The cult of Khomeini was everywhere. Although he died in 1989, there were pictures of him all over Tehran in particular. His sayings and face cover walls of apartment buildings and many still revere him to this day. I met a young student at his mausoleum, who told me he comes three times a year for strength and guidance. And there were many who do not revere him any longer and despise him for the path that he chose for his people. It would be interesting to compare the cult of Khomeini to the cult of Lenin - there were many similarities, even though one revolution was highly religious and the other godless.
Khomeini’s mausoleum was not far from the capital and so I took a taxi out there, curious to see how Iranians would commemorate this unique leader, whether there would be an opulent memorial to this man who had spurned worldly goods, or a more simple affair, in keeping with his austere lifestyle.
The biggest surprise was that, some twelve years after his death, the place was far from finished, probably because it was so huge. A massive complex had been planned, including a supermarket, but half-finished concrete edifices seemed to dominate. That said, there was much to be impressed about in a complex which boasted five domes and four minarets, and a courtyard the size of a football pitch, with tarpaulin, supported by scaffolding, providing shade from the relentless sun.
I proceeded to the room which housed the Supreme Leader and took my shoes off with the others, before entering; I found it odd that everyone was frisked by guards except me, the infidel. I was mesmerised by the chandeliers, by the marble floor, by the high quality rugs, but most of all by the size of the place.
It was a hive of activity – women wailing, children running around playing ‘tig’, pilgrims fast asleep (these were the ones who had come far to pay their respects and had nowhere to stay), pilgrims reading from the many copies of the Koran, which were freely available. On the left of the room was a large glass case, illuminated in fluorescent green, in which the simple tomb of Khomeini and that of his eldest son could be found. The tombs were surrounded by bank notes and flowers and by more wailing women tapping against the glass.
I was the only Westerner, and probably the only non-Muslim, in the place and I was not alone for long. Young men flocked around me, keen to get my impressions of their country, curious as to why I had decided to visit Khomeini’s resting place. It was obvious that I was from another planet, given the questions that were being raised. In response to me stating that I was a wine merchant, one seventeen year-old looked at me in confusion.
“What is wine?” Others objected to the loose morals of Western society and one memorably declared:
“You have girls and alcohol – we pray five times a day.”
Paul Bradbury - Author of Hvar: An Insider's Guide to Croatia's Premier Island, and Lebanese Nuns Don't Ski
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