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h ey i xated on whether our show would actually air...and if we'd spin our
report to make Iran look evil.
Leaving the mosque, our crew pondered how easily the footage we'd
just shot could be cut and edited to appear either menacing or heartwarm-
ing, depending on our agenda. Our mosque shots could be juxtaposed with
guerillas leaping over barbed wire and accompanied by jihadist music to
be frightening. Instead,
we planned to edit it to
match our actual experi-
ence: showing the guards
and “Death to Israel”
banner, but focusing on
the men with warm faces
praying with their sons
at their sides, and the
children outside scram-
bling for mulberries.
It occurred to me
that the segregation of
the sexes—men in the center and women behind a giant hanging carpet at
the side—contributes to the negative image many Western Christians have of
Islam. h en, playing the old anthropologist's game of changing my perspective,
I considered how the predominantly male-led Christian services that I'm so
comfortable with could also be edited to look ominous to those unfamiliar
with the rituals. At important Roman Catholic Masses, you'll see a dozen
priests—all male—in robes before a bowing audience. h e leader of a billion
Catholics is chosen by a secretive, ritual-i lled gathering of old men in strange
hats and robes with chanting, incense, and the ceremonial drinking of human
blood. It could be i lled with majesty, or with menace...depending on what
you show and how you show it.
We set up to i lm across the vast square from the mosque. My lines were
memorized and I was ready to go. h en, suddenly, the cleric with the beaming
smile came toward us with a platter of desserts—the local ice cream specialty,
like frozen shredded wheat sprinkled with coconut. I felt like Rafsanjani
himself was serving us ice cream. We had a lively conversation, joking about
how it might help if his president went to my town for a prayer service, and
my president came here.
After prayer service at the mosque, a proud dad grabs a
photo of his children.
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