Travel Reference
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President Ahmadinejad had inspired a fashion trend in Iran: simple dark suit, white
shirt, no tie, light black beard. Reminiscent of apparatchiks in Soviet times, it seemed to
me that all the mosque administrators dressed the part and looked like the president.
To film the service—which was already well underway—we were escorted in front of
5,000 people praying. When we had visited this huge mosque the day before, all I had seen
was a lifeless shell with fine tiles for tourists to photograph. An old man had stood in the
center of the floor and demonstrated the haunting echoes created by the perfect construc-
tion. Old carpets had been rolled up and were strewn about like dusty cars in a haphazard
parking lot. Today the carpets were rolled out, cozy, orderly, and covered with worship-
pers.
I felt self-conscious—a tall, pale American tiptoeing gingerly over the little tablets
Shia Muslim men place their heads on when they bend down to pray. Planting our tripod
in the corner, we observed.
As my brain wandered (just like it sometimes does at home when listening to a ser-
mon), I felt many of those worshippers were looking at me rather than listening to their
cleric speaking. Soldiers were posted throughout the mosque, standing like statues in their
desert-colored fatigues. When the congregation stood, I didn't notice them, but when
all bowed, the soldiers remained standing—a reminder of the tension within the Islam-
ic world. I asked Seyed to translate a brightly painted banner above the worshippers. He
answered, “Death to Israel.”
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