«It Was a Strange Era of Freedom»

The Memories of Mohammad-Ali Sepanlou,Iranian Poet and Writer, from Afghanistan
By Arian Aron


For certain readers of literature, the memories of poets and writers can be just as
vital, delightful, and engaging as their poems and prose.
Memories are an inseparable part of people’s past; they are the act of retrieving moments from the depths of time, of preserving people and their stories with detail and subtlety.
Moreover, such writing often contains remarkable, instructive, and at times
entertaining incidents.
In recent days, I encountered two texts of this kind and read two delightful and
engaging books composed of literary recollections by Iranian writers. The first is by
Mohammad Ghazi, titled Memoirs of a Translator, and the second, The Oral History
of Contemporary Iranian Literature: A Conversation with Mohammad-Ali Sepanlou.
The latter is structured as a dialogue, with Sepanlou primarily responding, yet these
responses essentially encompass all the questions one might pose regarding the
experiences and memories of this Persian-language poet, writer, and translator.
In matters of translation and literary discourse, we are largely indebted to Persian-
language writers from Iran’s geography; thus, Mohammad Ghazi and Mohammad-Ali
Sepanlou are no strangers to us. Ghazi is renowned for translating the world’s
greatest literary works into Persian, while Sepanlou is known for his poetry and
literary criticism.
Furthermore, since most literary recollections are related to the authors’ professional
endeavors, their memoirs often resemble literary lessons—insightful and usable. For
instance, in Memoirs of a Translator, we learn how Ghazi began translating literary
works and the methods he experimented with to become a skilled translator. Reading
such passages proves invaluable to those who wish to pursue the same path. Ghazi
elucidates how to transfer a literary work from one language to another, how to shape
meaning, and how to create an appropriate linguistic environment so that the foreign
language merges seamlessly into one’s own.
Alongside this, when Mohammad-Ali Sepanlou recounts his literary struggles in his
memoirs, we witness how literature can transform into a weapon of resistance
against a political regime. We observe how the literary movements of 1960s Iran (the
1340s in the Persian calendar), which undoubtedly influenced Afghan literature,
came into being and laid the groundwork for new and fresh currents. Or when
Sepanlou recounts how he and his peers disrupted a festival intended to be
organized by Farah Pahlavi 1 , the then-queen of Iran, we come to understand the
power of words. And when he states that SAVAK 2 the Iranian intelligence
agency—refrained from arresting Jalal Al-e Ahmad, we realize the extent to which a
writer can become powerful by building a popular base and engaging meaningfully
with society.
On one hand, memoir writing serves a literary function that can be greatly beneficial;
on the other, it revives images from the past. Writers, by sharing their memories,
allow the past to return to the present and become relevant once more. The power of
words in reviving images can easily imprint those moments onto the mind. Memoir

writing provides ample space for describing settings and conditions. Even if you are
unfamiliar with the environment being described, you will find yourself vividly
imagining it, as though the events are unfolding before your eyes—or as if you
yourself were present there. Since memoir writing is not constrained by strict
limitations or rigid structures, it offers greater freedom to reconstruct the past—to
such an extent that several decades ago may be resurrected before your very eyes.
Most Iranian writers have left behind memoirs, and for this reason, their society can
more easily envision and feel the atmosphere of previous eras—something not so
readily accessible through academic articles or historical writings.
There is no doubt that, compared to Iran, we in Afghanistan have done far less for
literature. Yet this does not mean that our efforts are negligible or should be
overlooked. For example, the emergence of the short story and modern poetry within
this geographical context and a number of literary movements in the 1960s (1340s
SH), undeniably helped pave the way and partially broke traditional
conventions—developments that even influenced political dynamics. If we take all of
this into account, it becomes clear that behind these histories lie countless memories
and words—seemingly small, yet profoundly impactful. Unfortunately, today’s
generation is scarcely aware of them, for most of our poets and writers have either
avoided writing their memoirs—or continue to do so.
On the Importance of Writing Memoirs: From Sepanlou to Afghanistan
Not long ago, Master Haidari Wujudi passed away. With his burial, he took with him
thousands of images of bygone days, hundreds of tales from the past, and countless
memories of poets before and during his time—such as Ashkuri and Master
Baytab—now interred beneath the soil.
Just imagine, had Qahhar Asy written down his memories, how many truths might
have emerged from the depths of his heart. Perhaps we would be facing a different
Asy today.
Or consider Master Wasif Bakhtari, who has chosen silence—how many recollections
and untold stories lie rusting away in the back chambers of his mind. Should that
unkind thief called death come for him tomorrow, yet another vast portion of an
era—one that could have been revived for us today—would vanish forever.
And woe unto us, should masters like Rahnaward Zaryab, Partaw Naderi, and others
never take up the pen to record their own memories. So many recollections would
disappear into oblivion.
The true value of memoir-writing sparked in my mind when I was reading the
memoirs of Mohammad Ali Sepanlou about his journeys to Afghanistan. It was then
that I realized how essential it is to document such experiences. Sepanlou traveled to
Afghanistan three times between 1971 and 1972, visiting the provinces of
Samangan, Bamiyan, Ghazni, and Kabul, and from there journeying to Kandahar and

Herat. He recorded fascinating memories from these travels. Having entered
Afghanistan on behalf of a detergent and cooking oil company for promotional
purposes, Sepanlou recounts an intriguing event at the very beginning of his memoir.
Witnessing the dire poverty of the Afghan people, he devised a way for them to win
300 sewing machines and 300 bicycles through the company’s promotional
giveaways. At the time, this gesture was considered a significant act of generosity.
Sepanlou, as he recounts, spoke with Afghan poets and writers and documented
those conversations in a report published in Iran’s Ferdowsi Magazine. He writes:
“…I was in search of innovation, but Afghanistan’s official Ministry of Culture and the
Arts favored literary conservatives and was unfamiliar with the innovators.”
This is a point about which many of us lack a clear understanding—how and why the
Ministry failed to recognize progressive voices in literature.
Though this Iranian poet and writer has numerous recollections from his travels
across Afghanistan, I will highlight just a few remarkable ones from his book.
“I remember going to visit the Iranian ambassador in Kabul, Mr. Foroughi, a member
of the prominent Foroughi family and a noted antiques expert. He had accepted the
assignment precisely for the sake of Afghan antiquities. He told me: ‘The greatest
bribe we can offer Afghan dignitaries is a complete set of the Moein Dictionary.
Because no one here can afford to buy books. Even if the government prints them
and sells them for five Afghanis—five Iranian rials—still no one can buy them.’”
He added: “They even censored news of Iran’s 2,500-year celebration of monarchy and claimed
that ‘we are Aryana’ 4 so we must host these celebrations. In some ways, many of the
historic cities that were once centers of Iranian civilization are now in Afghanistan.
Such strange and intense sensitivities existed there.”
Sepanlou then recounts a memory that today may seem foreign to our
generation—concerning personal freedoms, especially women’s freedoms:
“I had a friend in Kabul named Paronta who also visited Iran. She owned a small
hotel where poor travelers—including foreign tourists—paid three tomans per night
and slept ten to a room. Boys and girls who wanted to travel to Nepal and smoke
hashish. It was a strange era of freedom. Girls in sheer clothing sat among men in
cafés, and no one objected. No one could have imagined that Afghanistan would
ever become what it is today.”
In another anecdote, Sepanlou reveals a profound contradiction. While some proudly
claimed figures like Rumi and Avicenna as their own, they simultaneously expressed
hostility toward their language—Persian:
“We used to sit at Hotel Paronta in Kabul, near a square called Zarnigar², likely
destroyed by war by now. There, we would talk with Afghan intellectual youth.

Whenever the conversation turned to Rumi, Paronta would say ‘Rumi of Balkh’ or
‘Avicenna of Balkh,’ since both were born there. Paronta told me several times that
they had written to Radio Kabul, asking for Pashto to be declared the official
language of Afghanistan. Finally, I said, ‘That’s an excellent idea.’ He looked
surprised, knowing my nationalist leanings, and asked why. I told him, ‘Because then
you would have no right to speak of Rumi anymore—since he never wrote a single
poem in Pashto!’”
“Even the ambassador showed me an article where it was argued that Afghan people
shouldn’t use ‘foreign’ words. For instance, the term ‘workshop’ was being
discouraged in favor of... ‘workshop’—they thought workshop was an Afghan word!”
Zarnigar 5 was a prominent square in Kabul.
In yet another moment, Sepanlou is both baffled and distressed upon witnessing
people, impoverished to the brink of death, preparing to go on the Hajj for the
umpteenth time. Since the Afghan government had prohibited multiple pilgrimages
due to foreign currency restrictions, people traveled via Iran:
“…Each of them carried a small bundle of plain bread and had come for a repeat
pilgrimage. I witnessed a man in Herat, in ten degrees below zero, ready to depart for
Hajj, while his barefoot children stood beside him, bidding him farewell.”
He wrote a critical article titled “The Pilgrimage of Suffering,” but was denied
permission to publish it, being accused of trying to sabotage Afghan-Iranian relations.
Among these recollections, Sepanlou also observes the tensions and investments
between the Russians and Americans, and the inclination of some Afghans towards
the Russians. At one point, he notes that the Soviets provided generous scholarships
and built roads in northern Afghanistan, while the Americans constructed those in the
south. He then remarks: “Afghanistan at that time was a very peace-loving country, and tourists could easily
live in both cities and villages. But this peace was disrupted by the coup d’état of
Daoud Khan, and later, the Chinese and Russians came…”
His journey to the city of Ghazni (also known as Ghaznīn) with Daoud Farani, sitting
in a coffeehouse and listening to the radio as someone recited Rumi’s poetry, is
another memorable moment. Yet the image he had of that city and its evocative
name seems absent in what he found there.
Despite all this, reading the memoirs of an Iranian poet who spent only a short period
traveling through Afghanistan remains captivating—not only for the vivid imagery and
the revival of a bygone era, but also for at least two particular statements that linger
in the mind:
“It was a strange time of freedom,” and “Afghanistan was a very peace-loving country, and tourists could easily live in both
cities and villages.”
Now imagine: if a writer like Sepanlou, coming from abroad and staying for little more
than a month, can leave us with such rich memories—capturing fragments of our
yesterdays and placing them before us in vivid scenes—what stories and insights
might emerge if our own writers and thinkers were to take up the pen? If they were to
write about the past, about poetry, fiction, literary movements, the cultural
atmosphere of the 1960s (the so-called “Decade of Democracy” 6 ), and the process of
creating their own and others’ works, what remarkable accounts might come to light?
These would be stories not only valuable and enlightening for us, but also for
tomorrow’s generation and those yet to come. Above all, such efforts would allow us
to preserve time within the pages of these recollections—for after all, remembering
and reading memoirs is no less than traveling through time itself.

Footnotes:

1. Farah Pahlavi: The last Empress of Iran (Queen), wife of Mohammad Reza
Pahlavi, known for her patronage of the arts and efforts to modernize Iranian
cultural institutions.
2. SAVAK: Acronym for “Sazeman-e Ettela'at va Amniyat-e Keshvar,” the secret
police and intelligence service of the Pahlavi regime in Iran, known for
suppressing political opposition.

3. 1340s SH: Refers to the decade in the Solar Hijri calendar (1961–1971 CE), a
time of major political and literary transformation in Iran.

4. Aryana – A historical name referencing Greater Iran or ancient Persia, often
invoked in nationalist contexts to emphasize a shared cultural and historical
past.

5. Zarnigar – A historical square in Kabul, the name means “Golden Painter” or
“Adorner with Gold” in Persian.

6. Decade of Democracy: Refers to a period during the 1960s in Afghanistan,
particularly under King Zahir Shah, when a relatively liberal constitution
allowed for a brief flourishing of democratic freedoms, press openness, and
cultural activities.