

Downloaded from http://www.mitpressjournals.org/doi/pdf/10.1162/105420403322764007 by guest on 01 October 2021 32 Mahmood Karimi-Hakak one or two officials from the Center, each with degrees in theatre, and one or two other persons whose affiliation I did not know. After the first session the official in charge declared, “There is nothing offensive about the play, although your production style is unusual and not what is expected from Shakespeare.” He added, “Shakespeare is serious and profound. Your production is gay and playful. Youractors jump all over the stage, doing acrobatic type movements like they are birds or monkeys.” Taking a deep breath he said, “This may be OK for Western audiences, they are shallow and light-minded, but our people are Muslims. They are somber people who have suffered greatly. They have offered their fathers, sons, and brothers as martyrs for Islam. They are not going to like this play, I am sure.” Putting his hand over my shoulder, he continued in a friendly voice, “It would be best for you to have your actors move less, especially the female actors. They should remain in one place and recite the beautiful lines of this great playwright.” I decided to stay with our less profound Shakespeare. After another observation session a man I understood to be a theatre professor objected to the scene (2.2) where Helena tells Lysander, “What though he love your Hermia? Lord, what though. Hermia still loves you; then be content.” My Persian translation reads, “Because Hermia loves you, then go and be happy with her.” He suggested that this taught a bad lesson to our youth because, “One should not be happy with earthly love.” Thinking this was indeed a minor change and wanting to gain his support, I asked him what he suggested we replace the line with. He thought deeply for a moment. Then, playing with his beard, posing like a philosopher who had just discovered the answer to the most bothersome question in the universe, he said, “You may tell your female actor to tell your male actor, ‘Go marry Hermia.’ ” I could not control myself. I was going to explode with laughter. Using a sound I heard as an excuse, I ran backstage, roared with laughter, returned calm and controlled, and spoke to this theatre professor. I explained: “She is referring to Hermia, the girl whose father objected to her marriage in the first scene of the play.” Trying to sound as neutral as possible, I added, “If they could marry then we wouldn’t have a play.” He paused for a moment then said, almost angrily, “Well, all this may be alright where you come from, but in this country we do not want our youth to be infatuated with this kind of love.” We settled with changing the line to “Go be with Hermia.” A third example was when the observers objected to a gesture from Hermia toward Lysander. In the woods where Lysander tries to lay down next to Her- mia, she pushes him away. We knew that within the unwritten Islamic guide- lines of presenting plays, women and men could not touch. Therefore, I choreographed the movements so Lysander, about a foot away from Hermia, responding to a gesture from her, pushes himself away. The observer objected to this. “From where I am sitting it seemed like Hermia touched Lysander.” Before I got a chance to respond, he added, “Yes I know they did not touch, but people may think they touched, and you know we can’t have that.” I nearly lost my temper. “But sir,” I said, “the art of theatre is the art of make- believe. No matter how far away from one another I place these two, from some angle it will look like they are touching.” He was not convinced. I pointed out that, “Right now, as we speak, there is a production of Richard III in which the Duke of Gloucester clearly touches Lady Anne’s hand to remove the ring.” My anger was beginning to show. “Why is it OK for that director’s actors to touch but it is not OK for these two?” The official spoke, perhaps without giving much thought to what he was saying. “I don’t know. I have not seen that play. What I do know is that he [the other director] has proven himself to be a believer. We know that he says his prayers, he fasts, and is a good

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2. Leila Davari-Zand as Hermia and Afshin Katan- Muslim.” With a touch of ridicule in his voice, he continued, “He has di- chi as Lysander in A Mid- rected many other plays in this country before this one, and people trust him.” summer Night’s Dream, I was really angry now. “So it is me, isn’t it? Why don’t you just come right directed by Mahmood out with it? It is because I refused to pretend that I agree with the governing Karimi-Hakak, at the ideology, because I refused to direct the kind of plays you wanted me to direct, Azadi Theatre, February isn’t it?” My assistant directors (the most wonderful young artists I have ever 1999. Censors objected to a worked with) interfered, taking me backstage. They then served tea and sweets gesture Hermia made to- to the observers, cited the immense pressures that I had been under as an ex- ward Lysander because, cuse, apologized for my behavior, and promised to increase the distance be- from where they were sit- tween the two actors. ting, it might appear as if On 24 January 1999 the play opened to a house of 50 percent over the ca- she was touching him. pacity of 400. Without adequate lighting or sound equipment, I plugged in a (Courtesy of Mahak Inter- lighting instrument, held it on my shoulder, and followed the action from the national Artists Inc.) last row of the audience. Finally, for our third Festival performance we secured some basic lighting equipment, built a few dimmers ourselves, and rented a 3. Kiarash Anvari as secondhand sound system. For all six scheduled Festival performances we Oberon. (Courtesy of Ma- played to a standing room only crowd. Despite how well things seemed to be hak International Artists going, every day was a new struggle. For example, although nothing was hap- Inc.) pening in that space before or after our performances, we were not allowed in until an hour before curtain and had to get out right after the performance was over. We did not have enough time to warm up or to clean off our makeup completely. The most positive development, however, was that both Mr. S., the director of the Center for the Performing Arts, and Mr. Sh., the head censor, actually saw a performance and said that they found nothing wrong with the play or

Downloaded from http://www.mitpressjournals.org/doi/pdf/10.1162/105420403322764007 by guest on 01 October 2021 34 Mahmood Karimi-Hakak the production. Hearing this, we thought the production might actually run its course. Mr. Sh. was promoted to the position of Head of the Center for the Performing Arts a few weeks after our production was closed down. The contract called for 45 public performances to follow immediately after the six Festival presentations. The curtain time for the public performances was 7:00 p.m. However, before the Festival run, Mr. R. told us that we would have to change our curtain time to 4:30 p.m. He said, “The space was assigned to a music group for their performances.” This meant that we had to move our entire 2000 lb. set each night in less than 40 minutes to allow the music people to set up and begin their show at 8:00. We accepted the challenge. Our public performances were scheduled to begin on Friday 29 January 1999. On 28 January Mr. R. informed us that our scheduled performances had been postponed until the music performances ended on 18 February. “This is because,” he said, “we really don’t want you all to go through the trouble of a strike and set up night after night.” Taking a short pause, with a fatherly smile, the ex-prison warden turned Freedom Museum director added, “We like your group. You are wonderful, hard-working young people and we want you to enjoy the fruits of your creativity more fully.” That night we struck the set and left. We were not allowed into the space again until Thursday 18 February. Ex- pecting a large invited audience the next day, we began assembling our sets right after the music performance ended at 10:30 p.m. At first Mr. R. wanted us to stop. But when we told him 500 people were invited to see our play the next day, and that he surely didn’t want us to cancel just because we hadn’t been allowed in the theatre, he agreed to let us work all through the night on the condition that we pay his guards to stay and keep a close watch on us. In Tehran a theatre production usually opens on a Sunday or a Monday and runs through Friday. Saturdays and sometimes Sundays are dark nights. It is also customary to have an invited audience on the second or third Friday,once all the kinks have been worked out. We had a feeling, because of all the problems up to this point that we would not be allowed more than a few performances before the production would be closed down. I wanted my colleagues to see our Dream, so we invited the critics and other theatre artists for the first preview, Friday 19 February. We announced the decision, as we were required to do so, to the Center for the Performing Arts. To my surprise they did not object. They only had one condition: We had to have the play ready, again, for observation and approval by two o’clock Friday afternoon, even though we had already performed six times in the Festival before a total of more than 2,500 people. Furthermore, the censors had seen it numerous times, and approved it. At 2:00 p.m. Friday afternoon, the observers saw the production and, aside from a few petty comments, the play was approved once again. Even though we put in the request for Performance Permission days in ad- vance, we were told that it would be delivered to us upon approval of the observation team on Friday afternoon. “But,” it was explained to us, “because Friday [the Muslim Sabbath] is the weekend, the Center could not hand us an official letter of approval until Saturday.” That meant I had to take full responsibility for what ever may happen during Friday’s performance. I agreed. After the Friday performance, I asked over 650 audience members to stay and join in a discussion. Most people stayed. The discussion had gone on for well over an hour before the chief security guard at the Museum (a man dressed in civilian clothes, called “Colonel”) interrupted the session and asked the audience to leave. It was 11:00 p.m. and he cited the late hour as the reason for ending the discussion. During that entire discussion, which we videotaped, we heard nothing but praise.

Downloaded from http://www.mitpressjournals.org/doi/pdf/10.1162/105420403322764007 by guest on 01 October 2021 Censorship in Iran 35 Having secured all of the necessary preapprovals and after rave reviews from the critics and positive feedback from theatre professionals and the audience, we finally began to feel like the last hurdle had been cleared. Our first official public performance was scheduled for 21 February 1999. On Saturday morning, 20 February, I received from the Center for Per- forming Arts the Performance Permission, a letter approving 45 public performances. I immediately phoned Mr. R. letting him know that the Performance Permission had been issued. I even took the precaution of faxing a copy of the approval letter to him. With help from my dedicated students and some actors, I put up posters all around the city. In the evening we headed out to the theatre to finish the last touch up on the set. The actors thought they could finally relax and enjoy the run of 45 performances. When we arrived at the theatre that evening, although the Colonel ac- knowledged receiving our fax, we were not allowed to enter the theatre. That was because Mr. R. was not there to inspect our approval letter personally.We had to threaten to call the office of Dr. Mahajerani, and also inform newspaper reporters of our situation, before we were allowed in. That night, we worked on the sets, adjusted the lights, and had a dress rehearsal without incident. On the morning of Sunday 21 February, I went to the Center to get permission to videotape the performance. I wanted to have a record of the production in case it did not enjoy its full run. Mr. Sh., the head censor, gave his approval. He pointed out that we only needed to obtain another permit “if we decided to use this videotape commercially or have a public presentation of the production on tape.” He even jokingly suggested that I was developing paranoia as a result of the show’s “minor setbacks.” For a brief moment he almost convinced me that I was acting in a paranoid manner. He even let me call from his office to ask three friends to bring video cameras, and a photographer friend to shoot stills. We arrived at the theatre at four o’clock for the six o’clock performance. We were not allowed in. We were told that the order “came from above” that we “would be allowed inside the building only one hour before curtain.” We waited patiently. The performance began as scheduled at 6:00. About fifteen minutes later the Colonel rushed into the house, distracting the actors and the audience, ordering the cameramen and photographer to stop. As politely as I could, I led him outside the performance hall. I told him about my meeting with the deputy director of the Center and showed him the performance approval sheet. I argued that we had every right to tape our own production. He rejected my argument. When I suggested that he might contact his superiors if he did not believe me, he responded belligerently, “In here I rule and what I say goes.” Desperate and frustrated, I used a different tactic. I told him that if he insisted that the taping and photography be stopped, it might incite some kind of violence either from the cameramen, the actors, or the audience, many of whom were aware of the tensions surrounding this play. I asked him to put in writing that he would take full responsibility for what might happen. He decided not to stop the camera people only on the condition that when the performance was over and the audience gone, we would seal the videotapes and the exposed film, put them in his safe, and let the officials at the Center for the Performing Arts, and/or the Ministry of Islamic Guidance decide their fate the next day. At the crack of dawn on Monday, I received a phone call from the Colonel. He ranted that the tapes were blank and the photographic negatives were pornographic. He threatened to imprison me for promoting pornography.I drove to the Center immediately, and sat behind Mr. Sh.’s office until he arrived at

Downloaded from http://www.mitpressjournals.org/doi/pdf/10.1162/105420403322764007 by guest on 01 October 2021 36 Mahmood Karimi-Hakak about 9:00. I explained the situation and was told that neither the tapes nor the film had been delivered there. No one knew anything. When the Director of Center for Performing Arts arrived at his post some 45 minutes later, I explained the situation to him as well. The head of the Center and the deputy director, as usual, told me not to worry. Months later, as my family and I were leaving Iran, I learned what really happened. When the Colonel demanded the tapes, some people who were much more familiar with the system than I was, replaced the real tapes with blank ones. They then quickly smuggled the real tapes out of the theatre and hid them in a safe place. They apparently knew that these tapes would be care- fully scrutinized for questionable images or words that could be used as an excuse to cancel the play’s production. They were positive, based on their experiences having lived within that society all their lives, that if the tapes were in the hands of the censor, somebody would try to find some ridiculous thing wrong with the production, because of which I would be questioned, prosecuted, and probably tortured. They could not rescue the photographic negatives, however. These pictures were shot on 1600 ASA film, but the Colo- nel, in his rush to use this as evidence against us, developed the film in a regular lab as 100 ASA film. The pictures were ruined. That evening, Monday 22 February, at about 5:30 there were over 350 people waiting outside the theatre at the box office, but no one was selling any tickets. I soon learned that none of the bookstores or ticket offices throughout the city had tickets for the show that day because they were told that A Mid- summer Night’s Dream had been canceled. The museum box office was shut down. I called the Center to find out why the tickets had not been distributed to the various ticket offices around the city. Mr. Sh. was utterly “sorry.” He assured us that “there must have been a mistake. It will be taken care of first thing in the morning.” That, however, would not help us tonight. I asked the museum director why the Freedom Museum’s box office could not sell tickets. He told me, “The box office manager has locked the keys inside by mistake.” And because it was government property we “could not break the window and liberate the tickets.” The crowd was getting larger and larger. One of my production managers had a solution. He had picked up 400 undated tickets early that day to distribute among the cast and crew (each company member was given four undated complimentary tickets, and most wanted to purchase more tickets for their friends and family). He had not yet distributed these tickets. We could date and sell them to the assembled audience. Mr. R. did not look happy. Finally, demanding to supervise the sale himself and keep the money in the museum safe, he agreed. The show went on. On Tuesday night it was de´ja` vu all over again. I arrived at the museum only to see that a crowd was waiting to get in, this time with tickets in their hands. When I entered the theatre to find out why no one was letting the audience in, I saw an official from the Center’s office of censorship sitting in the Colonel’s office. This was one of the officials with a theatre degree who had already seen the play at least four times and had approved it. Now he was the one refusing to let the audience in. When I asked why, he said someone had complained that the show was pornographic and consequently must be reevaluated. After reminding him of the numerous times that he himself had seen the production, I asked him to sit in the audience one more time and judge for himself. Irritated, he replied, “Allowing an audience to come in tonight is out of question.” He added, “This play must be seen by other experts.” “Who are these people?” I asked. He assured me that these new observers were individuals with knowledge of theatre as well as of religious conduct, and that their presence was requested by the Center. Then he asked me to go out and tell the audience that tonight’s performance had been canceled because of “technical difficulties.”

Downloaded from http://www.mitpressjournals.org/doi/pdf/10.1162/105420403322764007 by guest on 01 October 2021 Censorship in Iran 37 We walked out together to face the crowd. I said nothing. In the face of my silence, he shouted, “Due to various technical difficulties tonight’s performance is canceled.” Some members of the restive audience, by now aware through word of mouth about the countless attempts to close down this Dream, shouted back, “If the director himself tells us that he has technical difficulties tonight we will leave. Otherwise we are here to see a show for which a Perfor- mance Permission has been issued.” Impatiently, the censor told me to tell everyone that we had technical problems. I turned to him and whispered loudly, so that some audience members could hear, that under the Islamic code of conduct I could not lie. Then I faced the audience and spoke even louder. “This gentleman is from the Office of Observation and Evaluation of theatre activities. He believes that we have technical problems.” Almost in unison the people booed. I was pushed back inside the theatre by the museum guards (the Colonel’s men) and told to stay there and be quiet. I later learned that the audience remained for over an hour until the museum police and the Revolu- tionary Guard dispersed them. Some of the audience members were arrested for disorderly conduct. When I was pushed back into the theatre that evening, I called a high- ranking clergyman, whom I knew would be sympathetic to our cause. I had met him for the first time during the screening of my film, The Common Plight, in 1995. We spoke several times since then, shared ideas, discussed the arts, and even team-taught a series of courses on the American cinema of the 1990s. (This intelligent and moderate mullah was imprisoned and defrocked in 2001.) I called him on a cell phone, explained the situation (he was familiar with our struggle; had read the papers and spoken to our mutual friends), and I received his agreement to help. I then assigned one member of the production team to bring him to the theatre immediately. That night in an eerily empty theatre we performed before the censor and one other official from the Center (both of whom were promoted to higher offices immediately after Dream was closed down), the Colonel, a few army and revolutionary guard officers, and this high-ranking mullah. It was obvious that his presence among the censors was not welcomed. He was by far the most educated, and held the highest religious rank among them all. At the end of the night, aside from one point in the production when Hermia’s hand may have been still too close to Lysander’s face (about 15" apart) and some specta- tors might have mistakenly thought that she touched him, nothing irregular or anti-Islamic was found in the production. That minor problem, too, was rem- edied immediately. I thought our worst problems might be over, but my mullah friend was not so optimistic. Privately he warned me against having high hopes. “You don’t know these people,” he said, “and I don’t know what you have done,” looking at me curiously, “or, rather, what you have not done, but they seem determined to close your show.” Then he sighed and said quietly, “I pray that canceling the production will be the end of your problems.” The next night, Wednesday 24 February 1999, A Midsummer Night’s Dream was closed down.

The Night the Dream Was Closed Down When we arrived at the theatre that evening, there was an unusual amount of activity inside. A few of the Museum employees who, having witnessed our struggle, had become our friends, supporting, however privately, our cause, whispered words of caution as they passed by. “Be careful tonight,” one said to me. Another whispered, “Don’t do anything irrational.” Yet a third said, “This is not the end of the world, don’t take it hard.” Another murmured, “The play can go on without you tonight. Go home and stay with your fam-

Downloaded from http://www.mitpressjournals.org/doi/pdf/10.1162/105420403322764007 by guest on 01 October 2021 38 Mahmood Karimi-Hakak ily.” I reminded this last person that this was my family. “After all,” I said, “my wife is in the cast,” and went about my business. The audience was let in. Among them were a group of young bearded men whose appearance suggested they might be members of the Revolutionary Guard. I now realized what the warnings were about. The Colonel and the museum director who were always present at our performances were nowhere to be found. A museum employee told me to be extremely careful because one of the revolutionary ruffians might pick a fight. I thanked him for his concern and assured him that I would never be party to such a fight. I saw the bearded men spreading themselves among the audience. I alerted the lighting crew to remove the glass window from the booth and pay close attention to the house, and to bring up the house lights if they heard any unusual noises. I also counseled the actors to be on alert. As the play began, I approached two young men standing in the lobby who seemed to be leaders of the gang. Introducing myself, I bluntly asked them if they were there to kill anyone. I said, “I know you do not like this play, and obviously have not come to see the production. And I know you are here to stop this performance, but what I do not know is who sent you and whether you have orders to kill.” I was extremely polite and smiling the whole time. They said they were the representatives of the “Last Imam.” (In Shiya Islam,

Saboteurs Stopped the Performance of a Play

Thirty minutes into the performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, the play was stopped by sabotage from a group of intruders. This play, written by William Shakespeare and directed by Mahmood Karimi-Hakak, has already been in performance at the Azadi (Freedom) Arts Complex. In an interview with Zan [Woman’s] Daily, one of the group members told our reporter, “It wasn’t long after we had begun the performance that suddenly a few unknown individuals clamored, shouted, and made a loud commotion in order to obstruct the continuation of the performance. “There was disturbance in the theatre and there was tumult among the audience, and the actors were forced to leave the stage. But at this point Karimi-Hakak appeared on the stage. While asking the audience to keep calm and avoid creating more commotion, he invited the individual saboteurs to come onstage and have a dialogue in the presence of the audience instead of shouting, cursing, and making clamor. “Finally Karimi-Hakak and those few strangers went to another room and talked, and we didn’t know what words they exchanged. “However, the performance did not continue and after some two hours of waiting the audience began slowly leaving the theatre.” Meanwhile it is said that Karimi-Hakak has gone to the Center for Performing Arts to ﬁle an ofﬁcial complaint and to pursue the matter further. According to the most recent information, the discussions are still continuing and for now this play will not be performed.

Translated by Mahmood Karimi-Hakak, from Zan Daily Newspaper 1:155, 25 February 1999

Downloaded from http://www.mitpressjournals.org/doi/pdf/10.1162/105420403322764007 by guest on 01 October 2021 Censorship in Iran 39 the “Last Imam” is the 12th successor to Prophet Mohammed, who, as a child, fell into a well. It is believed that he will return to save the world.) When I asked if the Last Imam himself had sent them, one of them asked me if I knew who this country belonged to. I said in the most obvious manner, “Anyone who holds an Iranian birth certiﬁcate.” He repeated the question adding, “I am talking about the REAL owner of this land.” Adding the word REAL I repeated my previous response. With an intention to enlighten me, he replied, “The one who owns this country and its people is the Last Imam.” Looking at me directly, making sure that I was listening, he continued, “And in his absence, this country and everything in it, including the people, are owned by his designated representative on this earth, the Velayat-e Faghih [The Supreme Leader of Islamic Republic of Iran].” Before I had a chance to respond, we heard shouting and cursing inside the theatre. As I rushed inside I heard members of the Revolutionary Guards cursing the actors. “Get off the stage you whores!” And to the audience they shouted, “This play is closed! Everybody go home!” Their intervention inadvertently resulted in a bit of irony that suited both Shakespeare’s comedy and the actual situation. The break up of the production took place during act 2, scene 2. Titania calls to the Fairies, “Come, now a roundel and a fairy song.” She ends her speech demanding, “Sing me now to asleep.” On the stage, the fairies began to chant a melody composed in a gibberish fairy language. As they chanted, a Revolutionary Guard stood up in the audience and shouted, “Enough! Stop this nonsense instantly and leave the stage!” A fairy sang, “You spotted snakes with double tongue, thorny hedge- hogs, be not seen.” Another bearded man shouted, “You heard him! You in-

4. This article, translated on facing page, shows the cover of the program for A Mid- summer Night’s Dream. (Courtesy of Mahmood Karimi-Hakak)

Downloaded from http://www.mitpressjournals.org/doi/pdf/10.1162/105420403322764007 by guest on 01 October 2021 40 Mahmood Karimi-Hakak fidel creatures get off the stage!” Another fairy spoke, “Newts and blind worms, do no wrong. Come not near our Fairy Queen.” Up to this moment the audience thought it was all a part of the production. They believed the artistic team had planted these individuals in the audience. Everyone seemed to enjoy the interaction. Then a third angry Revolutionary Guard dressed in black stood up and screamed, “Get off the stage you whores, you shameful whores get off this blasphemous stage!” The audience now realized that this was not a part of the play. The actress, however, continued, “Beetles, black, approach not near. Worms nor snail, do no offence.” A fourth bearded man, followed by three others, rushed toward the stage to beat the actress as he shouted, “Get off you bastard whore!” Another screamed, “This is not a theatre! This is a whorehouse!” A few younger members of the audience blocked their way. The lighting operator brought up the house lights. The chanting stopped. The brave young actress shouted, “I will not leave this stage unless my director says so.” The audience, however, somewhat accustomed to this kind of event, re- acted in various ways. Some screamed, some sighed, and some even cried. There were also some who yelled out, “We have so far liked what we have seen and want to see the rest!” Some younger members of the audience even ven- tured to say to Revolutionary Guards, “If you don’t like the play you can leave!” Needless to say, the bearded men did not leave. Instead, they ordered the crowd to leave the theatre. In an unprecedented act of defiance, the audience remained seated. I feared that at any moment this comedy would turn into a violent attack against the actors, the audience, and myself. I rushed on the stage, asked the actors to leave, and begged the audience to be patient. The house became quiet for a moment. I shouted, trying to be calm and firm, “These gentlemen have as much right to want to close our show as we have to want to perform it.” I quickly continued, “Luckily we live during the presidency of a man who prides himself on being a promoter of dialogue, even among various nations.” I paused for a moment then added, “We are in a theatre and theatre is an art based on dialogue. So why don’t we stop this performance now and ask these gentlemen to come on the stage and tell us why they want to close this play?” The Revolutionary Guards were baffled. They certainly did not expect this. As I suspected, they did not agree to speak their reasons. For the next two hours the Revolutionary Guards, the same official from the Censor’s office who canceled the performance the night before, the Colo- nel, and Mr. R., the museum director (all of whom suddenly appeared as if on cue), discussed behind closed doors the fate of the play. I was allowed into the room only for five minutes to say what I planned to do next. I had no response. For the entire two hours the audience sat patiently in the theatre. This in itself was a kind of silent protest unprecedented in the Islamic Republic. Two hours and ten minutes later, the Revolutionary Guards left. The censor addressed the audience. “The actors are too stressed out to...” He could not continue because the cast and crew shouted in unison, “We are not tired! We would love to perform for this wonderful audience!” Throwing a hateful look my direction, the censor changed his tactic. “There are older people in this audience and it is getting late and they are tired.” A woman visibly in her last weeks of pregnancy stood up with obvious difficulty. “No one could be as tired as I am. And I am not tired of sitting here. What I am tired of are your lies and decep- tions.” The audience cheered. Taking a deep breath she added, “I am tired of people like you thinking that every one in this country is stupid. Why don’t you come right out and say that you are censoring this play because they haven’t paid you off.” The crowd cheered so loud that I knew their voices would be heard blocks away. The cast cried, a few museum employees cried, and I cried.

Downloaded from http://www.mitpressjournals.org/doi/pdf/10.1162/105420403322764007 by guest on 01 October 2021 Censorship in Iran 41

5. At the start of Act III, the Mechanicals sing a pop- ular Persian folk song that tells of a lover who desires a glass of wine—strictly for- bidden under the Islamic regime. Bottom gets carried away and utters the word “wine” out loud. Worried that there might be spies in the audience, the others try to cover up for him; Snug gestures that he could be hanged for expressing such desires. From left: Said Nori, Mohammad Reza Barghi, Kayvan Asgari, Yamin Atashi, and Naim Bakhtiari. (Courtesy of Mahak International Artists Inc.)

We insisted on showing our gratitude for this most supportive audience by performing the rest of the play, even if it would be the last thing we do. The censors, backed by the Colonel and his men, rejected this. Tensionswere high. I tried to respect the will of the group and of the audience while making sure that no one got hurt. It was tough. Finally, we settled on performing the last scene of the play. We began from Puck’s speech, “Now the hungry lion roars...” This monologue included such controversial lines as, “Now it is the time of night, that the graves, all gaping wide, everyone lets forth his sprite, in the church-way paths [translated as the paths-to-the-mosque] to glide.” I have never seen, nor heard, nor read a comedy performed so tearfully, so tragically, under the razor of censorship, unifying the stage and the audience to the degree I witnessed that night in the Freedom Museum. Once the play was over, no one left. Every single audience member waited for us to clean off our makeup as they wiped away their tears. We were all es-

Downloaded from http://www.mitpressjournals.org/doi/pdf/10.1162/105420403322764007 by guest on 01 October 2021 42 Mahmood Karimi-Hakak corted by this faithful audience, under the watchful eyes of the Colonel’s men and the police, to each of our homes. A Midsummer Night’s Dream was closed permanently that night, but my midwinter nightmare was just beginning. Once the play closed, I went to the Center for the Performing Arts to investigate the real reasons for canceling the play. I was told that it was an unfortunate circumstance that would be reme- died soon. I was promised that Dream would reopen, “As soon as the other production at Vahdat Theatre finishes its run, in less than 10 days.” I was told that the blame lay entirely on Mr. R. “What would a prison warden turned museum director know about art anyway?” I was asked. Again, it was suggested that I be patient, and not worry myself over this “small incident.” “You should not have performed in that space in the first place,” the deputy director said. “And now, you will be given the opportunity to present your production in a place suitable to its genre, and for more than the usual 45 performances too.” The head censor then asked me to, “Stay away from reporters for the time being. You know how they always want to make a mountain out of a molehill.” However, during the first 48 hours since closing, in over a half- dozen write-ups, reporters had already questioned the Center and its directors about the reasons for closing Dream. The Center’s responses varied from “lack of audience interest” to “the director’s inability to secure a Performance Per- mit” to “the company dissolved over financial issues.”

Arrest, Interrogation, Threats, and Exile A few days later, I was served an official paper “inviting” me to go, the next day, to the “Komite” (unofficial police stations operated by the Ansar-e Hez- bol-lah [friends of the Party of God]) for questioning. I called the director of the Center, Mr. S. and told him of this “invitation.” He suggested that I ignore the letter altogether. He said that I “shouldn’t worry” and that he “will take care of it.” I didn’t worry and stayed home. Two days later, I received a second “invitation.” Again I called and again I was given the same answer. Again I ignored the “invitation.” Three days later as I was reading the daily newspapers, two young bearded men, this time in uniform, knocked at my door. Upon opening the door I was given an official summons from the Court of Islamic Guidance. They first had me sign the receipt personally and then assured me that if I did not appear before the judge on the date shown, 5 March, they would come back and take me there handcuffed. This time I consulted a lawyer friend of mine as well as the Center for Per- forming Arts. My friend, who was familiar with the situation from the beginning, thought that this may be an inside collaboration between the Center and the Court. He thought that they needed to find a way to legitimize closing the show. He explained, “They do not have any legal ground against this production. They have seen it, observed it, and given Performance Permission to it.” He continued, “Now they need to find something wrong with you, so they may justify closing the play.” He then added, “Remember, you have defied the unwritten, widely practiced order of things here.” He was right, I had neither published an article condemning the prerevolutionary theatre and prais- ing the purification of the revolutionary theatre, nor had I submitted to presenting a production in support of the ideology of the regime. My lawyer friend then advised me to call the Center and say that because the Center, which is the official producer of this play and the one that issued its Perfor- mance Permission, did not seem to be able to stop this nonsense, I would take this matter in my own hands and ask those newspaper reporters who had so far been questioning the legitimacy of this action to accompany me to the court on the designated date.

Downloaded from http://www.mitpressjournals.org/doi/pdf/10.1162/105420403322764007 by guest on 01 October 2021 Censorship in Iran 43 I did exactly as he had advised. The night before I was to go to court, I received a phone call from the Center telling me that there was no need to call anyone; somebody from the Center would accompany me to the court the next day. I immediately informed my friends of this development and they decided to form a few quiet but visibly present groups just in case. Some stayed at my home keeping my wife and children company. Some gathered at my mother’s apartment (where we had rehearsed and which was now used as my office). Another much larger group gathered around the Court building. In this group no two people stayed together, no female individual spoke, touched, or even glanced at a male individual. They were just there, walking, smoking (men only, women are not allowed to smoke in public), reading or keeping busy doing mundane activities. These supporters were just there, present. On the fifth floor I was kept outside in the corridors for hours. Every once in a while someone would ask my name and then shake his head as if telling me that I was in big trouble. From adjoining rooms, I could hear young men crying while asking for mercy. I could hear young women screaming. I clearly recall the shaking voice of a young woman who was crying out loud and un- controllably: “You have done with me whatever your heart desired, what more can I do for you? You arrested me because I was speaking with a guy in the streets, we weren’t touching, we weren’t kissing. You have kept me in the Komite for three nights. You have done to me anything and everything you wished, things that I can’t even speak about with anyone, and all because I spoke to a guy in the street. What more do you want? Tell me and I’ll do it, but please, for God’s sake, if you believe in God, please let me go!” She broke into tears, “Or at least let me speak with my parents. Let me at least tell them that I am alive. They don’t even know where I am. Please. My father will have a heart attack, PLEASE!” And the crying continued. I can never forget her voice, or her face. She was escorted out of the room a few minutes later. She was hardly 18. She must have been strikingly beautiful, but under the present circumstances her eyes were inflamed, her skin broken and dry, and her body trembling. I looked at her and for a brief moment our eyes met. It was as if she was begging my help. I wanted to reach out to her. But I did not move. It was as if my feet were nailed to the ground. I wanted to speak but no sound came out of my mouth. I was frozen. She was taken away and I watched. I did not do anything. I didn’t even console her. I could have asked for a number to call her parents. I could have asked for her name and tried to find her family, but I did nothing. Later I tried to find some information about her, but did not succeed. To this day, I often wonder what happened to her. I was still standing when the police officer, with my file under his arm, gently led me into the room. The judge, a man only referred to as Haji Agha (a person who has made pilgrimage to Mecca), asked me if I knew what I was accused of. I didn’t. He explained that I was accused of the crime of “Raping the Public’s Innocence” (tajavoz be effate oumoomi, lit. “outrage against the public decorum”). I laughed. I sincerely thought he was joking. He didn’t like my laugh. In a bitter, serious tone of voice he asked me to explain why I laughed. I thought he honestly wanted to know, so I explained: “How does one ‘rape’ the innocence of a public?” and, “What on earth defines a public’s innocence?” At this point, the man representing the Center, who had accompanied me, intervened by bringing to the judge’s attention that I “may not understand the meaning of the phrase since [I] have been away for many years and had recently returned with the intention of helping the revolution.” I objected by saying that I had not “recently” returned to Iran. I had been living in “my country” for a few years already. Wanting to set the record straight, I added “And it is not the intention of this production or any of my artwork to

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The Empty Half, The Full Half Arash Khoshkho

The event that occurred during the performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream is among those events that are not so strange, considering the problems surrounding the arts in our time. In a short search through our recent memory we recall similar events in connection with the films Adam Barfi [The Snow Man], Khodayan Doshanbeha Mikhandand [Gods Laugh on Mondays], as well as Western music and guitar concerts, etc. However, this specific event could be looked at from two angles: the empty half, and the full half. I would like to review the full half first: It is laudable that the art of this land and its indeterminate flow—in a constant struggle with political issues, political wings, party lines, and ideological groupings—still remains alive and influential. It is only nat- ural that our art today, reflecting the opposing tendencies that exist within the society, produces various reactions, protests, and even at times serious quarrels. All art pieces that are facing objections—regard- less of to what extreme artists go to present their view—are indicative of the wishes of various groups and artists who would like to practice their right to communicate with their audience within existing and per- mitted boundaries. This turbulence is no more than the sign that art is alive... But the empty half in this struggle is the lack of safety and protection for the artists. Those contemporary artists who, with very little financial stability and next to no support, create a work of art, and then, with much effort and struggle, pass through the labyrinths of numerous permissions and observations [censors] from governmental officials, only to still find themselves defenseless in the face of opposing groups who, in order to present their disapproval, know no other means than to resort to violence. [Take the case of ] that young female actor who, during her first performance experience, standing in the middle of the stage, is faced with a deluge of curses and abuses. Would there be a trace of self-confidence left in her? Could there be any hope in her future as an artist or are we to expect an indecisive, feckless, and fearful creature with an ever- present barrier of ifs, what ifs, and maybes in the path of her unrealized creativity? If we desire to have a warm and living art with the blood of today running in its veins, we must learn that in order to express our disapproval and opposition—even the harshest of objections—there are ways other than swearing and coarseness. From logical criticism all the way to sit-ins! In a civil society, methods of protest do exist, and thus there is no need for abuse.

Translated by Mahmood Karimi-Hakak, from Zan Daily Newspaper 1:158, 29 February 1999

Downloaded from http://www.mitpressjournals.org/doi/pdf/10.1162/105420403322764007 by guest on 01 October 2021 Censorship in Iran 45 help...” The man cut me off sharply “but this is your ﬁrst time in court, right?” He said, “You have never been asked to appear in a court here, have you?” He was right I had not. The judge then asked me if I knew what my punishment would be. I didn’t. He informed me that the sentence could carry one, two, or all three of the following: One-year imprisonment, a six million Rials (ap- proximately $1,000) ﬁne, and/or 80 lashes. Then, he added, “Since you are an educated man, an artist, and we do value arts and artists, and since you have returned from abroad to live and work here, to help the cause of the Islamic Revolution I will sentence you to only one of the above.” I wasn’t sure as to what my “crime” was, and he was already giving me a sentence! I was really confused. This didn’t sound right. I laughed again, a nervous laugh perhaps, and said, half jokingly, “Sir, Haji Agha, could I choose one myself ?” A little surprised, perhaps thinking that this case would be settled easily, he said hur- riedly, “Yes, yes, which one do you want?” I said quite calmly, “May I take the 80 lashes, please?” For a few moments there was a deadly silence in the room. After what seemed like hours, with a heavy voice he said, “You want to be whipped?” I suddenly felt alive. It was as if the spirit of that young girl had just entered my body. I remembered her eyes. There was an anger deep in her eyes that I had never witnessed before. She was not pleading for mercy, I thought, she was disgusted with these people. She was not submitting to their will. She was resisting, rebelling against their will. I felt her standing right beside me. She was holding my hand, keeping my head up and my chin straight. With a hateful, yet calm and calculated voice, that I never knew I possessed, I cried out, “I am a theatre director, I have seen plenty of plays in my life, but I have never witnessed such a farce as this.” There was no stopping me now. I continued, “Who do you think you are fooling, Haji Agha? Am I the one who rapes this public’s innocence or are those who hunt beautiful women, like the girl who was here right before me, to satisfy their ever-increasing lust? Is the Free- dom Museum, where Shakespeare’s play was staged, a place in which the purity of this God-fearing society is spoiled, or are the jail cells, where these self-righteous soldiers of God (pointing to the young bearded man in uniform) force a temporary marriage upon the virgin girls at the night of their execution, raping them, because some religious laws forbid execution of a virgin? Yes your honor, I want to be whipped. I want to be awakened to the present realities of my country, where I decidedly chose to live and work. Give me the 80 lashes, please, give me even more, because if and when I leave this society, I would like to have something to show the world since I have nothing else in my portfolio for the time that I spent here. Because I am now certain that they (pointing to the man from The Center for the Performing Arts) will not allow me to do a play in my own homeland, in my native tongue, until I pretend to show my brotherly alliance to their political ideology, or decide to contribute to their wealth. Yes sir, whip me, hard and good, so I, as an artist, can at least feel a fraction of what other people, women, students, educators, and artists face in their day-to-day life in this society.” I thought I could speak forever, and wanted to, but before I began my next sentence, I was pushed out of the room. I waited for what seemed to be hours outside in the corridors, while the uniformed people, the un-uniformed member of the Ansar, and the representative from the Center conferred inside the courtroom. Meanwhile I could hear, again, the cries of people pleading for mercy from the other rooms. After an hour or two, I was taken inside again. This time the judge did not even look at me. He said, “You are lucky, your friend here (pointing to the man from the Center) has requested that we delay sentencing until after the Eid holidays” (observance of the Persian New Year

Downloaded from http://www.mitpressjournals.org/doi/pdf/10.1162/105420403322764007 by guest on 01 October 2021 46 Mahmood Karimi-Hakak celebration, 20 March–1 April). “But,” he continued, “since you are ofﬁcially accused of this crime, you must put up bail or else you will spend Eid in jail.” I asked what does he mean by bail. He responded that I could give the court the deed of a property, something like my mother’s apartment, as bail. I remembered horrifying stories that I had heard about people who presented the title deed of their property to various courts and it was never returned to them even long after the matter was resolved. I said calmly, “I have no property of my own, but I do have friends, mostly newspaper reporters, who may be of some help.” The judge objected immediately, addressing the man from the Center he whispered, “He wants to drag the reporters in this again, you see? And you know what that will do?” Then he said to me in an angry voice, “Well it seems that you are going to spend the New Year holidays in jail.” I knew this was an empty threat. After all, neither I, nor this case, was so important and big for them to risk more published protests. I was right. Again the man from the Center stepped in. Pretending to plead to the judge, he said, “Yourhonor, may I request that you allow your kind heart to let this man, who is a believer, and is educated and is an artist, and who does have the best of intentions for the education of our Muslim youth, spend the Eid with his children.” He added, “I guarantee that I will bring him here myself for the next scheduled court date.” There is a proverb in Persian, “Jang-e Zargari” (the goldsmiths’ quarrel), which may be loosely translated as meaning a sham quarrel between two par- ties in order to deceive a third. What was taking place at that moment was exactly that. Having grown up in the bazaar, I was familiar with this tactic. I stayed quiet while they bargained. After some time the judge allowed his “kind heart” to have pity on me. He said, “You must thank God that you are under the protection of the Center for the Performing Arts, otherwise your children would not have a father present to give them their Eidy [the New Year’s gift].” “Yes sir,” I said, “We all must thank God for he has given us the ability to distinguish good from evil.” As I left the court I was told that I must return in early April. I was also told by the Center, “It is better to wait till the court case is settled before we plan on remounting your production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” A few days later, I received through the mail a letter from a person who claimed to be one of those bearded young men who closed the show. This was a photocopy of a letter that was addressed to Mr. K., the Assistant Minister of Culture and Is- lamic Guidance in the Affairs of the Arts (second to the Minister himself). In this letter, the author explained that the night after he and his friends came to the theatre to close down our play, he saw the Last Imam in his dream. He wrote that in this dream the Last Imam was obviously upset with him and did not respond to his greetings. He cried unstoppably and asked the reasons for this dismay. The Last Imam told him, “Why did you go and interrupt this poor man’s play? He is a good man. You had no right to do this.” The author then explained in his letter that they were called in by the director of the Freedom Museum, Mr. R., were fed a good meal, and were told that I am an agent of the Great Satan, and that I staged this play to corrupt the minds of the Iranian Muslim youth, and therefore this play had to be stopped. At the end of his letter he wrote that he was sending a copy to me in the hopes that I and my group would forgive him, thus his action may be forgiven by the Last Imam. I cried when I read that letter. I wish I could ﬁnd this simple soul and comfort him. I shared this letter with a few of my closest friends. Some suggested that we should publish this letter. My wife and I voted against that, fearing that this poor simple man would be punished. However, in a telephone conversation, I did mention to Mr. K.’s assistant that I was in possession of a copy of a letter

Downloaded from http://www.mitpressjournals.org/doi/pdf/10.1162/105420403322764007 by guest on 01 October 2021 Censorship in Iran 47 that had been addressed to him. I asked for a meeting with Mr. K. to discuss the content of this letter. I was never granted a meeting. By 20 April, having received no summons from the court, I called the Cen- ter and was told to wait. A few days later I went to the court asking about my case. I received no answer. Toward the end of April my wife received a phone call threatening that if I wanted to live I should leave the country. We thought it an empty threat and paid no mind to it. Some of my students and friends, however, took this more seriously. They decided to be with and/or around us at all times. (This is the period during which many Iranian political activists, intellectuals, and artists, both within the Iranian borders and abroad, were se- cretly slaughtered by the Iranian regime. Even though the commanding source of these murders, labeled as “Chain Killings,” is traced back to the heart of the Iranian Information Ministry, to date no top officials have been accused and/ or named responsible for these killings.) From then until we left Iran my wife and I did not have a single day or night alone. Four or five days after the first call, my wife received another, this time threatening to burn my car and stab me to death. We found it hard to laugh this time, but still I did not think it was frightening enough to leave. I kept asking the Center and the court about my case. There was never a clear answer. I did not want an open case because the law would prevent any individual with an open court case to leave the country. My lawyer friend and a few other friends were concerned that this may be a trap. They thought I will be arrested at the airport, accused of wanting to flee the country while under court order, labeled guilty, and taken directly to jail. Early in May, there was a message on our answering machine. The caller, a young male, explained that “they” knew when each morning we took our twin daughters (then one-and-a-half years old) in their twin stroller to my mother-in-law’s. And that they knew which street we crossed to get to my in- laws. The message said that they would give us two weeks to leave the country. Otherwise they would run over the stroller with a Patrol (a kind of SUV commonly used by the Revolutionary Guard). Hearing this, my wife decided that we could no longer stay risking the lives of our daughters. Our friends joined her in insisting that we give up and leave. A week later we traveled to Turkey in order to apply for an American visa for my wife. We decided to travel by bus, thinking that there would be less of a risk crossing the border on the ground. There were fewer border guards and they were easier to “influence” should we be stopped. In this trip, too, one of my faithful students accompanied us. In Turkey, the application and visa process took a month. We arrived in the United States in mid-June 1999.

Some Concluding Thoughts In Iran’s theatre today, rewards and punishments depend on who is in charge of the Center for the Performing Arts, and it varies from person to person. It almost always depends on the artists’ collaboration, submission, and compromises to one ideology or another, one policy maker or another, and one director or another. For instance one director whose production was banned and who was subsequently “exiled” to south Iran (where it is unbear- ably hot and humid) in the mid-1980s, returned to head the City Theatre after a year! Another example is a Western-educated theatre professor who, resisting intimidation and temptation, found himself in such a ﬁnancial state that one cold winter day when he returned home he saw his family and their few possessions in the street, thrown out of their modest apartment. He now plays in all kind of propaganda movies, directs a few stage and radio plays each year, is a tenured professor, and owns a large comfortable house! Some others

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6. “And here will rest me. Come, thou gentle day...” Feraidon Mehrabi as The Changeling Boy (Puck in training) and Afshin Ka- tanchi as Lysander in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, directed by Mah- mood Karimi-Hakak and censored on 24 February 1999. (Courtesy of Mahak International Artists Inc.)

opted for success in the very early years of the revolution. They changed their ways by publishing what is known as a “Letter of Repentance” in which they made a public apology for their “ignorance” during the previous regime. They also each produced a play in support of the ruling ideology, as their ﬁrst after- the-revolution projects. A good example of this group is a French-educated director/designer who, having close ties to the Pahlavi dynasty held the position of Head of the City Theatre during the last few years of the Shah’s reign. This theatre was, according to the new regime, “a nest of corruption, obscen- ity, and ﬁlth.” This man’s productions are now budgeted astronomically and are all approved and paid for by the Center for the Performing Arts. Moreover, his portrait hangs on the walls of the City Theatre as a model for the younger

Downloaded from http://www.mitpressjournals.org/doi/pdf/10.1162/105420403322764007 by guest on 01 October 2021 Censorship in Iran 49 generation of theatre artists. This director’s productions are generally produced in the largest auditorium in Tehran, which seats about 2,000. However, his productions, which I attended while living in Iran (I saw all the plays he directed during 1993 to 1999), never drew an audience of more than 200. Of course, there are also theatre directors who resisted such temptations and were imprisoned, tortured, and even executed. Some fled the country, while others were forced to change professions. As for the members of my company, once we left the country, most of them went on to other projects, plays, films, and TV work. A few left the country, and some decided to change professions. My most supportive assistant director has since prepared, written, and directed three theatre projects, none of which were given Performance Permission by the Center for the Performing Arts, where the then deputy director and head censor has been promoted to Direc- tor of the Center. The former director is now head censor. My former AD and his group of some 30 passionate and creative young talents continue to rehearse and develop plays with the hope that someday the policies governing the Center for Performing Arts may change and they may be allowed to present their productions publicly. Theatre, at least in the traditional definition of the phrase, is an art based on dialogue as a method of exchanging feelings and ideas. Sometimes it offers profound insights into the human condition. It offers an opportunity for a collective group of artists to communicate with society at large. I believe that every society, however ideologically narrow- and single-minded, can benefit from a meaningful dialogue with a genuine theatre. It is unfortunate that at the start of this new millennium, the Iranian leadership that prides itself on pro- posing to the world a “Dialogue of Civilizations” forbids the fundamentals of such a dialogue within its own borders. My experience during the odyssey of A Midsummer Night’s Dream involved threats, veiled and unveiled, intimidation, misdirection, human error, bureau- cracies, shenanigans (some innocent and others designed to frustrate), ignorance, prejudice, ideological conflicts and upheaval, and a host of other distractions. In my country, I am not unique in having undergone this kind of ordeal. In fact it is the sine qua non for any artist, poet, or intellectual who dares challenge the prevailing fundamentalist ideology, who cares enough to offer a vision of what might be, who shares ideas of openness, engagement, and simple human dignity. Nevertheless, my belief in the power and importance of art and its ability to provoke thought and provide a forum for changing ingrained beliefs and assumptions sustained and strengthened me. I hope I have shone a little light in a very dark place.

Notes 1. Names of individuals and places are not mentioned to prevent the “self-appointed,” government-supported police (known as plainclothes or Ansar) to identify and hurt these people. The name of the person in whose class I lectured in summer 1992, the place where the class was held, and the name of the female student who questioned me are protected for this reason. 2. To prevent those government officials, whose names are a testament to their degree of alliance with the regime that censors artists and intellectuals, from using this article as a means of self-promotion in gaining sympathy and respect among their oppressive masters, I refuse to cite their full names. Artists and intellectuals still living inside Iran are at the mercy of these officials for their daily bread and thus have to praise their performances and that of their respective offices. Mr. Sh. (the head censor) and Mr. R. (prison warden turned museum director) are among these.

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Mahmood Karimi-Hakak, Artistic Director of Mahak International Artists, Inc., has written, produced, directed, designed, and/or acted in over 40 stage and screen productions in the U.S., Europe, and his native Iran. His literary credits include ﬁve plays, two books of poetry, several translations from and into Persian, and numerous articles and interviews both in English and Persian. Dr. Hakak has taught at such universities as Towson, CUNY, SMU here in the U.S., as well as universities in Belgium and Iran. At present he serves as Associate Professor and Producer of the Theatre Series at Siena College, New York.

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