or Ḡelān; province at the southwestern coast of the Caspian Sea.
A version of this article is available in print
Volume X, Fascicle 6, pp. 617-668
GĪLĀN i. GEOGRAPHY AND ETHNOGRAPHY
Physical Geography (Figure 1). Gīlān includes the northwestern end of the Alborz chain and the western part of the Caspian lowlands of Persia. The mountainous belt is cut through by the deep transversal valley of the Safīdrūd between Manjīl and Emāmzāda Hāšem near Rašt. To the northwest, the Ṭāleš highlands stretch a continuous watershed separating Gīlān and Azerbaijan. Except at their northern end, where the Ḥayrān pass at the top of the Āstārāčāy valley does not exceed 1600 m, they are over 2000 m high, with three spots over 3000 m, the Bāqrow Dāḡ (3197 m), the ʿAjam Dāḡ (3009 m), and the Šāh Moʿallam or Māsūla Dāḡ (3050 m). Their eastern and northeastern side is deeply carved by parallel streams flowing down towards the Caspian, resulting in a comb-shaped pattern. The western Alborz itself, to the east of the Safīdrūd valley, is wider and more intricate, with three parallel (WNW-ESE) ranges; the southernmost and lowest one is represented in Gīlān by the Āsmān-sarā Kūh (2375 m) in the ʿAmmārlū district; the medium one is the most continuous, from the Kūh-e Dalfak (2711 m) to the Keram Kūh (3389 m), whereas the transversal valley of Polrūd clearly divides the northern range into Kūh-e Nāteš (2387 m) and Kūh-e Somām or Somāmūs, the highest spot of Gīlān (3689 m). All these mountains have a very complicated geological structure and tectonic history which connects them to the structural complex of central Persia (Stöcklin). Continuing orogenic activity is attested by the relatively high seismicity; the earthquake of 20 June 1990 almost destroyed the two towns of Manjīl and Rūdbār, killed some forty thousand people and damaged several hundreds of villages.
FIGURE 1. The province of Gīlān.View full image in a new tab
Though all those mountains cover a greater area than the plains, these are the most specific feature of the province, and locally, the word Gīlān often refers to the plain areas or particularly to the central plain. This large parallelogram of lowlands, 35 km wide and 90 km long, is heterogenous and can be divided into two main parts: the delta of the Safīdrūd in the east and the Fūmanāt plain in the west. The former has been entirely built by the Safīdrūd, a river with a high discharge (450 millions m3 in average) and a high alluvial content. The higher part is made out of coarse ancient alluvial material, whereas in the lower part, north of Āstāna, the river often changed its course through thin silty and clayey material; it has thus abandoned its former northeastward course, which flowed into the sea at the prominent angle of the plain near Dastak, and presently flows northwards and builds a smaller living delta jutting out into the Caspian between Zībā Kenār and Bandar Kīā Šahr (formerly Ḥasan Kīāda and Bandar Faraḥnāz during the 1970s). The Fūmanāt plain to the west intermingles marine alluvial deposits and former sandy beachlines with abundant alluvial deposits from the numerous rivers draining the southern part of Ṭāleš highlands. They do not reach directly the sea, but converge into the lagoon (mordāb) of Anzalī (q.v.) with a single outlet to the Caspian through the dune-covered sandy coastline. The lagoon is constantly getting smaller and shallower under the effect of silting. On the contrary, the streams of northern Ṭāleš and eastern Gīlān, even the more abundant Polrūd, do not bring alluvium enough to counterbalance the action of a coastal current going eastward, and thus could not build more than a narrow ribbon of lowlands, only a few kilometers wide between Āstārā and Safīdrūd and to the east of Qāsemābād, and some 10 km wide at the mouth of the Polrūd around Kalāčāy.
Climate and vegetation. The topographic position of the Caspian lowlands results in a very characteristic “Hyrcanian” climate, and the whole province of Gīlān belongs to this exceptionally humid and green area (Adle; Djavadi; Ganji): Prevailing north-south atmospheric currents, humidified over the Caspian, are forced to a vigorous ascendancy by the mighty barrier of Alborz and thus pour all around the year abundant rainfall on both the plain and the northwestern slope of the mountains. The precipitation regime shows a sharp maximum in autumn (September to December), when atmospheric instability is at its highest point, medium values in winter and early spring, and lowest (but generally abundant enough to remain over the limit of “dry months”) values from May to August. Mean annual rainfall varies between 1200 and 1800 mm along the shoreline (1233 mm in Āstārā, 1755 in Anzalī), decreases towards a subhumid area in the southwestern corner of the plain (1086 mm in Fūman and 885 mm in Šāndarman), and reaches again very high amounts in the lower part of the mountain, up to 1500-1800 m (2400 mm in the upper Māsāl valley). Along the Safīdrūd valley, swept every afternoon in summer by the violent northerly “Manjīl wind” (Tholozan), a very rapid transition leads to the Mediterranean-like semi-arid area of Rūdbār and Manjīl (366 mm).
The climatic privilege of Gīlān explains its luxuriant natural vegetation. This Hyrcanian botanical region has specific features with regard to the Euro-Siberian territory, and even inside the Euxino-Hyrcanian botanical province (Bobek, pp. 16-21; Mobayen and Tregubov; Zohary, pp. 21-30): the almost complete absence of conifers, but very sparse yew-trees (sorḵ-dār), and the great number of endemic species which have survived from the Arcto-Tertiary flora. According to altitude, three forest levels can be distinguished: the Hyrcanian mixed forests, the mountain beech forest, and the high mountain oak and hornbeam forest. The Hyrcanian forest stricto sensu once covered the plains, where only residual patches remain on coarse alluvial terraces between cultivated areas, and still covers the greater part of the first slopes of the mountains up to about 1000 m. It is a stratified forest, with a layer of very tall trees such as the endemic chestnut-leaved oak (boland-māzū; Quercus castaneaefolia), Siberian elm (deraḵt-e āzād; Zelkova crenata) and iron tree (anjīlī; Parrotia persica) and more common elms, maples, and hornbeams (ūlas); a layer of smaller trees like the endemic Gleditchia caspica (līlakī), Diospyros lotus (kalhū), and Albizzia julibrissin (šabḵosb), boxwood (šemšād) in shady spots and all kinds of wild fruit trees; and an underwood with evergreen bushes such as Prunus laurocerasus (jal) and holly (ḵās), moss, wild vine, ivy, and other creeping plants. Medium altitude mountains are the realm of the lofty oriental beech (rāš; Fagus orientalis), associated with oaks (balūṭ), lime-trees (namdār), maples (afrā), and elms (nārvan; qq.v.). The upper mountain level, between 1800 and 2200 m, has remnants of a quite poorer forest of stunted oaks (ūrī; Quercus macranthera) and hornbeams (Carpinus orientalis). Alpine meadows, climacic at higher altitudes, have often replaced these upper mountain forests, some of them, on highest ridges or sheltered slopes, show distinctly xerophytic features. The so-called Mediterranean island around Rūdbār and Manjīl is conspicuous through its specific vegetation, natural as well as cultivated, i.e., its very sparse cypress (q.v.) forests and its olive-groves.
Administrative boundaries and divisions (Figure 2). In the late Qajar period (Rabino, 1915-16, pp. 57-58; tr. pp. 53-54), Gīlān was divided into nineteen districts; the larger districts, such as Mavāzī, which had recently united the four districts of Rašt, Kohdom, Kūčeṣfahān, and Ḵoškvejār, included several sub-districts (bolūks). Around 1950 (Razmārā, Farhang II), Gīlān was the main part of the so-called first province (ostān-e yakom), which included also two parts of the former Erāq-e ʿAjam (q.v.), the šahrestāns of Zanjān and Arāk, and was divided into five šahrestāns of Ṭavāleš, Fūman, Bandar-e Pahlavī (Anzalī), Rašt, and Lāhījān. In 1963 it was separated from Zanjān and Arāk and completed by the small šahrestān of Āstārā in the north, and thus took its present size and boundaries, with an area of 14,709 km2. It was divided into ten šahrestāns: Āstārā, Ṭavāleš, Ṣawmaʿa-sarā, Fūman, Bandar-e Pahlavī, Rašt, Rūdbār, Lāhījān, Langarūd, and Rūdsar. The only ulterior change in the administrative map was the accession of the baḵš of Āstāna, until then bound to Lāhījān, to the rank of šahrestān before the 1986 census. Population. Gīlān is the most densely populated province in Persia after the Tehran province, with 2,081,037 inhabitants in 1986 (141 inhabitants/km2) and has a marked ethnic personality. Its main ethnic groups belong all to the northwestern branch of the Iranian linguistic group (Bazin and Bromberger, pp. 13-14 and map 3). The most important one is the Gīlak, who live in the central plain, the eastern coastal fringe and the southeastern highlands. But both dialectal differences and socio-cultural features oblige to divide the Gīlak into three groups: the raštī and lāhījānī Gīlak, respectively in the western and the eastern part of the plain, show only slight differences, but the gālešī Gīlak or deylamī in the southwestern mountains have quite another language as well as an agropastoral way of life opposed to that of the Gīlak paddy-growers in the plain. On the western bank of the Safīdrūd, a similar contrast is to be seen between the Gīlak in the plain and the Ṭāleš whose area stretches from the piedmont to the ridge of the Alborz (q.v.). The tātī dialect is spoken around Rūdbār. Very few newcomers have settled more recently in the province: Kurdish buffalo herders scattered in the plain, the ʿAmmārlū Kurdish tribe that has given its name to the district east of Rūdbār, Turkish traders and fishermen along the coast from Āstārā to Anzalī, and Persian employees of the state administrations. Thus, multilinguism is the rule throughout the province (Bazin and Bromberger).
FIGURE 2. Administrative divisions of Gīlān.View full image in a new tab
As for religious affiliation, the bulk of the population belongs to the Shiʿite Muslim majority of Persia. A part of the Ṭāleš make out a significant Sunnite (Shafiʿite) minority in central and northern Ṭāleš (Bazin, 1980).
Rural settlements and economic activities. The whole plain has a very high rural density, mostly between 100 and 300 inhabitants/km2, and a characteristic pattern of settlement: the basic housing, economic, and social unit is not the village as in interior Persia but the maḥalla, a loose grouping of houses surrounded with gardens and orchards. The houses themselves (Bromberger 1974 and 1986a) are made out of several buildings with specific architecture and functions: the family house, stable, hen-house, paddy-barn, silkworm-nursery, tobacco-drying room, etc. Traditional buildings consist in a wooden frame filled with a mixture of loam and straw and are crowned with a steep hipped roof covered with thatch, rushes, or shingles. They are gradually replaced by more plain “modern” buildings of cement blocks covered with tiles or sheet-iron.
The main agricultural crop is by far rice (Rabino and Lafont; Sahami, pp. 50-59; Eškevarī; Bazin, 1980, pp. 111-44). Nearly all the irrigable areas (more than 40 percent of the whole surface of the plain) are devoted to paddy fields. Traditional irrigation methods (channels derived from streams, springs, reservoirs) are still in use in western and eastern Gīlān, but have been replaced in the central Gīlān plain by a modern irrigation network using the water of the Safīdrūd. Stocked in the Manjīl reservoir dam, its water is then derived from the distribution dams of Tārīk and Sangar into the main distribution canals, the canal of Fūmanāt and the two canals of Sangar left bank and right bank, and thence to a full network of secondary and tertiary channels. Ploughing and raising borders is now mechanized through the use of Japan-made tillers, but transplanting seedlings, weeding, and harvesting remain manual operations, whereas traditional threshing and husking devices have been abandoned and replaced by threshing-machines and semi-industrial husking-plants. The greater part of the crop is commercialized towards the whole national Persian market.
If rice cultivation is omnipresent, it is generally complemented by other crops, mostly pluvial crops grown around the maḥalla or on higher grounds unfit for irrigation. The only microregions where paddy is almost exclusive are the head of the Safīdrūd delta, between Rašt and Lašt-e Nešā, and the Ṭāleš Dūlāb district in central Ṭāleš. Everywhere else, one or two other crops have a significant position, and their relative importance differentiates the plains into smaller specialized areas. Growing mulberry (tūt) trees in order to breed silkworms in long specialized buildings called telambār is the most ancient activity, once more important than paddy cultivation. After a long period of decline, silk production has seen some renewal, with two main areas confined along the piedmont fringe: in western Gīlān from the Ḵošābar valley to the Gašt valley, and in eastern Gīlān between Āstāna and Qāsemābād. Tea, though introduced later in Gīlān (in 1902, see ČĀY), is now the most important plantation crop, with its main areas around Lāhījān (Ehlers, 1970), where all the hills behind the piedmont have been turned into tea gardens, and in southern Fūmanāt. Tobacco is grown in lower (northwestern) Fūmanāt and central Ṭāleš, and fruit trees along the two coastal fringes, producing temperate fruit such as cherries and plums in northern Ṭāleš and citrus fruits (q.v.) in eastern Gīlān to the east of Kalāčāy.
Animal husbandry (Pour-Fickoui and Bazin) has a subordinate position all over the Gīlak maḥalla of the central plain, due to the lack of good pastureland. In the past almost every family used to own one or two cows to milk, an ox for ploughing, and a horse for transportation, but the last two have mostly been replaced by a small motor tiller. A few farmers have a significant number of cattle, which they send in summer to enclosed wet pastures (qoroq) on the bank of the Anzalī lagoon and smaller marshy areas, also used by specialized Kurdish buffalo-herders (Beyhaqī).
On the contrary, animal husbandry is one of the main income sources for the Ṭāleš and Gāleš inhabitants of the mountain belt. The Ṭāleš peasants living on the piedmont of the western range combine paddy-cultivation with pastoral life. In addition to the usual horse and cows, they own sheep and goats that spend the winter in nearby hills (qešlāq), and take all of them to one or several levels of summer pastures (yeylāq or gīrīa) in the mountain. The Ṭāleš range itself is sparsely populated; in central and northern Ṭāleš, the inhabitants of small hamlets on the lower slopes or more compact villages higher in the mountain grow some wheat and corn and raise cattle and sheep, whereas in southern Ṭāleš scattered families dwelling in wooden houses or huts live entirely upon their herds and flocks (Bazin, 1980, II, pp. 5-52).
In eastern Gīlān too, some inhabitants of the piedmont, such as citrus-growers of the easternmost districts, and most people in the interior raise cattle and sheep with various migration patterns between winter forest pastures and summer high mountain pastures. Wheat rainfed cultivation covers wide areas in the interior districts of Deylamān, ʿAmmārlū and Eškevarāt.
Thanks to its Mediterranean-like climate, the small area around Rūdbār and Manjīl has an agricultural system unique in Persia. Olive groves provide the main source of income, combined with wheat and animal husbandry, plus paddy fields along the Safīdrūd bed in the Rostamābād district downstream from Rūdbār.
Another activity specific to the Caspian, if not to Gīlān alone, is the sturgeon fisheries (šīlāt) along the coast (Carré; Rostami; Bazin, 1980, II, pp. 129-37; see also FISHERIES AND FISHING). They have always been a foreign body in the local economy: Initiated by the Russians, they were granted to a Russian firm under the Qājārs, then, from 1928-53, to an Irano-Soviet joint company and since 1953 to the state-owned Šerkat-e sehāmī-e šīlāt-e Īrān. Both the employees of the headquarters of the company in Ḡāzīān (eastern quarter of Anzalī) and the fishermen working in the small fisheries are mostly Azeri people, either from former Soviet Azerbaijan or from villages in the šahrestān of Ardabīl and Ḵalḵāl adjacent to Gīlān. The latter come to Gīlān twice a year, during winter and early spring, and in late summer between harvest and sowing. The sturgeons caught in all the small fishing-stations are gathered in Gāzīān, where caviar (q.v.) is prepared. Although the consumption of sturgeon, as a scaleless fish, is prohibited (ḥarām) by Islam, production has been kept on after the Islamic Revolution, and Gīlān provides approximately the half of the Persian production of caviar (between 200 and 250 tons yearly in the 1980s) and sturgeon fish (between 1400 and 1700 tons). In addition to this highly specialized activity, some 26 fishing cooperative societies, employing both Gīlānī and Azeri fishermen, catch ḥalāl (legally authorized) scale-fish (between 4,000 and 6,000 tons).
Industry, trade and urbanization. Gīlān is one of the least urbanized provinces of Persia with only 37.7 percent of its population living in towns in 1986, due to its very high density of rural population and its relatively low level of industrialization. Actually, Gīlān has no significant mineral resources, and the bulk of its industrial plants process agricultural products: rice husking mills all over the plain, tea factories in Fūmanāt and Lāhījān, oil factories around Rūdbār, fish and caviar processing plant in Anzalī, and silk winding off plant, tobacco factory, dairy products and beverages in Rašt. A huge complex was built in the mid-1970s to exploit another natural resource, the wood of the extensive forests of western Gīlān, the Čūkā(čūb “wood” and kāḡaz “paper”) company with a saw-mill in Ḵalīfa-ābād of Asālem and a paper-mill in Pūnel, in addition to smaller private saw-mills in southern Ṭāleš and eastern Gīlān (Bazin, 1980, p. 171). Besides this sector based on regional resources, the only noticeable industries are concentrated in Rašt.
Commercial activity is well developed with a very dense network of trading centers, much thicker than in interior Persia. Every maḥalla has its own grocer’s and coffee-shop, and above this basic level every small geographical unit has a bāzār, a commercial center with various shops and workshops and some services, often located along the main roads. But the most original feature of the plain of central Gīlān (as well as of central Māzandarān) is the number and flourishing activity of weekly markets (Thorpe), grouped in organized cycles (Kamioka). Urban centers associate a richer commercial structure, with several hundreds of shops and a beginning of functional segregation, and administrative activity as chief towns of šahrestān. Only two of them have a greater demographic and economic weight, Anzalī (q.v.) in the west and Lāhījān in the east, but stay far under the capital of the province Rašt, which dominates the urban life of Gīlān.
For a music sample, see Prayer at the end of work.
For a music sample, see Kara Bašimuna Nana.
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- Idem, “Naẓar-ī be manābeʿ-e āb wa taḥawwolāt-e jadīd dar neẓām-e ābyārī-e dašt-e Gīlān,” MDAM 8/1, 1351 Š./1972, pp. 1-32.
- E. Schütz, Die Vogelwelt des Süd-Kaspischen Tieflandes, Stuttgart, 1959.
- SOGREAH-COTHA, Réseau du barrage du Sefidroud, mise en valeur de la plaine du Guilân, Tehran, Report to the Plan Organization, 1342 Š./1963.
- M. Sotūda, Az Āstāra tā Estārbād I, Tehran, 1349 Š./1970.
- B. Spuler, “Gīlān,” in EI2 II, pp. 1111-12.
- J. Stöcklin, “Structural History and Tectonics of Iran: A Review,” American Association of Petroleum Geologists Bulletin 52, 1968, pp. 1229-58.
- Ḥ. Ṯābetī, Deraḵtān-e jangalī-e Īrān, Tehran, 1326 Š./1947.
- Idem, Jangalhā-ye Īrān, Tehran, 1346 Š./1967.
- J. D. Tholozan, “Sur les vents du nord de la Perse et sur le foehn du Guilân,” Comptes rendus de l’Académie des sciences, no. 100, 1885, pp. 607-11.
- J. K. Thorpe, “Cyclic Markets and Central Place Systems. The Changing Temporal and Locational Spacing of Markets in the Caspian Littoral of Iran,” in E. Ehlers, ed., Beiträge zur Kulturgeographie des islamischen Orients, Marburg on the Lahn, 1979, pp. 83-110.
- University of Strathclyde, Department of Urban and Regional Planning, Iran. Gilan Regional Study, Glasgow, 1977.
- P. Vieille, Le groupement féodal en Iran: Example d’un groupement au Guilân, Tehran, 1963.
- Idem, “Les paysans, la petite bourgeoisie rurale et l’Etat après la réforme agraire en Iran,” Annales: Economies, Sociétés, Civilisations 27, 1972, pp. 347-72.
- O. L. Vil’chevskiĭ, “Giliyaki i galeshi, talyshi” (Gīlak, Gāleš, and Ṭāleš), in N. A. Kislyakova and A. U. Persica, ed., Narody Peredneĭ Azii (Peoples of Anterior Asia), Moscow, 1957, pp. 225-41.
- Wezārat-e kešvar. Edāra-ye koll-e āmār wa ṯabt-e aḥwāl, Ketāb-e asāmī-e dehāt-e kešvar, 3 vols., Tehran, 1329-31 Š./1950-52, I, pp. 74-151.
- E. Wirth, “Zum Problem des Bazars und Umlandbeziehungen iranischer Städte,” Die Erde 103/2, 1972, pp. 184-86.
- M. Zohary, “On the Geobotanical Structure of Iran,” Bulletin of the Research Council of Israel, section D, 11 D, suppl., 1963.
GĪLĀN ii. Population
There are no reliable sources on the population of Gīlān until the first national census of population and housing in 1956. Reflecting on various population estimates or plausible guesses for the provinces of Gīlān and Māzandarān in the 19th century, George Curzon writes, “The population of two provinces suffered terribly from the plague of 1830-31, in which it was estimated that two-thirds were swept away. Epidemics of small-pox and other diseases have ravaged the district since, and it is only latterly that it has begun again to hold up its head. The total for two provinces are variously estimated at from 150,000 to 250,000; but I doubt if the data for correct enumeration have ever been collected” (Curzon, Persian Question I, p. 364). H. L. Rabino di Borgomale, who surveyed Gīlān from 1906-12, estimated the population of the province at about 340,000 (Rabino, p. 59).
Total population 1956-96. The first general census was carried out in 1956 and the sixth in 1996. The geographical boundaries and area of this province have varied from one census to another; at the present time it has an area of 14,819 square kilometers and includes 99 districts, 30 counties and 12 townships. In 1996, there were 2,700 settlements and 35 cities in Gīlān. On the basis of its present boundaries and area, Table 1 indicates the population of Gīlān from 1956 to 1996.
It is clear that the rate of growth of the population of Gīlān has consistently remained below that of the country as a whole, and its average of 1.59 percent for the period of forty years falls 0.86 percent below the average for Persia as a whole; however, the censuses of 1991 and 1996 apparently contain an under-estimation. This is born out by the comparison of growth rates for each period as shown in Table 2.
On the other hand, the density of population (number of inhabitants per square kilometers) in Gīlān has always been higher than the average for the country as a whole, ranging from 69.9 against 11.5 (more than six times) in 1956, to 151.3 against 36.4 (4.2 times) in 1996.
Urban population. In 1996, the urban population of Gīlān accounted for slightly more than 46.8 percent of its total population. Of its 35 cities, the city of Rašt, with a population of 418,000, was the most populated, and the city of Māsūla, with a population of 663, the least. The ratio of urbanization in Gīlān has varied from 21.0 percent in 1956 to 23.5 percent in 1966, 29.2 percent in 1976, 37.7 percent in 1986 and 46.8 percent in 1996. This ratio has always been lower for Gīlān than the average for the country. Rašt is the only city with more than 100,000 inhabitants but, compared to the medium and small sized cities, its share of the urban population has fallen considerably. From 1956 to 1996 its share of the urban population dropped from 50.2 percent to 39.8 percent.
Rural settlements. In the meantime, temperate climate, moderately good roads and relative availability of public services in this region favor life in the countryside, and there are some 2,700 rural settlements in Gīlān, accounting for about 53 percent of its population. The average village population in Gīlān has always been higher than the country as a whole. In 1996, the figure for Gīlān was 441 persons, compared to the average of 338 persons for the country as a whole. On average there is a settlement for every 5.5 km2 in Gīlān; the comparable figure for the country as a whole is 24.2 km2.
Age and gender structure. Currently, about 34.5 percent of the population of Gīlān is under 15, 59.8 percent between 15 and 64, and 5.7 percent is 65 years old and over. A comparison of the ratio of the population under 15 in different censuses (for example, 47.1 percent in 1966) shows that the population is getting older and its age structure is becoming more balanced.
The gender structure of the population in Gīlān has also always been relatively well-balanced as the range of the male/female ratio fluctuated between 102.5 and 104.3 female in proportion to 100 male in the period from 1956-91. In 1996 census, the ratio of the province is reported 99 female as opposed to 100 male which. considering the migration trends and the above figures reported in previous censuses, seems to be implausible. In 1996, 56.3 percent of the male and 61 percent of the female population ten years of age and over were reported married, which shows a slight decline in the last twenty years.
Mortality and birthrate. General mortality rate in the years 1991-96 was estimated at 7 per thousand of the population (5.6 in urban and 7.5 in rural areas) with life expectancy at birth of approximately 64.2 (67.2 for urban population and 61.7 for rural population). Recent census reports on birthrate are less accurate than those on morality rate due to under-enumeration of the age group of 0-1 year as well as 1-4 years, which is the main indicator for estimating birthrate. The latest available data for 1986 estimates general birthrate of 31.4 births per thousand of population for urban areas and 34.8 per thousand in rural areas. These figures may have decreased to 25 births per thousand of population in urban and 30 births per thousand of population in rural areas.
Prospect of population growth. The potential growth of Gīlān’s population is estimated according to three assumptions for the thirty-year period from 1991-2021 as shown in Table 3.
Under the high assumption, for the thirty-year period from 1991-2021, the average annual rate of growth of the urban and rural populations in Gīlān will reach to about 2.96 percent and 1.16 percent, respectively. Under the second and third assumptions, these rates are lower. It seems, however, that the second assumption is more realistic and most probably the rate of growth of the urban population will be closer to 2.5 percent and that of the rural population just under 1 percent .
Bibliography
- H. L. Rabino, Les provinces caspiennes de la Perse: Le Guîlân, RMM 32 (1915-16), Paris, 1917.
- H. Zanjani, Moṭālaʿāt-e jamʿīyat-e ṭarḥ-e kālbodī-e mellī, 35 vols., Tehran, 1371-1373 Š./1992-94.
- Idem, Jamʿīyat wa šahr-nešīnī dar Īrān I: Jamʿīyat, 2nd ed., Tehran., 1371 Š./1992.
- Addendum (5 June 2012)
- Boundaries and population. The boundaries of the Province of Gilan and the number of sub-provinces have remained the same as before, from the 1996 census to the population estimate made by the Statistical Center of Iran for the year 2010 (Markaz-e āmār-e Iran, 2010, p. 36). In the decade after the 1996 census, the population of Gilan increased only slightly, from 2.2 to 2.4 million, due to a sharp decline in fertility rate (see below). Table 4 shows the urban and rural population of the Gilan sub-provinces, according to the census of 2006 and the 2010 estimation.
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Table 4. Population Of Gilan By sub-province (2006-2010)View full image in a new tab
- The number of cities increased from 35 in 1996 to 49 in 2006, when Gilan comprised 43 districts (baḵš), 109 sub-districts (dehestān), and 2,935 villages. By the end of 2006, the number of populated villages had decreased to 2,686, since eight of them had turned into cities and 241 had been deserted (Sāl-nāma-ye āmāri-e sāl-e 1386 Ostān-e Gilān, Chap. I).
- Fertility and mortality. The general fertility rate (the number of live births in 2006 per 1,000 women of reproductive age, generally 15-49) and the crude birth rate (the number of children born in 2006 per thousand population) were calculated from the data of the 2006 census for urban and rural areas. In view of the subsequent great decrease in the fertility rate throughout Iran, the future rate of population growth in Gilan province can be expected to be much lower than the value predicted previously (see above, Table 3). Based on the concordant prediction of the total population of the country and those of the provinces in the study by Zanjāni et al. in 2009 (p. 34), the general fertility rate in this province in 2006 was calculated at 1.44 (1.60 in urban area and 1.25 in rural area; ibid., Table 15, p. 35), and the crude birth rate as 13.8 for the entire province, 15.7 for urban areas, and 11.5 for rural areas (ibid., Table 15, p. 35). In this study, life expectancy of children born in 2006 was predicted at 74.2 years for girls and 71.2 years for boys (77.0 and 74.6 in urban areas, 72.6 and 70.5 in rural areas (ibid., Table 19, p. 42) . The mortality rate in 2006 was calculated 6.19 per thousand for the total province (5.56 in urban areas, and 6.91 in rural areas (ibid., Table 18, p. 42).
- Migration. The net migration during the ten-year period from 1996 to 2006 was 24,679 persons, as 177,707 residents emigrated from Gilān to other provinces, while 202,386 persons immigrated from other provinces to live in Gilan (ibid., Table 26, p. 61, based on the data concerning Gilan provided by the 2006 census).
- Population projection. It was also predicted by Zanjani et al., in 2009 that the fertility rate in Gilan until 2026 would be 1.492 in the cities and 1.592 in the rural areas, and life expectancy would increase in the urban areas to 76.03 years for males and 79.05 years for females, and in the rural areas to 71.93 years for males and 75.16 years for females. It was also predicted that migration within the province itself would also increase from 16,653 people (9,954 men and 699 women) during 2006-2011 to 19,044 persons in the five-year period of 2021-26 (Table 5).
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Table 5. Gilan population projection (1,000s)View full image in a new tab
- Based on the estimates presented in Table 2, the annual growth rate of Gilan population in each cycle of five years from 2006 to 2026 is predicted to sharply decrease from 0.85 percent in the period 2006-2011 to 0.58 percent in the period 2021-2026 (Table 6).
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Table 6. Population growth: 5-year cycle growth rateView full image in a new tab
- National Census of Population for the total country and Gilan Province for 2006.
- Markaz-e āmār-e Iran, Našriya-ye barāvard-e jamʿiyat-e Šahrestānhā-ye kešvar bar asās-e taṭbiq-e maḥduda-ye joqrāfiāʾi-e Ṣahrivar-e 1389, Tehran, 2010.
- Idem, Sāl-nāma-ye āmāri-e sāl-e 1386 Ostān-e Gilan, Chap. I, “Sarzamin o āb o havā” (no page numbers).
- H. Zanjani et al., Pišbini-e jamʿiyat-e kešvar va ostānhā, Tehran, 2009.
GĪLĀN iii. Archeology
The archeology of Gīlān, particularly in the pre-Islamic period, is usually studied in the wider context of the entire south Caspian region, including Mazandarān and Gorgān. Articles on three important locations, Marlik Tepe (below), Amlaš, and Deylamān (qq.v.), illustrate the perennial difficulties faced by archeological research in Persia, where illegal and therefore unrecorded excavations and forgeries have led to false attributions of provenience, resulting in serious and at times insurmountable obstacles to a better historical understanding of the region in the pre-Islamic period (see FORGERIES ii).
As shown in Table 4, archeological investigations in Gīlān began in the early 20th century when Jacques de Morgan (q.v.) visited the area, being interested both in the sites and the dialects of the region. Unofficial excavations, however, have had a longer history. Aleksander Borejko Chodźko (q.v.) describes staying in the uplands of Rūdbār in 1839 and being taken to one of many graveyards on the nearby summits by the locals and finding seals and remnants of weapons and metal objects. He also witnessed the women of the area using some of the artifacts found there as part of their bracelets and necklaces (Mūsawī, p. 520). It must also be pointed out that some potentially significant sites have suffered irreparable damage through systematic pillaging during periods of unrest and anarchy, the destruction and pillaging at Eṣṭalḵ Jān in the Rūdbār region being a recent (1978-79) poignant example (Mūsawī, p. 353).
Table 4. Archeological work in Gilan, 1899-1993.View full image in a new tab
(EIr.)
EXCAVATIONS AT MARLIK TEPE
Marlik Tepe is an archeological site of the late 2nd and early 1st millennium B.C.E., located in the Raḥmatābād region of the Rūdbār district in Gīlān, about 50 km. from Rašt on the Caspian Sea (Figure 3).
FIGURE 3. The Safīdrūd valley, Gīlān province.View full image in a new tab
During the 1940s and 1950s the highlands of the northern slopes of the Alborz (q.v.) mountains south of the Caspian Sea were subject to much clandestine, illegal digging that produced beautiful spouted pottery vessels, pottery and bronze animal figurines, bronze weapons, and even some objects of gold and silver, all belonging to a little-known culture apparently of the late 2nd mill. B.C.E. These beautiful artifacts were distributed throughout the world to collections and museums under the term Amlaš, the name of the market town to which they were brought to be sold to dealers. In the fall of 1961 a team from the Iranian Archeological Service began a survey in the foothills of the Alborz mountains with the aim of mapping the archeological sites of the area, eventually leading to systematic and scientific excavation to identify the people who had left these masterpieces of art and technology. When the team of archeologists entered the valley of the Gowharrūd (Figure 4), a tributary of the Safīdrūd River, they found five mounds, Pīla Qalʿa, Jāzem Kūl, Dūra Bījār, Zeynab Bījār, and Marlik (or Čerāḡ-ʿAlī Tepe after its last owner).
FIGURE 4. Gowharrūd Valley showing location and topography of Marlik Tepe.View full image in a new tab
The mounds were surveyed one by one, and the team eventually reached Marlik, a large natural appearing mound. Its rocky crest is surrounded by olive groves and wild pomegranate bushes, overlooking the rice paddies which blanket the lower slopes of the valley (PLATE I). The surface of this mound, covered by brush, revealed few artifactual traces, although one slope bore the scars of several ditches dug by unsuccessful antiquities hunters. A test trench produced a variety of interesting objects including two small bronze animal figurines, two cylinder seals, and fourteen gold buttons. The need for immediate scientific excavation was obvious, otherwise the site would have been quickly looted and so an expedition was organized by Ezat O. Negahban under the auspices of the Iranian Archeological Service in cooperation with the Institute of Archeology of the University of Tehran. This team worked at the site without interruption for fourteen months, from October 1961 to November 1962. As work continued, it gradually became clear that Marlik Tepe contained the royal cemetery of a long forgotten kingdom. Scattered over the crest of this apparently natural mound were fifty-three tombs filled with a fascinating variety of objects of gold, silver, bronze and pottery, testifying to the wealth and sophisticated crafts manship of this three thousand year old culture. Although the richest tombs were concentrated in the royal cemetery of Marlik, the whole lower valley of the Gowharrūd was essentially a contemporary burial ground for persons of lesser importance, attracted perhaps by the presence of the royal tombs. These burials were in simpler graves with fewer accompanying objects.
PLATE I. View of Marlik Tepe and its environs. (Photograph courtesy of E. O. Negahban.)View full image in a new tab
The tombs on Marlik are formed basically of walls of broken stone and mud mortar built between the large natural rocks of the mound. Some of the tombs are very roughly constructed, while others show more care. Most often the natural stone of the surrounding area was used in construction, but some tombs contained slabs of yellowish stone brought from the headwaters of the Gowharrūd, about 15 km away. This stone may occur in a single wall or as a slab placed at the bottom of the tomb, but some of the richest tombs are built entirely of this yellowish imported stone.
In most of the tombs the skeleton had completely disintegrated, but a few tombs still contained skeletons that revealed an elaborate burial ritual in which the body was carefully laid out on a long stone slab and surrounded by precious and useful objects which their owner would need in his life hereafter. Whether or not the skeleton was extant the tombs were filled with a wide variety of objects including ritual vessels, human and animal figurines, jewelry, weapons and tools, domestic utensils and sometimes models and toys. Metal vessels of gold, silver, and bronze were found in a variety of shapes and sizes, including cups, bowls, beakers, vases and, most typically, pots with long spouts (PLATE II). They range from plain unadorned forms to vessels with highly elaborate, sometimes narrative, designs done in a variety of techniques including dotted linear engraving, low and high relief repoussé and on one silver pot, inlaid gold designs. Some designs are crude and simple while others are highly elaborate naturalistic or stylized portraits of real and mythical animals and humans (PLATE III, PLATE IV, PLATE V). Other beautiful ritual vessels are made of mosaic glass and frit.
PLATE II. Pitcher with long spout. Gray pottery. Height: 25 cm. Mūza-ye Īrān Bāstān (Mūza-ye Mellī). (Photograph courtesy of E. O. Negahban.)View full image in a new tab
PLATE III. Gold bowl with winged bulls. Height: 18 cm. Mūza-ye Īrān Bāstān. (Photograph courtesy of E. O. Negahban.)View full image in a new tab
PLATE IV. Gold bowl with griffins and winged bulls. Height: 19 cm. Mūza-ye Īrān Bāstān. (Photograph courtesy of E. O. Negahban.)View full image in a new tab
PLATE V. Gold beaker with unicorns. Height: 17.5 cm. Mūza-ye Īrān Bāstān. (Photograph courtesy of E. O. Negahban.)View full image in a new tab
Striking human and animal figurines are made of pottery or metal, including bronze, silver, and gold. The pottery human figurines, most of them hollow, are highly stylized (PLATE VI), as are several solid bronze human figurines and a hollow gold bust (PLATE VII). Some of the animal figurines are also highly stylized, such as the beautiful pottery figurine of a humped bull (PLATE VIII), while others are more naturalistic. In addition to the humped bull, which is the most characteristic figurine of Marlik, figurines were found of stags, mountain goats, mules, horses, rams, bears, leopards, dogs, and wild boars together with models of oxen with yoke (PLATE IX), tiger heads and birds. The large number and high quality of the bronze figurines of Marlik present a vivid picture of the flourishing state of the bronze industry in the Alborz highlands during the late and the early 1st millennium B.C.E.
PLATE VI. Female pottery figurine holding spouted vessel to chest. Height: 37.5 cm. Mūza-ye Īrān Bāstān. (Photograph courtesy of E. O. Negahban.)View full image in a new tab
PLATE I. Hollow gold bust of king. Height: 11.7 cm. Mūza-ye Īrān Bāstān. (Photograph courtesy of E. O. Negahban.)View full image in a new tab
PLATE I. Figurine of humped bull with gold earrings. Red pottery. Height 23 cm. Mūza-ye Īrān Bāstān. (Photograph courtesy of E. O. Negahban.)View full image in a new tab
PLATE I. Bronze model of oxen with yoke and plow. Length: 20 cm. Mūza-ye Īrān Bāstān. (Photograph courtesy of E. O. Negahban.)View full image in a new tab
The extremely rich collection of jewelry found in the tombs includes necklaces, pendants, buttons, bracelets, earrings, rings, forehead bands, leaves, hair binders, pins, and a single fibula. Much of this jewelry came from tombs that may have belonged to women, although some items of ornament were also found in tombs attributed to warriors because of the large numbers of weapons they contained.
The greater part of the jewelry is made of gold, sometimes combined with red carnelian, agate, or other materials. Smaller amounts of jewelry are made of shell, bone, frit, glass, lime gypsum, and bronze. Some of these ornaments are masterpieces of great delicacy and beauty, including finely granulated pendants (PLATE X) and earrings, pomegranate (PLATE XI), quadruple spiral and animal head beads, and embossed rosette buttons, all of which demonstrate the well-developed technology of the Marlik craftsmen.
PLATE X. Gold pendant with granulated cage. Height: 3.8 cm. Mūza-ye Īrān Bāstān. (Photograph courtesy of E. O. Negahban.)View full image in a new tab
PLATE XI. Necklace of gold pomegranates and red carnelian beads. Length: 25 cm. Mūza-ye Īrān Bāstān. (Photograph courtesy of E. O. Negahban.)View full image in a new tab
The tombs also contained both cylinder and stamp seals. Fourteen definite and several possible cylinder seals are made of frit, gypsum, various stones, and one is even made of gold. However, most of these cylinder seals are made of frit, with a surface now so badly damaged that in some cases the original design has entirely disappeared. Two cylinder seals contain inscriptions, the only evidence of writing found at Marlik, with the writing legible on only one seal in lines that are broken and fragmented. The five stamp seals found at Marlik are made of cast bronze with simple geometric designs.
The pottery of Marlik seems for the most part to have a specifically funerary purpose and, although it does not differ too widely from ordinary domestic pottery, tends to be more elaborate and ornamental in nature. The pottery is red, brown and gray, made of very fine clay tempered with fine grit. The firing was very well controlled and the surface treatment is of high quality. Especially notable among the many stylized forms are the beautiful spouted vessels, finished with a polished and burnished surface, sometimes with the addition of pattern burnished decoration. Bottles, jars, pitchers, chalices, mugs, cups, pots, bowls, basins, plated, vases, sieves, and lamps were all found in the tombs.
Of almost a thousand fairly complete weapons, less than forty were made of some material other than bronze, including about twenty-five weapons of stone and a lesser number of iron. By the beginning of the Marlik period the use of stone for weapons was already outdated and by the termination of the Marlik occupation iron was employed, although it was still far from common. The large number of weapons, in some tombs seems to reflect the role of the deceased as a formidable warrior. Other items such as the many bronze arrowheads could have been used for hunting and their inclusion in the tomb along with pottery and bronze figurines of wild game seems to suggest that the occupant was also a great hunter. Maceheads, swords, daggers, spearheads, and arrowheads were all found in the tombs along with such military equipment as shields, helmets, cymbals, quivers, belts, and wristbands, almost all made of bronze.
The large collection of artifacts found at Marlik has been assigned typologically to a date between the 14th and 8th-7th centuries B.C.E, a date supported by a carbon-14 date of 1457 B.C.E. (+/- 55 years). Marlik apparently represents the royal cemetery of a culture that first settled in the highlands of the northern slopes of the Alborz mountains in the mid-2nd millenium B.C.E. and flourished there for several centuries. This highly developed culture, especially notable for its bronze industry, covered the southern zone of the Caspian Sea and the northern slopes of the Alborz mountains, and exerted a strong influence that spread throughout the ancient world. Thus the Marlik excavation provides information for a dark period of people living in northern Persia and illustrates the daily life, the craftsmanship, and the religious beliefs and traditions of this previously little known culture.
Bibliography
- P. Calmeyer, “Mesopotamien und Iran im II und I Jahrtausend,” in H. J. Nissen et al., eds., Mesopotamien und seine Nachbarn: politische und kulturelle Wechselbeziehungen im alten Vorderasien vom 4.-1. Jahrtausend v. Chr., XXV Rencontre Assyriologie, Berlin, 1982, pp. 339-48.
- Idem, “Marlik Tepe,” Reallexikon der Assyriologie, 1989, pp. 426-29.
- U. Löw, “Der Friedhof von Marlik: ein Datierungsvorschlag (I),” AMI 28, 1995-96, pp. 119-61.
- Idem, Figurlische verzierte Metallgefasse aus Nord-und Nordwestiran, Munster, 1998 (with full bibliography; reviewed by O. W. Muscarella in Bibliotheca Orientalis 57, 2000, pp. 188-95).
- O. W. Muscarella, “Fibulae and Chronology: Marlik and Assur,” Journal of Field Archaeology 11, 1984, pp. 413-19.
- Idem, The Lie Became Great: The Forgery of Ancient Near Eastern Cultures, Groningen, 2000, pp. 31-42.
- E. O. Negahban, Marlik: A Preliminary Report on Marlik Excavation, Gohar Rud Expedition, Rudbar, 1961-1962, 1st ed., Tehran, 1964, 2nd ed., Tehran, 1977.
- Idem, “Marlik: A Royal Necropolis of the Second Millennium,” Archaeologia Viva 1, 1968, pp. 58-79.
- Idem, “Pottery Figurines of Marlik,” Memorial Volume of the Vth International Congress of Iranian Art and Archaeology, Tehran, Isfahan, Shiraz, 11-18 April 1968, Tehran, 1972, pp. 153-63.
- Idem, “Seals of Marlik,” Marlik 2, 1977, pp. 2-25.
- Idem, “Pottery and Bronze Human Figurines of Marlik,” AMI 12, 1979, pp. 157-73.
- Idem, “Maceheads from Marlik,” American Journal of Archaeology 85/4, 1981, pp. 367-78, pls. 59-64.
- Idem, Metal Vessels from Marlik, Prahistorische Bronzefunde 2/3, Munich, 1983.
- Idem, “Pendants from Marlik,” Iranica Antiqua 24, 1989, pp. 175-98.
- Idem, “Horse and Mule Figurines from Marlik,” in L. de Meyer and E. Haernick, eds., Archaeologia Iranica et Orientalis: Miscellanea in Honorem Louis Van den Berghe, 2 vols., Ghent, 1989, I, pp. 287-309.
- Idem, “Mosaic, Glass and Frit Vessels from Marlik,” Studies in Ancient Oriental Civilisation 47, Chicago, 1989, pp. 221-27, Pls. 34-7.
- Idem, “Silver Vessel of Marlik with Gold Spout and Impressed Designs,” Iranica Varia: Papers in Honor of Professor Ehsan Yarshater, Leiden, 1990, pp. 144-51.
- Idem, Marlik: The Complete Excavation Report, 2 vols., Philadelphia, 1996 (review by U. Löw in AJA 103, 1999, pp. 546-48 and by P. R. S. Moorey in American Journal of Near Eastern Studies 59, 2000, pp. 32-34).
- E. Porada, The Art of Ancient Iran, New York, 1965, 90-103.
GĪLĀN iv. History in the Early Islamic Period
The Gelae (Gilites) seem to have entered the region south of the Caspian coast and west of the Amardos River (later Safīdrūd) in the second or first century B.C.E. Pliny identifies them with the Kadusii previously living there. More likely they were a separate people, coming perhaps from the region of Dāḡestān, and superseded the Kadusii. Subsequently they also crossed the Amardos river and, jointly with the Deylamites (q.v.), supplanted the Amardi. Like the Deylamites, they are mentioned as mercenaries of the Sasanian kings but do not seem to have come under their effective rule. The dynasty of the Dabuyids (q.v.) is said to have originated in Gīlān before moving to Ṭabarestān. In 553, Gīlān is mentioned together with Āmol as the seat of a Nestorian bishop.
In early Islamic times the territories of the Gilites extended east of the Safīdrūd (Bīa-pīš) in the coastal lowlands as far as Ḵošam (Arabicized Hawsam, modern Rūdesar). West of the river (Bīa-pas) they occupied the lowlands north of Tārom and were bordered in the west and northwest by Ṭāleš. Gīlān was not occupied by the Arabs. Reports of Gīlān paying tribute to the caliphal government in the early ʿAbbasid age most likely refer to western Gīlān; eastern Gīlān was effectively protected by the Deylamites occupying the mountains against Muslim penetration. The Gilites are rarely mentioned in early Islamic sources, mostly in association with the Deylamites. Legendary genealogy made their ancestor Gīl a brother of Deylam, the ancestor of the Deylamites. Like the Deylamites, they spoke a northwestern Iranian dialect which was largely incomprehensible to other Persian speakers.
Mass conversion to Islam occurred in Gīlān in the later 3rd/9th and early 4th/10th century. In western Gīlān, Abū Jaʿfar Qāsem b. Moḥammad Ṯūmī Tamīmī, a Ḥanbalī scholar from Āmol, spread Sunnite Islam. He was buried in Rašt, where he was later remembered as Ostāḏ Abū Jaʿfar and his tomb was venerated. After the conversion of Gīlān to Twelver Shiʿism, he came to be considered a sayyed. In eastern Gīlān, the ʿAlid Ḥasan b. ʿAlī Oṭrūš al-Nāṣer le’l-Ḥaqq (d. 304/912), preaching in Hawsam, rallied the people to Zaydī Shiʿism. His tomb in Āmol was visited by eastern Gilite pilgrims. The schism between Ḥanbalī western Gīlān and Zaydī Nāṣerī eastern Gīlān lasted for many centuries and acted as a political and cultural divide. From western Gīlān came numerous Sunnite traditionists and Ḥanbalī scholars with the nesba Gīlānī since the 5th/11th century. The eastern Gilites became closely associated with the Zaydī Deylamites and shared in the “Deylamite Expansion” (Minorsky) of the 4th/10th century.
In his account of the Gilites, reflecting the situation around the time of his conversion, Abū Esḥāq Ṣābī states that they were divided into four tribes named by him. As described by him, these “tribes” appear more like clans of a small nobility and were all located in a central region of Gīlān around Lāhījān and Rašt. Like the Deylamites, the Gilites recognized a line of kings who normally belonged to the royal clan named Šāhānšāhāvand and dwelled in the region of Dāḵel, northwest of Lāhījān. Among their kings was Līlī b. Šahdūst (Noʿmān) who was killed in battle in 309/921 after conquering Ṭūs. Also of the royal Gilite clan were the Ziarids (q.v.), a dynasty ruling Gorgān and Ṭabarestān from 320/932 to the last quarter of the 5th/11th century.
Even after Islamization and the Deylamite expansion, Gīlān and Deylamān remained politically semi-independent and fragmented. Ziarids, Buyids, and later Saljuqs sought to gain influence from the outside and were at times able to exact tribute, but not to impose government or regular taxation. The Zaydīs in eastern Gīlān supported ʿAlid rulers seated, in the 4th/10th and 5th/11th centuries, in Hawsam (see ʿALIDS OF ṬABARESTĀN, DAYLAMĀN, AND GĪLĀN). Most of the country, however, continued to be controlled by clan-based local chieftains. In the 6th/12th century Lāhījān replaced Hawsam as the seat of the Zaydī ʿAlid rulers. Lāhījān (earlier name Līāhej), from where the Deylamite Būyid dynasty had originated, was still considered Deylamite in the 4th/10th century. Now it became the main town of eastern Gīlān.
Under the Mongol Ilkhanids Gīlān at first remained independent. In 706/1306-7 the Il-khan Oljāytū mounted a major campaign to subjugate Gīlān. The Mongols suffered heavy losses, and Oljāytū gained only nominal recognition of his suzerainty. Gīlān thus was incorporated into the Il-khanid empire but continued to be ruled by its local dynasties. After 769/1367-68 ʿAlī Kīā b. Amīr Kīā Malāṭī, an ʿAlid leader of Zaydī penitents, gained control of eastern Gīlān with backing from the Marʿašī sayyeds ruling in Māzandarān. He and his descendants established themselves in Lāhījān and ruled all of eastern Gīlān until the early Safavid age. In western Gīlān the Sunnite Shafiʿite Esḥāqvand dynasty rose to power from the middle of the 7th/13th century. Seated in Fūman, the dynasty gradually expanded its sway over all of western Gīlān. Both dynasties were removed by the Safavid Shah ʿAbbās I in 1000/1592, and Gīlān came to be ruled by governors appointed by the central government.
Bibliography
- Ḥodūd al-ʿālam, tr. Minorsky, pp. 136-37, 388-91.
- D. Krawulsky, Iran: Das Reich der Īlḫāne, Wiesbaden, 1978, pp. 372-83.
- ʿAlī b. Šams-al-Dīn Lāhejī, Tārīḵ-e ḵānī, ed. M. Sotūda, Tehran, 1352 Š./1973.
- W. Madelung, Arabic Texts Concerning the History of the Zaydī Imāms of Ṭabaristān, Daylamān and Gīlān, Beirut,1987.
- Ẓahīr al-Dīn Marʿašī, Tārīḵ-e Gīlān o Deylamestān, ed. M. Sotūda, Tehran, 1347 Š./1969.
- Markwart, Ērānšahr, pp. 124-25.
- Spuler, Iran, index, s.v. Gēlān. W. Madelung, “Abū Isḥāq al-Ṣābī on the ʿAlids of Ṭabaristān and Gīlān,” in idem, Religious and Ethnic Movements in Medieval Islam, Aldershot, Hampshire, U.K., 1992, art. VII.
- Idem, “The Minor Dynasties of Northern Iran,” in Camb. Hist. Iran IV, pp. 198-249.
- H. L. Rabino di Borgomale, Les provinces caspiennes de la Perse: Le Guîlân, RMM 32 (1915-16), Paris, 1917.
- Idem, “Les dynasties locales du Gîlân et du Daylam,” JA 237, 1949, pp. 301-50.
- M. Sotūda, Az Āstārā tā Estārbād, 2 vols., Tehran, 1970-72.
GĪLĀN v. History under the Safavids
Gīlān has traditionally been considered by its local population as a land of two distinct regions divided by the course of Safīdrūd River. The author of Ḥodūd al-ʿālam, who may have sojourned there, refers to the people of the two sections as those of this side of the river (īn sū-ye rūdīān, i.e., of the west bank) and those of that side of the river (ān sū-ye rūdīān, i.e., of the east bank) and stresses the warlike character of its men that makes engagement in constant inter-village battles their only profession until old age turns them into zealous enforcers of religious precepts (moḥtaseb-e maʿrūfgar). Later sources have referred to the two parts as Pīš Gīlān and Pas Gīlān, Rū[d]-pīš and Rū[d]-pas (Rūh-pīš in Lāhījī, p. 334), but more often by the local terms Bīa-pīš and Bīa-pas (the Gīlakī term bīa “water” is a vestige of an old Iranian word, Av. vaδay-, vaiδi- “watercourse,” preserved also as vūye “water” in the Tati language of Tākestān, see Henning, 1954, p. 146; idem, 1977, p. 464; Ḥodūd al-ʿālam, ed. Sotūda, pp. 149-50, tr. Minorsky, pp. 136-37, comm. pp. 388-91; Qāšānī, p. 57; Marʿašī, pp. 91, 101,119, 275; AirWb., cols. 1344-45).
Major areas had their own local lords who often were at war with each other but always managed to keep outside powers at arm’s length. Lofty mountains with winding narrow passes, impregnable forests, frequent torrential rain, and unhealthy climate caused mighty conquerors to deem it wise to be pleased with a nominal token of allegiance (e.g., visiting the court) and the regular payment of tribute. Thus, it remained a favorite area of political refuge as long as it managed to maintain its autonomous state (see, e.g., Rašīd-al-Dīn, Jāmeʿ al-tawārīḵ, Baku, pp. 232, 237; idem, Tārīḵ-e Ḡāzānī, p. 120; Āqsarāʾī, p. 143; Ṭahmāsb Ṣafawī, pp. 11-12, 76-77; Šokrī, ed., pp. 13-14; Qāżī Aḥmad, ed. Ešrāqī, p. 162). Gīlān was the only area in Persia that remained virtually independent of Mongol rule when the entire country had fallen to them, and it remained so even after the costly invasion of it by Oljāytū. No Mongol governor was sent to Gīlān; instead, the Il-khan authorized the ruler of Bīa-pīš to bring the entire area under his command and gave him a Mongol girl as a sign of the Il-khan’s good will (Qāšānī, pp. 55-56, 61-72; Ḥāfeẓ-e Abrū, pp. 10-18; Neẓām-al-Dīn Šāmī, pp. 101, 295; ʿAlī Yazdī, II, pp. 562-63; Marʿašī, pp. 365-66, 375-76; Mīrkᵛānd, VI, pp. 460-61; Spuler, pp. 165-66, tr., pp. 170-72; cf. the letters exchanged between Tīmūr and Sayyed ʿAlī Kīā of Gīlān in Navāʾī, ed., 1977, pp. 51-63).
In the late 15th-early 16th century, Gīlān was under the overlordship of the members of two local clans. Bīa-pas (with Fūman, q.v., and, later, Rašt as its center), a Sunnite area, was ruled by the Shafiʿite Amīra Dobbāj of the Dobbāj/Esḥāqvand clan, who traced back his lineage to the Sasanian kings and beyond and, at the same time, claimed descent from the biblical prophet Isaac (Esḥāq). Bīa-pīš (with Lāhījān as its capital), mostly Shiʿite, was under Kār Kīā Mīrzā ʿAlī, a sayyed from the Zaydī Shiʿite Amīr Kīāʾī clan, a family of relatively newcomers (now-pādšāh), although at least one of its members did not hesitate to claim a Sasanian ancestry as well (Qoṭb-al-Dīn Šīrāzī, pp. 9, 16-17; Eskandar Beg, p. 110, tr., p. 182; Qāżī Aḥmad, p. 255; Qāšānī, pp. 56-59).
The youthful Esmāʿīl Ṣafawī I (q.v.), the later founder of the Safavid dynasty, took refuge in Gīlān, where he stayed for about six years (Lāhījī: eight years) before the breakup of the Aq Qoyunlu Empire gave him the chance he had been looking for to make his bid for the throne of Persia in 905/1499. Esmāʿīl refused to stay with Amīra Esḥāq, the ruler of Rašt, which had been arranged for him by his advisors (Ḥasan Rūmlū, ed. Navāʾī, II, pp. 18-19), probably because he could not trust a Sunnite (cf. Lāhījī, 105; Wāla Eṣfahānī, p. 168; Ḥabīb al-sīar IV, pp. 490-91; Montaẓer-e Ṣāḥeb, ed., p. 44). He, however, readily accepted the invitation of the then paramount ruler of Gīlān, the Shiʿite Kīā Mīrzā ʿAlī of Lāhījān, who had fought the Aq Qoyunlu (q.v.) several times and, according to the author of ʿĀlamārā-ye ṣafawī (ed. Šokrī, p. 39), was affiliated with the Safavid order. The Aq Qoyunlu prince Rostam Beyg many times tried peaceful means as well as military might to make Mīrzā ʿAlī surrender Esmāʿīl, but Mīrzā ʿAlī never gave in (Abū Bakr Ṭehrānī, pp. 499-507; Ḥasan Rūmlū, ed. Navāʾī, I, p. 638, II, pp. 13-21; Montaẓer-e Ṣāḥeb, ed., pp. 33, 35, 38-40; Możṭar, ed., pp. 58 ff.; Qāżī Aḥmad, ed. Ešrāqī, pp. 46-47; Wāla Eṣfahānī, pp. 68-85; Eskandar Beg, pp. 25-26, tr. pp. 41-42; Lāhījī, pp. 103-6; Marʿašī, pp. 331-33; Ḥabīb al-sīar IV, pp. 441-42, 446-48).
Despite their family relationship and occasional alliance, the rulers of Bīa-pīš and Bīa-pas were often at war (e.g., Marʿašī, pp. 81-83., 97-98, 264, 273, 287-95, 297-300; 348, 371, 399-400, 475-76; Lāhījī, pp. 20, 24-27, 72, 80, 171-75). Bīa-pīš reached its zenith under Mīrzā ʿAlī, whose superior power was often practically acknowledged both by the ruler of Bīa-pas and those of western Māzandarān (see, e.g., Lāhījī, pp. 64-74, 78-86, 107-8). Mīrzā ʿAlī had developed special affection for Amīra Esḥāq, to whom he had given his own sister in marriage. However, the first new seed of animosity between the two rulers of Bīa-pas and Bīa-pīš was planted in 899/1494-95, when Amīra Esḥāq, who apparently was on friendly terms with the Aq Qoyunlu prince Alvand Beyg, tried to intercept the future Shah Esmāʿīl (r. 907-30/1501-24) on his way from Gīlān to Ardabīl (Lāhījī, p. 105; Wāla Eṣfahānī, p. 79). In 907/1501-2, Mīrzā ʿAlī asked Amīra Esḥāq to dismiss his army commander, ʿAbbās, whom Mīrzā ʿAlī resented because of his duplicity during the siege of Sārī by Mīrzā ʿAlī in 899/1494-95, his extreme Sunnite sentiments, and his arranging for the peace treaty between Amīra Esḥāq and Alvand Beyg Aq Qoyunlu. The main reason, however, seems to have been the proven capability of ʿAbbās and his brothers as excellent military leaders that Mīrzā ʿAlī could not overlook. Amīra Esḥāq refused to comply and, in the battle of the Safīdrūd River, the forces of Bīa-pīš were routed and, according to the terms of a peace treaty of the same year, Kūčeṣfahān was ceded to Amīra Esḥāq, the governor of Bīa-pas at Fūman. From 907 on, Kūčeṣfahān became the bone of contention between the two, for which many more battles were fought that ravaged all of Gīlān. Jayḥān and Raḥmatābād were also lost after another defeat in 908/1502-3, in which Lāhījān in particular suffered a great deal. ʿAbbās sent the head of the Bīa-pīš commander to Morād Khan Aq Qoyunlu and deported Bīa-pīš women and children to Bīa-pas, where they were kept until the conclusion of peace treaty, when he sold them back to their husbands and fathers at the market price of slaves (Lāhījī, pp. 68-69, 106-30, 138-44, 153, 172-73, 175; Wāla Eṣfahānī, p. 168).
Amīra Esḥāq died in the same year, and his son and successor Amīra ʿAlāʾ-al-Dīn, evidently aware of the sore issue of Kūčeṣfahān, which the governors of Bīā-pīš considered their prize possession, intended to return it to Mīrzā ʿAlī, but he was killed before arrangements could be made (Lāhījānī, pp. 133-34).
Mīrzā ʿAlī (r. 883-911/1477-1505) led Bīa-pīš to the peak of its power, winning a number of contests over Qazvīn against Aq Qoyunlu, extending his sway over Tehran and Šahrīār, and at times penetrating as far south as Sāva. He believed that a show of force was concomitant with the principles of effective government and felt little clemency towards adversaries (Lāhījī, pp. 65, 73-74, 78, 82-85, 97-99). Endless expeditions that often involved looting, burning, destroying, etc. devastated the entire area and drained the resources of Bīa-pīš to the point that Lašt-e Nešā no longer was able to sustain the daily expenses of its governor (i.e., Solṭān Ḥasan, Mīrzā ʿAlī’s brother) and the whole of Bīa-pīš could not afford to send a tribute of two hundred tomans demanded by Shah Esmāʿīl as a congratulatory gift (moštloq) for his victory over the Uzbeks in Khorasan (Lāhījī, pp. 35-38, 41-44, 51, 53-57, 138-44, 157, 171-75, 202, 277, 328, 334, 347, 389-90; cf. with tributes paid to Tīmūr and Uzun Ḥasan: Neẓām-al-Dīn Šāmī, I, p. 295; Yazdī, II, p. 461; Marʿašī, pp. 375-76, 378-79).
In 910/1504, Mīrzā ʿAlī was removed in a bloodless coup d’état at Rānekūh by his brother Kār Kīā Solṭān Ḥasan, the ruler of Lašt-e Nešā, who had already made a secret agreement of cooperation with Ḥosām-al-Dīn, the ruler of Fūman. Ḥosām-al-Dīn, however, refused to honor his commitment for peace and instead requested that Mīrzā ʿAlī be sent to him as hostage. He plundered Rānekūh when his request was rejected. Solṭān Ḥasan also failed to win the support of his brothers, in particular of Solṭān Hāšem whose nomination by Mīrzā ʿAlī to succeed him was the main cause of the coup. Frustrated by the adamant, hostile attitude of Ḥosām-al-Dīn and feeling insecure in his own realm, Solṭān Ḥasan twice sent his son, Solṭān Aḥmad, to the court appealing for intervention. Shah Esmāʿīl first dispatched an amir with an army to settle the issues, but the presence of the Safavid army created more problems. When the second envoy of Shah Esmāʿīl to Ḥosām-al-Dīn also came back empty-handed, the king ordered his new commander-in-chief (amīr-al-omarāʾ, q.v.), Shaikh Najm-al-Dīn Masʿūd Raštī, to arbitrate between the two. Shaikh Najm-al-Dīn’s envoy and Ḥasan’s representative arrived together in Fūman, but both were arrested by Ḥosām-al-Dīn’s order (Lāhījī, pp. 157-68, 183-90, 192-93, 196-98, 200-204, 218, 228; Qāżī Aḥmad, ed. Ešrāqī, p. 88).
Shah Esmāʿīl, furious at the unruliness of Ḥosām-al-Dīn, who seems not to have sent regular tribute as well, decided to punish him. A Safavid army crossed into Gīlān and started ravaging the country. Gaskar and Kūčeṣfahān were conquered, and the army posed to move on Rašt. The king himself joined the troops at Kūčeṣfahān. Ḥosām-al-Dīn, who was well aware of the ruthlessness of Shah Esmāʿīl in punishing defeated adversaries, appealed to Shaikh Najm-al-Dīn, who managed to persuade the king, who had in the meantime received valuable gifts from Ḥosām-al-Dīn and also could no longer tolerate the continuous rain, to call off the expedition. He left unexpectedly, leaving the army behind and having authorized Shaikh Najm-al-Dīn to settle the issue between the two at his own discretion (Lāhījī, pp. 262-68; Bedlīsī, p. 137; Ḥabīb al-sīar IV, pp. 483-84; Ḥasan Rūmlū, ed. Navāʾī, II, p. 117; Eskandar Beg, p. 31, tr. 50; ʿAbdī Beyg, p. 44; Qāżī Aḥmad, ed. Ešrāqī, p. 87; Możṭar, ed., pp. 236-37; Wāla Eṣfahānī, pp. 154-55).
Meanwhile, in 911/1505, Mīrzā ʿAlī, who was not sure of Solṭān Ḥasan’s loyalty, in a secret agreement with his other brothers and former officials of his court, had Solṭān Ḥasan murdered, but he himself was killed the next day by the nobles loyal to Solṭān Ḥasan (Lāhījī, pp. 157-58, 166-67, 181-83, 222-39; Wāla Eṣfahānī, pp. 155-56; Ḥasan Rūmlū, ed. Navāʾī, II, p. 116). Ḥasan’s son, Kār KīāAḥmad, who was then at the royal camp, returned to Lāhījān only to find himself just a figurehead. The real power was wielded by the vizier Sadīd, who isolated the young prince by methodically eliminating his supporters and assigning his own relatives and associates to key positions. To pave the way for his own rule as the prince, he sent an emissary to Ḥosām-al-Dīn promising him peace in order to secure his cooperation for the removal of Solṭān Aḥmad in his own favor. Moreover, he also had cultivated a cordial relationship with the king’s powerful confidant Shaikh Najm-al-Dīn, and through him he secured a royal edict that gave him the authority to kill at will (Lāhījī, pp. 251-55; 259-61, 270-74, 282-86, 290, 293; Ḥasan Rūmlū, ed. Navāʾī, II, pp. 116, 120).
Sadīd informed Shaikh Najm-al-Dīn of his agreement with Ḥosām-al-Dīn when the former arrived for arbitration. Shaikh Najm-al-Dīn, who was a Bīa-pas native and, according to Lāhījī, feared for his own life, gave in to all Ḥosām-al-Dīn’s demands, even promising him Lašt-e Nešā, the traditional homeland of Solṭān Aḥmad. Aḥmad Khan had no choice but to agree since the peace treaty also stipulated that Sadīd would become the sole representative of the court in case of any disagreement between him and Sadīd. Solṭān Aḥmad eventually succeeded in having Sadīd murdered in 912/1506-7 as he was asleep (Lāhījī, pp. 306-12). The death of Sadīd antagonized Najm-al-Dīn further, who decided to punish Solṭān Aḥmad by demanding tributes, summoning him to the court, and trying to turn Shah Esmāʿīl against him. Several times royal decrees were obtained by both sides appointing one or the other to the government of Lašt-e Nešā, and, in the meantime, Lašt-e Nešā was devastated by Ḥosām-al-Dīn (Lāhījī, pp. 269-71, 330-47). The death of Shaikh Najm-al-Dīn in 915/1509-10 deprived Ḥosam-al-Dīn of his powerful ally. The following year, Solṭān Aḥmad traveled to the court with valuable gifts for Shah Esmāʿīl, who consequently appointed him the governor general of the entire Caspian area from Āstārā to Esterābād/Astarābād (qq.v.; Lāhījī, pp. 356-64, 369-79; Rabino, 1917, pp. 427-28, tr. pp. 494-95).
Ḥosām-al-Dīn was succeeded by his son Amīra Dobbāj, who apparently in reaction to the good relation of the court with Solṭān Aḥmad Khan, but most probably because he was in some secret agreement with the Ottoman court, considered himself strong enough to disregard the requirement of the allegiance to Shah Esmāʿīl (dam-e esteʿdād o esteqlāl mīzad wa lawāzem eṭāʿat wa enqīād ba ʿamal namīāward; Inalcik, 1973, p. 107, refers to Gīlān as an autonomous frontier province of the Ottoman Empire). In 925/1519, Shah Esmāʿīl ordered Aḥmad Khan and some local rulers of Māzandarān and Rostamdār, including Dūrmeš Khan (q.v.) and Zaynal Khan Šāmlū, to conquer Bīa-pas. Amīra Dobbāj, rather than facing the Safavid army alone, decided to send gifts to the court and plead for clemency while, at the same time, appealing to Aḥmad Khan, who at that time was at the royal camp, to intervene. Shah Esmāʿīl, who never recovered from the defeat at Čalderān (q.v.) and probably was not unaware of Dobbāj’s relation with Sultan Salīm, pardoned him. Amīra Dobbāj had coins struck in Shah Esmāʿīl’s name and a year later visited the court, on which occasion he received the title Moẓaffar Solṭān and was also given a daughter of Shah Esmāʿīl in marriage (Fūmanī, pp. 11-16; Ḥabīb al-sīar IV, pp. 563-64, 567-68; Możṭar, ed., pp. 566-67, 575; Ḥasan Rūmlū, ed. Navāʾī, II, p. 219; Wāla Eṣfahānī, pp. 272-74; Qāżī Aḥmad, p. 141; Rabino, 1917, pp. 428-30, tr. 495-97; see also Sultan Salīm’s letter, dated 923/1917, addressed to the ruler of Gīlān [referred to as sepahsālār-e aʿẓam-e amīrān], most probably Amīra Dobbāj, exulting his victory at the battle of Čālderān, and asking Dobbāj to keep him informed of Esmāʿīl’s movements; see Navāʾī, ed. 1989a, pp. 311-15).
In 935/1529, Khan Aḥmad Khan went to Qazvīn, the capital, to commit his allegiance to the young king Shah Ṭahmāsb (930-84/1524-76). Persuaded by Shah Ṭahmāsb, he recanted his Zaydī faith and adopted Twelver Shiʿism, which he endeavored to force on his subjects after his return to Gīlān. After a rule of thirty years and two months, Aḥmad Khan passed away in Šaʿbān 940/February-March 1534. He was succeeded by Kār KīāḤasan, who died of the plague in 943/1536. Ḥasan’s son, Aḥmad, later known as Khan Aḥmad Khan (944-1000/1538-92), who was only one year old upon his father’s death, was proclaimed ruler of Bīa-pīš by a local grandee, AmīraʿAbbās, who at the time was in charge (ṣāḥeb-eḵtīār) of the government (Ḥasan Rūmlū, ed. Navāʾī, II, pp. 362-63; ʿAbdī Beyg, pp. 136-37; Eskandar Beg, p. 110, tr. Savory, pp. 182-83; Rabino, 1917, pp. 430-31, tr. p. 498; Pārsādūst, 1998, p. 564).
In the civil war that followed the death of Shah Esmāʿīl I between the rival factions of the qezelbāš, Moẓaffar Solṭān, who, did not have cordial relation with the court despite having married the king’s sister, supported the rebellious Ostājlūs against the forces of Dīv Solṭān (q.v.), the amīr-al-omarāʾ, who was acting in the name of the youthful new king Shah Ṭahmāsb (Qāżī Aḥmad, ed. Ešrāqī, pp. 162-63; Ḥasan Rūmlū, ed. Navāʾī, II, pp. 245-47, 251-54; Wāla Eṣfahānī, pp. 331-36; Bedlīsī, II, p. 171; ʿAbdī Beyg Šīrāzī, pp. 62-63; Ṭahmāsb Ṣafawī, pp. 10-12; Pārsādūst, 1998, pp. 556-57; Savory, pp. 51-53). Once the rebellion was crushed, Moẓaffar Solṭān, now rightly fearful of Shah Ṭahmāsb’s revenge because of his support of the rebellious amirs, and most probably in collusion with the Ottoman court that had its eyes on Gīlān, the source provider of raw material for the florishing Ottoman silk industry (see Inalcik, 1994, chap. 10), became intent on undermining the Safavid power. According to Qāżī Aḥmad, he also made contacts with another deadly enemy of the Safavids, namely ʿObayd-Allāh Khan, the Uzbek ruler of Bukhara. He became totally alienated from the royal court after the death of his wife in 938/1532, and during the invasion of Azerbaijan by the Ottoman Sultan Solaymān in 940/1534, in the hope that Solaymān would soon put an end to the Safavid rule, joined Sultan Solaymān at the head of an army of 8000 (Qāżī Aḥmad, ed. Ešrāqī. pp. 254-56; Fūmanī, pp. 16-18; Eskandar Beg, pp. 110-11, tr. Savory, p. 183; Navāʾī, ed., 1989, p. 161; Bedlīsī, II, p. 182 [army of 5000]; Pārsādūst, 1998, pp. 556-59). The scorched earth policy adapted by Shah Ṭahmāsb, who did not want to have the disastrous battle of Čālderān repeated, in addition to the severe early cold of that year, forced the Ottoman troops to withdraw (Ṭahmāsb Ṣafawī, pp. 25-30; Eskandar Beg, pp. 66-68. tr. Savory, pp. 111-12; Bedlīsī, II, pp. 182-85; Qāżī Aḥmad, ed. Ešrāqī. pp. 228-36; Pārsādūst, pp. 153-67). Moẓaffar Solṭān returned to Gīlān in fear and disappointed, but before he could reach Rašt, the seat of his government, he was attacked and defeated by Amīra Ḥātem of Kūhdam, a member of his own entourage. Moẓaffar Solṭān left Gīlān to take refuge with Solṭān Ḵalīl, the then governor of Šīrvān, who also had married a daughter of Shah Esmāʿīl. Solṭān Ḵalīl, however, soon died on Jomādā I 942/November 1535 and Moẓaffar Solṭān was taken to Tabrīz, where he was burned alive in public on 7 Rabīʿ II, 943/17 February 1537 by the order of Shah Ṭahmāsb. Shortly afterwards, Rostam Fūmanī, a former ranking amir under Moẓaffar Solṭān, attacked and captured Amīra Ḥātem, who had established himself in Bīa-pas and had coin struck in his own name. Amīra Ḥātem was sent in chain to the royal court, but he was eventually pardoned and sent to Kermān (Bedlīsī, II, pp. 187-88; Ḥasan Rūmlū, ed. Navāʾī, II, pp. 355-56; Fūmanī, pp. 19-27; Qāżī Aḥmad, ed. Ešrāqī, pp. 255-56; ʿAbdī Beyg, pp. 76-78, 84; Eskandar Beg, p. 111, tr., p. 183; Rabino, 1917, p. 430, tr. 497).
After the death of Kār Kīā Ḥasan in 944/1538 (see above), Shah Ṭahmāsb, persuaded by Kīā Ḵor Kīā Ṭālaqānī, a former courtier of Kār Kīā Haṟsan, sent his own brother, Bahrām Mīrzā, as the governor of Gīlān at the head of a large army. Bahrām Mīrzā established himself in Deylamān and a few months later imprisoned Kīā Ḵor Kīā, who was very much respected by the people of Gīlān. People rebelled and defeated the prince, who fled to Qazvīn (Ḥasan Rūmlū, ed. Navāʾī, II, pp. 361-62; Bedlīsī, II, pp. 189, 190; ʿAbdī Beyg Šīrāzī, p. 86; Eskandar Beg, p. 110, tr. Savory, pp. 182-83; Rabino, 1917, p. 430, tr. pp. 498-99). In 945/1538, Khan Aḥmad Khan, the infant ruler of Bīa-pīš, received a royal decree that added Bīa-pas to his dominion, thus making him the sole ruler of Gīlān. Atrocities of the Bīa-pīš army and the chaotic situation that followed their invasion eventually led the people of Bīa-pas to invite Amīra Šāhroḵ, a remote relative of Moẓaffar Solṭān living in Ḵalḵāl, to take over the government of Bīa-pas. Amīra Šāhroḵ arrived in Gīlān in Šawwāl 950/January 1544 and struck coins in Shah Ṭahmāsb’s name. He ruled for seven years before, due to complaints of Khan Aḥmad Khan, he was summoned to the court. Facing intrigues instigated by Khan Aḥmad Khan, who wished to regain control of Bīa-pas, and also unable to meet the increasing monetary demands of qezelbāš leaders, Amīra Šāhroḵ secretly left for Gīlān. He was, however, overtaken by the troops sent after him and executed in Tabrīz with all his entourage (Bedlīsī, II, pp. 234-35; Fūmanī, pp. 28-31; Rabino, 1917, p. 432, tr. pp. 499-500). Then followed in Bīa-pas a period of total anarchy when, among other things, children were kidnapped and sold into slavery. Finally, Shah Ṭahmāsb gave the government of Bīa-pas to Solṭān Maḥmūd, a son of Moẓaffar Solṭān living in Ḵalḵāl, with Kār Kīā Aḥmad Solṭān as his regent (wakīl). They reached Rašt in 965/1557-58, but shortly afterwards, Kār Kīā Aḥmad, hoping to secure the government of Bīa-pas for himself, complained to the court that Solṭān Maḥmūd was unfit to rule. Shah Ṭahmāsb summoned both of them to the court; Maḥmūd was sent in exile to Shiraz, where, by the instigation of Khan Aḥmad Khan, the governor of Bīa-pīš, he was poisoned by Moḥammad b. Ḡīāṯ-al-Dīn Manṣūr Šīrāzī, who had been appointed as his preceptor (Fūmanī, pp. 32-38; Rabino, 1917, pp. 432-33, tr., p. 500).
Khan Aḥmad Khan was now the paramount ruler of Bīa-pīš as well as Bīa-pas. Shah Ṭahmāsb, in order to curtail the power of Khan Aḥmad Khan, who had shown signs of disobedience and had not visited the court for twenty years, gave the government of Bīa-pas to Jamšīd Khan, the son of the late Moẓaffar Solṭān, who was also Shah Ṭahmāsb’s own grandson. At the same time, Khan Aḥmad Khan was ordered to relinquish Gaskar to its former lord Amīra Sāsān, from which Khan Aḥmad had driven him out. Khan Aḥmad gave up Bīa-pas but refused to surrender Kūčeṣfahān claiming that it had always been a part of Bīa-pīš (Kūčeṣfahān was ceded to Bīa-pīš in 882/1477-78 during the rule of Solṭān Moḥammad of Bīa-pīš and recovered by Bīa-pas in 907/1501-2; see Marʿašī, pp. 399-401). To quell his rebellion, the king dispatched on a peace mission to Gīlān one of his trusted men, Yūlqolī Beg Ḏu’l-Qadr. On Ḏu’l-ḥejja 974/June 1567, Amīra Sāsān was routed in a surprise attack near Sīāh-rūdbār by Šāh Manṣūr Lāhījī, the military commander of Lāhijān and governor of Kūčeṣfahān. The king’s envoy, Yūlqolī Beg Ḏu’l-Qadr, who was then in Rašt with a handful of his entourage, was also killed and his head sent to Khan Aḥmad, who then entered Rašt in triumph (Bedlīsī, pp. 234-37; Eskandar Beg, p. 111, tr. p. 184; Ḥasan Rūmlū, ed. Navāʾī, II, pp. 558-59; Fūmanī, pp. 41-44; Qāżī Aḥmad, ed. Ešrāqī, pp. 367-68; Rabino, 1917, p. 434, tr. pp. 501-2). Shah Ṭahmāsb, still hopeful for a peaceful solution, sent Khan Aḥmad Khan a threatening letter recounting his misdeeds and rebellious acts but also promising him forgiveness if he would go to the court. The latter answered making excuses for not visiting the court for twenty years, but still refused to comply (Navāʾī, ed., 1989, pp. 118-32; Nowzād, ed., pp. 62-76; in a pervious, versified letter [he was an accomplished poet] that he sent to the court, Khan Aḥmad mentioned exorbitant demands of the qezelbāš amirs and the officers of the dīvān as the reason for his long absence from the court; see Qāżī Aḥmad, p. 467). Thereupon, Shah Ṭahmāsb, who was already furious at Khan Aḥmad for his cowardly role in the poisoning of Solṭān Maḥmūd and also at the fact that several royal envoys sent to Gīlān to arrest Ḡīāṯ-al-Dīn Manṣūr (whom Khan Aḥmad was harboring) had been turned away by Khan Aḥmad empty-handed, ordered his amirs to cross into Gīlān and capture him. Khan Aḥmad marshaled his forces and prepared for battle, but his army under Kīā Rostam, the military governor of Rašt, was defeated and Aḥmad Khan fled. (According to Bedlīsī, pp. 236-37, who had first-hand information of the operation, Khan Aḥmad was deceived by Maʿṣūm Beyg, the commander of the Safavid army, into disbanding his troops, upon which Maʿṣūm Beyg launched a surprise attack on his camp.) The Safavid army committed many atrocities in Gīlān, indiscriminately looting and destroying property and killing people while looking for Khan Aḥmad. He was eventually captured and jailed in the Qahqaha fortress in Azerbaijan. There he made friends with Prince Esmāʿīl, the future Shah Esmāʿīl II, whereupon Shah Ṭahmāsb, fearing rebellion in the castle, sent Khan Aḥmad Khan to the fortress of Estaḵr in Fārs, where he remained for ten years (Bedlīsī, pp. 234-38, 240; Ḥasan Rūmlū, ed. Navāʾī, II, pp. 559-66; Navāʾī, ed., 1989, pp. 118-34; Nowzād, ed., pp. 62-78; Fūmanī, pp. 43-52; Eskandar Beg, pp. 111-13, tr. Savory, pp. 183-87; Qāżī Aḥmad, ed. Ešrāqī, pp. 462-78; Wāla Eṣfahānī, pp. 351-55; Walīqōlī Šāmlū, pp. 85-88; Afūštaʾī, pp. 68-69; Rabino, 1917, pp. 435-36, 449, tr. pp. 503, 519; Ḥosaynī Astarābādī, p. 83, with the wrong date 965).
With the removal of Khan Aḥmad Khan Bīa-pas enjoyed a period of peace under Jamšīd Khan, who arrived in Fūman and later married a daughter of Shah Ṭahmāsb. Allāhqolī Beyg Solṭān Ostājlū, who had captured Khan Aḥmad, was rewarded, as the guardian (lala) of Prince Maḥmūd Mīrzā, with the government of Lāhījān and the rest of Bīa-pīš was divided among other qezelbāš amirs. The iron-handed rule of the amirs, whose excessive demands never seemed to end, eventually caused a popular uprising in Lāhījān in 979 /1571-72. People attacked the castle of Lāhījān in the absence of Allāhqolī Solṭān, killing everyone, including women and children, and also defeated Amīra Sāsān, the governor of Gaskar. The rebellion ended when its leader, a certain Dobbāj, was killed in a battle with the army sent against him by Shah Ṭahmāsb (Bedlīsī, pp. 240, 243, who also mentions an earlier, short-lived uprising by a certain Hāšem Khan; Ḥasan Rūmlū, ed. Navāʾī, II, pp. 578-81; Navāʾī, ed., 1989, pp. 118-34; Eskandar Beg, pp. 113-14, tr. Savory, pp. 187-88; Fūmanī, pp. 54-63; Qāżī Aḥmad, ed. Ešrāqī, pp. 570-71; Wāla Eṣfahānī, pp. 363-65; Ḥosaynī Astarābādī, p. 84, with the wrong date 966).
Khan Aḥmad Khan remained in prison until 985/1578, when the new king Moḥammad Ḵodā-banda (985-96/1578-88), at the suggestion of his queen, who was a close relative of Khan Aḥmad and the actual power behind the throne, released him from Estaḵr fortress and took him along in his retinue to Qazvīn. There he gave Khan Aḥmad one of his own sisters in marriage and reinstated him in his former dominion of Bīa-pīš. A previous order for the release of Khan Aḥmad had been already issued by Shah Esmāʿīl II, the predecessor of Ḵodā-banda, but evidently it had not been carried out (Qāżī Aḥmad, ed. Ešrāqī, pp. 462-78; Eskandar Beg, pp. 112-13, 223, 227, tr. Savory, pp. 186, 333, 340; Jalāl-al-Dīn Monajjem, pp. 42-43; Afūštaʾī, p. 69; Navāʾī, ed. 1989b, pp. 135-37; Nowzād, ed., pp. 87-89; Fūmanī, pp. 64-68; Rabino, 1917, p. 438, tr. p. 506).
The return of Khan Aḥmad Khan, who had not given up the ambition of being the sole ruler of Gīlān, marked the beginning of a new era of relentless conflicts that lasted for fifteen years and involved the governor of Šīrvān. Gīlān suffered a great deal of devastation. Hardly had Khan Aḥmad arrived in Gīlān before he marched against Bīa-pas. He was routed by the forces of Jamšīd Khan, who ordered the massacre of all captives and had a minaret made of their heads. This, however, did not deter Khan Aḥmad from trying several more times to conquer or at least control Bīa-pas. In the meantime Jamšīd Khan was removed (Fūmanī, p. 71, gives the incorrect date of 2 Ḏul-qaʿda 998/2 September 1590; Mīrzā Kāmrān was killed in 986/1579, see Fūmanī, p. 88) and murdered two months later by a conspiracy engineered by his own generals. Mīrzā Kāmrān of Kūhdam, the leader of the coup, who aspired to secure the government of Bīa-pas for himself, sent Jamšīd Khan’s treasury as gifts to the court with a letter accusing Jamšīd Khan of having harbored rebellious intentions. He also bribed the officials of the court and asked for a royal decree assigning him to the government of Bī-pas. The ineffective king Sultan Khan Ḵodā-banda, who faced more serious problems in his realm (e.g., see Bedlīsī, II, pp. 255-61, 268-69, 272, 279-83), appointed him the interim governor of Bīa-pas and warned Khan Aḥmad Khan, who was hopeful to recover Kūčeṣfahān, not to interfere in Bīa-pas affairs. Khan Aḥmad, who was more fearful of Mīrzā Kāmrān than of his predecessor, pleaded to the court to have the area divided among the qezelbāš amirs. The king, who had developed some affection for Khan Aḥmad and, moreover, was resentful of Mīrzā Kāmrān’s murder of Jamšīd Khan, dispatched Salmān (Fūmanī: Solaymān) Khan to Rašt and divided the rest of Bīa-pas among a few of Ostājlū amirs (Fūmanī, pp. 65-80; Eskandar Beg, pp. 265-67, tr. Savory, pp. 391-94; Wāla Eṣfahānī, pp. 626-29).
In the meantime, Mīrzā Kāmrān was driven out of Rašt by Šīrzād Kāklavānī, who gathered a substantial army around a young man (qalandar pesar, according to Eskandar Beg, p. 267), whom he called Maḥmūd Khan and claimed to be a son of the late Jamšīd Khan. Šīrzād arrived in Rašt with the fake prince, but he offered his allegiance to Khan Aḥmad Khan when he learned that Salmān Khan was approaching Gīlān at the head of an army. A skirmish took place just outside Rašt, in which Šīrzād was taken prisoner and killed a few days later. The qezelbāš amirs entered Rašt in triumph but, finding themselves totally isolated in the middle of a very hostile population that kept harassing them and their troops day and night, returned to Qazvīn dejected and penniless (parīšān o bīsāmān). They took with them Ebrāhīm Khan, the younger son of Jamšīd Khan, and left behind in Rašt his elder brother, Moḥammad-Amīn Khan. For a while Bīa-pas was able enjoy a brief period of peace before ʿAlī Beyg Khan of Fūman, the son of the former wakīl of Jamšīd Khan, arrived from Qazvīn to assume the power as the wakīl of Moḥammad-Amīn. Hostilities flared up again involving the forces of Gaskar and Ṭāleš, and, for a while, Bīa-pas was divided between the two centers of Fūman and Rašt (nominally under Ebrāhīm Khan and Moḥammad-Amīn, respectively). When hostilities eventually came to a halt, Ebrāhīm Khan was the nominal and ʿAlī Beyg, his wakīl, the real ruler of Bīa-pas while Mo ḥammad-Amīn, who had been kidnapped by Khan Aḥmad and placed for a short time in Rašt as his protégé ruler, was a refugee in Lašt-e Nešā under Khan Aḥmad’s protection (Fūmanī, pp. 92-93, 111-13, 125-26; Nowzād, ed., pp. 102-5, 79-80, 129-30, 192-93; Navāʾī, ed., 1988, pp. 124-27; Eskandar Beg, pp. 266-69, tr. pp. 391-97; Wāla Eṣfahānī, pp. 629-33).
The next king, Shah ʿAbbās I (996-1038/1588-1629), who was determined to establish a strong centralized government for all Persia, naturally would look for an opportune time to subdue the independent-minded Khan Aḥmad Khan, who was married to the king’s sister. The opportunity arrived when Khan Aḥmad refused to surrender the renegade qezelbāš amirs who had taken refuge with him in Gīlān and, instead, sent some token gifts with 150 tomans in cash that infuriated Shah ʿAbbās (Jalāl-al-Dīn Monajjem, p. 107). Shah ʿAbbās’s preoccupation with the Ottomans and Uzbeks at that time temporarily kept him from moving against Khan Aḥmad. The Ottomans, who were in control of Azerbaijan and a good part of the western shorelines of the Caspian Sea, had organized a substantial fleet there, which enabled them to establish a direct line of communication with Khan Aḥmad as well as with the Uzbek ruler of Bukhara, whom they encouraged to invade Khorasan. Khan Aḥmad could not have been unaware of the nearby Ottoman presence when he rejected Shah ʿAbbās’s offer of a new marriage alliance (Shaw, pp. 182-83). The situation changed somewhat when the Ottoman Emperor, faced with the pending war with the Habsburgs, concluded a peace treaty with Shah ʿAbbās (Khan Aḥmad had criticized Shah ʿAbbās for his peace initiative in a letter sent to him), but Azerbaijan was still in Ottoman hands and the Uzbeks were ravaging Khorasan. In 999/1590-91 Shah ʿAbbās offered a new marriage alliance with Khan Aḥmad by asking the hand of Khan Aḥmad’s youthful daughter for his son Ṣafī Mīrzā, which Khan Aḥmad rejected. The following year, when Shah ʿAbbās learned that Khan Aḥmad had dispatched his vizier to the Ottoman court in order to arrange a joint, contemporaneous attack against him, Shah ʿAbbās decided to do away with his rebellious subject once and for all. Khan Aḥmad, in desperation, appealed to the Russian czar for protection, but the czar’s response could not arrive in time and Farhād Khan Qarāmānlū, the commander of the Azerbaijan army, was ordered to conquer Gīlān. Farhād Khan entered Gīlān by way of Āstārā and Gaskar and, reinforced by the forces of Gaskar and Bīa-pas, routed Khan Aḥmad Khan’s army on 5 Šawwāl 1000/15 July 1592. The Safavid army indulged in its usual show of ruthlessness. According to the eye-witness account of Orūj Beyg Bayāt, about 10,000 people, half of them women and children, were massacred in one town, and the wife of the town’s governor was burned alive (Nowzād, ed., pp. 91-96; Navāʾī, ed., 1988, III, pp. 17-33; Orūj Beyg Bayāt, pp. 248-51; Jalāl-al-Dīn Monajjem, pp. 107-10, 115-16; Eskandar Beg, pp. 448-51, tr. 621-23; Qāżī Aḥmad, ed. Müller, pp. 93-94, 97-102; Belīsī, II, pp. 293-94; Afūštaʾī, pp. 393-95, 465; Fūmanī, pp. 130-32; Ḥosaynī Astarābādī, pp. 153-54; Falsafī, pp. 142-43).
Shah ʿAbbās tried to keep Khan Aḥmad in Persia by offering him amnesty and his government of Bīa-pīš, but Khan Aḥmad Khan, evidently remembering Shah ʿAbbās’s treatment of renegade amirs that he had turned over to him, fled with Moḥammad-Amīn to Šīrvān and from there proceeded to Istanbul, hoping to use the Ottoman court in order to regain his realm. He died there in exile in 1005/1596-97 (Afšūtaʾī, pp. 464-73; Fūmanī, pp. 161-62; Newzād, pp. 93-95; Eskandar Beg, p. 529, tr., p. 706; see the letters exchanged between the two courts in Navāʾī, ed., II, pp. 130-209). A few days later, Shah ʿAbbās arrived in Lāhījān; he completely destroyed Khan Aḥmad’s palace, proclaimed general amnesty, and appointed Mahdīqolī Khan Šāmlū and ʿAlī Beyg Solṭān as the governors of Bīa-pīš and Bīa-pas, respectively. Ḵᵛāja Masīḥ, the former vizier of Khan Aḥmad who had fled to the court and, according to Fūmanī, was the main instigator of the invasion of Gīlān, was rewarded with the title of “the elder” (rīš-safīd) of Bīa-pīš. He also forbade unprecedented customs (omūr-emobdaʿa; e.g, depriving girls of their right of inheritance) as well as the unjustified, customary taxes (e.g., poll tax, taxes on marriage and death) that traditionally were collected by local rulers. (These taxes must have been reinstated after the removal of Mīrzā ʿAlī, who had abolished them upon his assumption of power; see Lāhījī, pp. 10-11; Marʿašī, p. 415) One year later, Shah ʿAbbās dismissed Mahdīqolī Khan when he received complaints about his conduct of government and ordered the abolishment of any unreasonable taxes levied by Khan Aḥmad Khan or the people after him. Eventually, in 1008/1599, Gīlān was incorporated into the crown lands (ḵāṣṣa) that were administered by viziers (Nowzād, ed., pp. 96-98; Eskandar Beg, pp. 451, 459-60, tr., 624, 633; Jalāl-al-Dīn Monajjem, p. 115; Fūmanī, pp. 132, 135-36, 172, 234-36; Ḥosaynī Astarābādī, pp. 157-58; Eskandar Beg and Wāla, p. 297; della Valle, p. 159; Röhrborn, tr. pp. 157-58, 163-64, 176, 178, 181, n. 50).
The end of the local dynasty did not bring about the total submission of the independent-minded local population, which was now facing the ever increasing demands of non-local officials sent to them by the central government. Shah ʿAbbās’s occasional token measures to alleviate the tax burden and to redress the wrongs (e.g., Eskandar Beg, pp. 459-60, tr. 633; Fūmanī, pp. 202-4, 206; Ḥosaynī Astarābādī, pp. 157-58) did little to win the heart of the people in Gīlān. Popular revolts sprang up within a couple of years after the conquest of Gīlān and were crushed with the usual cruelty of the qezelbāš. The revolt of Ḥamza Khan Ṭālešī in the castle of Šīndān in 1002 was followed in the same year by those of ʿAlī Beyg Khan Fūmanī, the governor of Bīa-pas, and Ṭāleš-kūlī (Jalāl-al-Dīn Monajjem, pp. 131-34, 139-40; Afšūtaʾī, pp. 475-85; Fūmanī, pp. 140-46, 163-68; Eskandar Beyg, pp. 494-501, 513-14, tr. 670-75, 689-92). On one occasion, Shah ʿAbbās ordered the massacre of Lašt-e Nešā’s entire population, and in another instance sent his executioner to kill indiscriminately the men and women of the rebellious villages (Jalāl-al-Dīn Monajjem, pp. 140; Afūštaʾī, pp. 540-47; Fūmanī, pp. 163-67, 169-71). The most threatening insurrection happened at Lašt-e Nešā in 1038 soon after the death of Shah ʿAbbās in the same year. People lost patience with the oppressive rule of Aṣlān Khan, the vizier of Gīlān, and rallied around a certain Kālanjār Solṭān, who emerged from the forests claiming to be the son of the late Amīra Jamšīd Khan of Bīa-pas. A large army (ten thousand according to Fūmanī) of commoners (ajāmera) followed him and proclaimed him king as ʿĀdel Shah and Ḡarīb Shah. Houses, shops, caravansaries, market places, as well as the residence of the mayor (kalāntar) of Lāhījān and the government offices were looted and destroyed. ʿĀdel Shah was eventually defeated by Sārū Taqī Khan, the vizier of Gīlān and Māzandarān, who marched from Ṭāleš and ravaged Lašt-e Nešā. When he left, he took with him the girls and the women that his army had taken prisoner. ʿĀdel Shah was captured and sent to the court, where he was executed (Fūmanī, pp. 261-89; Eskandar Beg and Wāla Eṣfahānī, pp. 15-18; Bedlīsī, II, pp. 297, 299; Ḥosaynī Astarābādī, p. 237).
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GĪLĀN vi. History in the 18th century
The rapid decline of the Safavids in the first decades of the 18th century, leading to their ultimate demise in 1722, created a general state of chaos in the country. The northern regions of the country in particular became vulnerable to foreign influence and occupation. The first concerted efforts by czarist Russia to dominate the Caspian Sea and the Persian provinces of Gīlān, Māzandarān, and Astarābād, as well as Azerbaijan, began in the same era. This turbulent century also saw the rise to power of three powerful tribal leaders, Nāder Shah Afšār (1149-60/1736-47), Karīm Khan Zand (1164-93/1751-79), and Āqā Moḥammad Khan Qājār (1193-1211/1779-97). During most of this period, the history of Gīlān was marked by the rule of local chiefs who either governed independently or secured their relative independence through payments of tribute to the above mentioned rising figures and their assigned governor generals. The centuries old binary division in Gīlan of Bīa-pas and Bīa-pīš was also maintained in this period.
Russian occupation of Gīlān. Commercial and diplomatic relations between Russia and Persia began to develop during the 16th century, when the emerging Safavid and Muscovite empires became increasingly concerned with foreign trade as an important source of government revenue. The opening of the Volga-Caspian route in the 1550s, secured through the conquest of the Tartar Khanates of Kazan and Astrakhan by Ivan the Terrible, marked the beginning of a new commercial route from western Europe to Persia via Russia. These early commercial interests were merged with the Russo-Persian political contacts, which were incited by the desire of a number of Georgian princes to seek Russian protection against the Persian and Ottoman empires that were competing for suzerainty over Georgia and Armenia (Cochan and Keep, pp. 39, 89; Kazemzadeh, pp. 239-44; Atkin, pp. 3-7).
Russia made its first determined attempt to occupy the southern Caspian provinces of Persia during the closing years of the reign of Peter the Great (r. 1696-1725). Having established Russia as a great European power, Peter had long aspired to control European trade with the Orient and turn the Caspian into a Russian sea. In 1127/1715, he sent an officer, Artemy Volinsky, to the court of Shah Solṭān-Ḥosayn to evaluate the local situation and encourage greater commercial cooperation with Persia and expand Russian trade with India. An alliance with Persia against the Ottomans was also envisaged. Volinsky negotiated a treaty with the Persian court, allowing Russia to send consuls to Isfahan, Shirvan, and Rašt. Volinsky also reported that the Safavid Empire was on the verge of collapse and that the conquest of its northern provinces in the west and southern Caspian regions would pose little difficulty (Cochan and Keep, p. 88; Lockhart, 1958, pp. 103-4, 106, 108).
The pretext for the invasion of the Persian provinces was the serious damage done in 1133/1721 to the life and property of Russian merchants in Shirvan by Lezghian tribesmen, who were nominally subjects of the shah but were in constant revolt against the central government. Peter began his advances toward the southern shores of the Caspian in 1722 by mobilizing 100,000 soldiers and sailors at Astrakhan and occupied Darband (q.v.) in September of 1722. However, challenged by Ottoman advances in northwestern Persia, Peter retreated to Astrakhan for the winter. Meanwhile, the governor of Gīlān, fearing an imminent Afghan invasion of the province, sent an urgent message to Peter, requesting him to dispatch a Russian garrison to Rašt, the capital of the province, which was under siege by Zebardast Khan Afḡān. Apparently, the governor’s demand was in accord with the wish of the Safavid Shah Ṭahmāsb II, who had just assumed the crown and sent an envoy, Esmāʿīl Beg, to sign a treaty of alliance and protection with Russia. In response, in early 1135/1723, the czar ordered two battalions of his regular soldiers under Colonel Shipov to sail to Gīlān. When they arrived, the governor hesitated to give them permission to disembark. Eventually, welcomed neither by the governor nor by the people, the Russians settled in a caravansary near Rašt. Suffering a bombardment from the sea, Baku also surrendered in July of the same year. Esmāʿīl Beg, Ṭahmāsb’s envoy to Peter’s court, was briefed to seek the czar’s protection against the Afghan and Ottoman invaders. On his way he arrived in Rašt and was sent along by Shipov to Moscow before he had received fresh instructions from the shah who had by now changed his mind. Reversing his previous policy, Ṭahmāsb sent a message to Shipov and the governor of Gīlān demanding the immediate withdrawal of Russian troops from Persian soil. The governor mobilized some 15,000 untrained and inadequately armed troops, levied mostly from peasantry, to besiege the Russian garrison. Coming under heavy fire from the Russian defense, they were forced to disperse with some 1,000 casualties. After this clash Peter sent four battalions of regular troops under Brigadier Levashev to replace Shipov. He arrived in September of 1723 and quelled the opposition of the people (Astarābādī, pp. 3, 8-9, 16-17; Kāzemzādeh, pp. 244-45; Rabino, 1917, pp. 463-65; Lockhart, 1958, pp. 108, 176, 178, 238-50).
Unaware of reversals in Persian policy and Ṭahmāsb’s new moves, Esmāʿīl Beg signed a treaty of alliance on 24 Ḏu’l-ḥejja 1135/23 September 1723, which ceded to Russia Gīlān, Māzandarān, and Astarābād as well as Ṭāleš, Baku, and Darband. Consequently, the czar officially appointed General Levashev governor of Gīlān. In 1139/1727 the Russian governor defeated the Afghan forces of Ašraf, who had made advances into Gīlān and started negotiations with the commander of the Afghans, Moḥammad Saydal Khan, resulting in an accord between Saydal and Levashev in Rašt in Rajab 1141/February 1729. According to its terms, Ašraf consented to cede further the region of Rūdbār to the Russian government in return for the recognition of his sovereignty over Persia. But the treaty became a dead letter when Nāder made his advances toward Isfahan and forced Ašraf to flee from the capital. Ašraf was killed on his way to Qandahār (Astarābādī, pp. 16-18, 95-108, 182-85, 212; Lockhart, 1958, pp. 295-97, 328-40).
In 1145/1728, Zaynal b. Ebrāhīm, a dervish or qalandar from Lāhījān, assumed the princely title of Esmāʿīl Mīrzā, claiming to be a son of Shah Solṭān Ḥosayn. Having won over a large number of hardy mountaineers from Deylam, he occupied Deylamān, Rānekūh, and Māsūla and began to endanger the interests of all the interested parties in the area: Ṭahmāsb, the Russians, and the Ottomans alike. Defeated by the followers of Ṭahmāsb, he encountered Russian forces who in turn drove them to the Ottoman occupied area in eastern Azerbaijan. There his forces were routed by the Ottomans and Zaynal was killed (Astarābādī, pp. 24-25; Lockhart, 1958, p. 302).
After the death of Peter in 1725, Russian forces remained in Gīlān until 1734, when they had to evacuate Gīlān and all other Persian provinces owing to a number of factors including the rise of Nāder Khan (later Nāder Shah) to power, severe casualties from disease, depleting their army by half, as well as increasing internal problems at home. Two treaties were negotiated, the treaty of Rašt in Šaʿbān 1144/February 1732 anticipating the evacuation, which occurred in 1734, and the treaty of Ganja in Šawwāl 1147/March 1735, recognizing the return of all provinces that were occupied by Peter (Astarābādī, pp. 228, 246-47; Lockhart, 1958, pp. 345-50; Kazemzadeh, pp. 244-45; Bennigsen, pp. 311-18).
Governors of Gīlān. In much of the 18th-century Gīlān was ruled by the descendents of Esḥāqīya rulers and more specifically Amīra Dobbāj of Fūman and Bīa-pas (see GĪLĀN v) independently or semi-independently, with the help of county and district governors who were also from local clans. In this period a number of governor generals were also assigned to Gīlān by Nāder Shah, Karīm Khan, and Āqā Moḥammad Khan. But their terms were often short lived (for a treatment of local rulers of Gīlān and the governor generals assigned to the province by the central authority, see Rabino, 1917, p. 472; idem, 1918; idem, 1920). During the reign of Nāder Shah, Gīlān’s local governors submitted the assigned tributes to the governor generals or the shah’s treasury. However, excessive taxation led to two major riots, one starting from Ṭāleš in 1157/1744 which lasted for two years, and the other one emanating from Gaskar in 1159/1746 which continued to 1160/1747 when Nāder was killed (Aronova and Ashrafyan, pp. 202-4; Gīlān-nāma, pp. 101-2).
An important move in this period was the attempt made by Nāder Shah to create a Persian naval force in the Caspian Sea. To this end he assigned the Englishman John Elton (q.v.) to establish a shipyard in Anzalī and granted him the title Jamāl Beg. Elton, who had already built two ships at Qāzān on the river Volga, was ordered by the shah to survey the eastern shores of the Caspian. Jamāl Beg succeeded to build a vessel with the capacity for twenty canons, which was reportedly superior to the Russian ships in the Caspian (Rabino, 1917, pp. 469-70).
In the anarchy following the murder of Nāder Shah, his dominions were taken over by tribal chieftains. In Gīlān, in 1162/1749, Āqā Jamāl Fūmanī (a descendent of Amīra Dobbāj and the son of Āqā Kamāl, who was governor of Gīlān during Shah Solṭān Ḥosayn’s reign) together with a certain Āqā Ṣafīʿ, defied the central authority and took over the rule of the province from Rašt. During the struggle between the Zands and the Qajars, Moḥammad-Ḥasan Khan Qājār, the father of Āqā Moḥammad Khan (q.v.), secured Gīlān in 1165/1752 and married the daughter of Āqā Jamāl Fūmanī. Āqā Jamāl was killed in 1167/1753 in Šaft by Āqā Hādī Šaftī as part of an already mentioned old feud which continued into the last decade of 18th century. Āqā Hādī ruled Gīlān with the help of Mīrzā Zakī, governor of Gaskar, for only four months. He was captured and executed in a surprise attack by the Qajar chieftain, who installed Ḥājī Jamāl’s young son, Hedāyat-Allāh, as governor of Rašt (Golestāna, pp. 350-51; Rabino, 1917, p. 473; idem, 1918, p. 98; Gmèlin I, pp. 417-18; Perry, pp. 207-8).
During the rise of Karīm Khan Zand, Hedāyat-Allāh Khan was summoned to Tehran and was replaced by a confidant of Karīm Khan in 1173/1760. But when Karīm Khan was in Azerbaijan on a military campaign, Hedāyat-Allāh fled to Gīlān and reinstated himself as the governor of the province. Soon Karīm Khan had him arrested and fined 12,000 tomans, and Naẓar-ʿAlī Khan Zand was sent to supervise the government of Gīlān. Later, Karīm Khan changed his policy towards Hedāyat-Allāh again, appointing him as the governor of Gīlān in 1181/1767 and arranging the marriage of Hedāyat-Allāh’s sister to his son Abu’l-Fatḥ Khan (Ḡaffārī, pp. 198-99; Gmèlin, pp. 164-65; Perry, pp. 207-8; 251-52; see also Rostam-al-Ḥokamāʾ, pp. 371-72; 442-43, for slightly different versions of anecdotal accounts of the revolts by Hedāyat-Allāh and his marital relation with the Zand dynasty).
Hedāyat-Allāh was able to preserve Gīlān’s semi-independence until the rise to power of Āqā Moḥammad Khan in the 1770s. As early as 1186/1773, he tried to seek Russian protection, and when this proved unsuccessful, he turned to Fatḥ-ʿAlī Khan of the Qobba Khanate for help in 1193/1779. In his endeavors to re-establish a centralized authority, Āqā Moḥammad Khan entrusted his brother Mortażāqolī Khan with the conquest of Gīlān in 1781. Faced with the possibility of an imminent invasion and a humiliating defeat, Hedāyat-Allāh dispatched two local notables, Mīrzā Ṣādeq Monajjem-bāšī (the chief astrologer) and Moḥammad-Ṣāleḥ Lāhījī to the Qajar court along with valuable gifts. Consequently, the shah recalled Mortażāqolī Khan and his troops from Gīlān (Sepehr, pp. 23). Continuing the family feud, he had Āqā Rafīʿ Šaftī and his five brothers and nephews executed. Hedāyat-Allāh’s desire to maintain some measure of independence led him to seek protection again from the Russians as his last act of defiance against the rising Qajar ruler in 1201/1787. However, his refusal to agree to the Russian demands for the cession of the port of Anzalī, induced the Russian agents to encourage Āqā Moḥammad Khan to conquer the province. Commanding 6,000 soldiers, Moṣṭafā Khan Davallū marched to Rašt and defeated Hedāyat-Allāh. When he took asylum in a Russian ship, the Russians turned him to Āqā ʿAlī, the only survivor of the Āqā Rafīʿ Šaftī’s clan who had all been killed by Hedāyat-Allāh. He was executed by Āqā ʿAlī (for different versions of his last confrontation with the Qajars and his death see Sepehr, p. 28; Rabino, 1918, p. 98; Atkin, pp. 34-35; Perry, p. 209).
Gīlān prospered under Hedāyat-Allāh, who promoted foreign trade by attracting a large number of Armenians, Russians, Jews, and Indians to Rašt. They lived and conducted trade in separate caravansaries. Ruling for a long period over one of the most prosperous provinces of Persia with a substantial annual revenue (about ₤200,000), he accumulated a handsome fortune and lived a lavish life. He sent a large tribute of silk and gold to the rulers from Moḥammad-Ḥasan Khan to Karīm Khan to Āqā Moḥamamd Khan. “He maintained a brilliant court, well furnished with strong liquor and Georgian slaves, and a salaried standing army of fifteen hundred men, which he could augment to ten thousand with provincial levies. As well as his revenue from the rich local produce, specially silk, he derived profit from the poll tax on the large Armenian community and from trade with the Russians, who kept a fortified trading post at Anzali” (Perry, p. 208; see also Rabino, 1917, pp. 475-76; Forster, I, p. 219; Gmèlin I, pp. 418-20).
Bibliography
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- Mīrzā Mahdī Khan Astarābādī (Esterābādī), Jahāngošā-ye nāderī, ed. ʿA. Anwār, Tehran, 1341 Š./1962.
- M. Atkin, Russia and Iran, 1780-1828, Minneapolis, 1980.
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- Abu’l-Ḥasan Khan Ḡaffārī Kāšānī, Golšan-e morād, ed. Ḡ. Ṭabāṭabāʾī, Tehran, 1369 Š./1990.
- S. Gmèlin et al., Histoire des découvertes faites par divers savants voyageurs dans plusieurs contrées de la Russie et de la Perse I, Berne, 1779.
- Abu’l-Ḥasan Golestāna, Mojmal al-tawārīḵ, ed. M.-T. Modarres Rażawī, Tehran, 1320 Š./1941.
- Ch. Issawi, The Economic History of Iran, 1800-1914, Chicago, 1971.
- J. Hanway, An Historical Account of the British Trade, 4 vols., Dublin, 1754.
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- F. Kazemzadeh, “Russian Penetration of the Caucasus,” in T. Hunczak, ed., Russian Imperialismfrom Ivan the Great to the Revolution, New Brunswick, 1974, pp. 239-63.
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- Idem, The Fall of theṢafavī Dynasty and the Afghan Occupation of Persia, Cambridge, U.K., 1958.
- J. Malcolm, History of Persia, 2 vols. London, 1829.
- J. Perry, Karim Khan Zand: A History of Iran, 1747-1779, Chicago, 1979.
- H. L. Rabino di Borgomale, Les provinces caspiennes de la Perse: Le Guîlân, RMM32 (1915-16), Paris, 1917.
- Idem, “Rulers of Lahijan and Fuman in Gilan, Persia,” JRAS 34, 1918, pp. 85-100.
- Idem, “Rulers of Gilan,” JRAS 35, 1920, pp. 277-96.
- Moḥammad-Hāšem Rostam-al-Ḥokamā, Rostam al-tawārīḵ, ed. M. Mošīrī, Tehran, 1348 Š./1969.
- Moḥammad-Taqī Lesān-al-Molk Sepehr, Nāseḵ al-tawārīḵ: Qājārīya, ed. J. Qāʾem-maqāmī, Tehran, 1337 Š./1958.
- Ḡ. Varahrām, Tārīḵ-e sīāsī o ejtemāʿī-e Īrān dar ʿaṣr-e Zand, Tehran, 1368 Š./1989.
GĪLĀN vii. History in the 19th century
During the 19th century, Persia underwent major political, economic, and social changes which were partly instigated by the Anglo-Russian colonial interests in the country and the beginnings of the incorporation of Persia into the emerging inter national economy. In Gīlān, which was within the Russian sphere of dominance, increasing contacts with Russia led to a number of major developments in the 19th and early part of the 20th century. These included the expansion of foreign trade and the rise of maritime transportation in the Caspian Sea and their concomitant impact on patterns of import and export, production, and consumption. They also encouraged the development of a transit route from Tehran to Anzalī via Qazvīn and Rašt that led to an increase in the flow of passengers to Europe via the Anzalī-Baku line.
Sealed off by mountains from the rest of the country, political and social life in Gīlān had always been highly influenced, if not determined, by its geographical position (Figure 5). The history of 19th-century Gīlān began with the continuation of the binary division of Bīa-pas and Bīa-pīš and the rule of local families. But this situation began to change gradually in the latter half of the century when the rise of foreign trade and the rapid development of transportation in the Caspian and the flow of goods and passengers in the Tehran-Anzalī transit route removed most of the factors contributing to the province’s isolation, bringing it within the orbit of the emerging world economy and the central authority. By becoming a focus of economic, cultural, and political contact with the West at the closing decades of the 19th century, Gīlān also turned into a major arena for a number of significant radical rebellious movements in the period 1905-21.
Figure 5. Gilān in the early modern period (after Rabino, 1917, p. 488). Map generated using ArcView GIS software. Data sources: Digital Chart of the World, 1993, and ArcWorld 1:3m, 1992, ESRI, Inc. (topographical data not available for all locations).View full image in a new tab
Governors of Gīlān. The Qajars succeeded in overcoming the chaos of the 18th century by establishing relative security and imposing overall control on the provinces. The provincial administration was arranged on two sets of temporary and permanent positions. The first set included the governor-general and the vizier who, representing the shah and central government, were appointed from Tehran and often served for a short term, ranging from several months to a few years. The second set comprised the local administrators whose positions were often hereditary and permanent, including tribal khans, county governors (ḥākems), and district deputy governors (nāyeb al-ḥokūmas or kalāntars; for a useful treatment of the local rulers of Gīlān see Rabino, 1918; idem, 1920).
Āḡā Moḥammad Khan and Fatḥ-ʿAlī Shah (qq.v.) revived the Saljuq practice of assigning governorship of provinces to princes of royal blood, but the Qajars were wary of assigning prince governors to the sensitive frontier province of Gīlān. As a result, Gīlān was only assigned to prince governors during the 19th century for a total of thirty-seven years—in the latter half of the reign of Fatḥ-ʿAlī Shah, in the first and last decades of Nāṣer-al-Dīn Shah, and in the few years of the reign of Moẓaffar-al-Dīn Shah. Overall, Gīlān was ruled in the 19th century by some thirty governors and a number of viziers: five governors ruled about ten years, six governors about five years, and the remaining twenty governors from one to two years (estimated from the information provided by Rabino, 1917, pp. 476-87).
The main function of governors and their viziers, apart from the maintenance of law and order, was to collect the designated tax revenue from the subjects with the assistance of the khans and the kalāntars and transfer it to the royal treasury. It was in the personal interest of most governors to extract as much tax (madāḵel) as possible. The practice of the sale of offices, which began during the reign of Nāṣer-al-Dīn Shah (1848-96), increased the burden on the subjects. Given that, on average, two-thirds of the appointed governors held their office for one to two years, and that many of them had to borrow from merchants the sum needed to purchase their office, they had to impose excessive taxes and levies in order to repay their debts quickly. The resulting heavy taxation caused a number of riots in Gīlān the 19th century.
Among the noted governor generals of Gīlān in this period was Mīrzā Mūsā Khan Monajjem-bāšī, who ruled the province from 1219-30/1804-15. He successfully deterred a contingent of Russian troops from advancing toward Rašt on 1 Rabīʿ I 1220/30 May 1805. He was followed by Ḵosrow Khan Gorjī, a prominent Qajar statesman, and a powerful and popular figure who developed the provincial roads and the bāzār of Rašt and brought peasants and artisans under his protection. But the notables and landowners whose vested interests were threatened by Ḵosrow Khan’s style of government instigated a riot against him that led to his dismissal from office in Ramażān 1234/July 1819 (Rabino, 1917, pp. 477-78; Bāmdād, Rejāl I, pp. 479-80). At this time Fatḥ-ʿAlī Shah appointed his son Moḥammad-Reżā Mīrzā as governor with Āqā Bozorg Monajjem-bāšī as his vizier. He was succeeded in 1246/1830 by another prince governor, Yaḥyā Mīrzā, with Manūčehr Khan Moʿtamed-al-Dawla as his vizier. The beginning of their rule coincided with the outbreak of a severe plague resulting in the loss of over one-half of the population of Rašt, estimated at 40,000 at the time (Rabino, 1917, pp. 478-79; Bāmdād, Rejāl IV, pp. 159-61).
The aforementioned excessive taxes imposed by the Qajar governors provoked several popular uprisings, e.g., in 1267/1851, 1278/1861, 1286/1869, and 1291/1874, which were put down by government forces. In 1267/1851 the rioters sacked the house of the governor, ʿĪsā Khan Wālī (later Eʿtemād-al-Dawla), the shah’s uncle (Rabino, 1917, pp. 479-80; for a different date see Bāmdād, Rejāl II, pp. 510-11). He was succeeded in 1272/1853 by his brother, Amīr Aṣlān Khan ʿAmīd-al-Molk (later Majd-al-Dawla), who ruled the province until 1276/1857, when he was replaced by Ardašīr Mīrzā Rokn-al-Dawla, the son of Crown Prince ʿAbbās Mīrzā (Rabino, 1917, pp. 479-80; for a different version see Bāmdād, Rejāl I, pp. 106-7; 167-69).
In Moḥarram 1278/July 1861, a violent riot broke out in Rašt, resulting in over four hundred casualties. The riot had begun with the annual Ḥaydarī-Neʿmatī (q.v.) fighting in the town during the commemoration of the martyrdom of Imam Ḥosayn. Many houses were pillaged and set on fire and a number of women were raped. In August, Maḥmūd Khan Qaragūzlū Nāṣer-al-Molk was appointed governor of Gīlān. After a year he was succeeded by Qāṣem Khan Wālī, who ruled Gīlān until 1283/1866, when he was replaced by ʿA mīd-al-Molk. The avarice manifested by him in office and the excessive taxation caused a severe riot in Ṭāleš in 1286/1869 (Rabino, 1917, pp. 479-80; for a different version see Bāmdād, Rejāl I, pp. 167-69, III, pp. 126-29, IV, pp. 54-59).
In Ḏu’l-qaʿda 1286/February 1870, Nāṣer-al-Dīn Shah paid a visit to Gīlān and attempted to ameliorate the situation by reducing the assigned taxes of the province. He also entrusted the affairs of Gīlān to Mīrzā Saʿīd Khan, the minister of foreign affairs, who in turn sent his two aides to the province as his deputy governors. They served for only two years. In 1872, another severe riot broke out in Ṭāleš-e Dūlāb and, in Moḥarram 1289/March 1872, another one occurred in Anzalī (Rabino, 1917, pp. 480-81; Bāmdād, Rejāl IV, pp. 54-59).
On his way to Europe in 1873, Nāṣer-al-Dīn Shah entrusted Gīlān to Yaḥyā Khan Moʿtamed-al-Molk. He appointed ʿAbd-al-Rasūl Khan as his deputy governor. In 1874 there were further disturbances in the province and the governor appointed Mīrzā Mahdī Khan Monajjem-bāšī Langarūdī as his new deputy governor and incarcerated a large number of tribal chiefs from Ṭāleš (Rabino, 1917, pp. 479-80).
In 1292/1875, Nāṣer-al-Molk was once again appointed governor of Gīlān and held office until the summer of 1877, when another plague struck the province. This was relatively moderate in intensity and led to about four thousand casualties. Meanwhile there were fresh disturbances and riots in Ṭāleš and Lāhījān. In 1878, the shah himself came to Gīlān and imprisoned a number of rebellious chieftains from Ṭāleš and dispatched them to Tehran (Rabino, 1917, p. 483; Bāmdād, Rejāl IV, pp. 54-59).
From 1296/1879 to 1305/1888, Gīlān was entrusted to Kāmrān Mīrzā Nāyeb-al-Salṭana (the shah’s favorite son, governor of Tehran, and minister of war). He appointed ʿAbd-Allāh Khan Wālī as the governor from 1296/1879 to 1301/1884. The imposition of excessive taxation by this governor led to new riots and his brother, Fażl-Allāh Khan, the governor of Lāhījān, was murdered by an angry mob. At this point Aḥmad Khan Mošīr-al-Salṭana was appointed as the governor of Gīlān in 1884. He returned to Tehran a year later when a disastrous fire destroyed a large section of the city of Rašt (Farāhānī, pp. 45-47, tr. pp. 43-46; Rabino, 1917, pp. 484; Bāmdād, Rejāl V, pp. 149-51).
In the remaining years of the 19th century, Gīlān was ruled by some ten governors who, with the exception of Abu’l-Fatḥ Mīrzā Moʾayyad-al-Dawla (who served for six years), remained in office for no more than one or two years. This period witnessed an outbreak of a cholera epidemic in the summer of 1309/1892 which left 12,000 dead; the commencement of construction of the Rašt-Qazvīn road by Russians in 1313/1895; and the riot of peasants against a road contractor who had prevented the populace from using the roads without paying tolls (Rabino, 1917, pp. 484-85; Bāmdād, Rejāl I, pp. 51-53).
Russian influence and the expansion of foreign trade. Russian influence in Gīlān, which began in the early 18th century with the occupation of the province and the establishment of direct relations with the local rulers, intensified after the Russo-Persian wars of the early 19th century and further developed through economic penetration, with a rise in the number of steamships in the latter half of the century when foreign trade through the Caspian Sea increased rapidly. This rapid increase in foreign trade was the main impetus for social, economic, and political change in the major provinces of Persia in the 19th century. The trade of various regions of Persia, including the Caspian provinces, which had declined drastically during the chaotic period in the 18th century, underwent a marked recovery in the first half of the 19th century. Total trade (imports and exports) saw a twelve-fold increase in real terms in the period 1800-1914, increasing from ć1.7 million in 1800 to ₤20 million in 1914. In this period a drastic shift took place in the direction of expanding trade from the neighboring countries to the Anglo-Russian destination. The increase in the volume of trade with Russia, from one-tenth of Persia’s total foreign trade (import and export combined) in 1800 to over two-thirds in 1914, may be considered an indication of the increased Russian involvement in Persian affairs as a whole (Jamālzāda, pp. 9-11; Issawi, in Camb. Hist Iran VII, p. 597). This increasing Russian involvement in trade, agriculture, and industry was particularly significant in Gīlān. The rapidly developing maritime transportation in the Caspian Sea, facilitated the expansion of Russian activities in the province and stimulated the rise in production and exports of silk, fish, and rice as well as other goods, including olives, jute, and timber.
The Caspian route. Russian maritime transportation, which began in the Caspian in the 18th century underwent rapid growth in the second half of the 19th and early 20th centuries when steamships made their increasing appearance in the ports of Gīlān and Māzandarān. “The total number of Russian steamers rose from 10, aggregating 2,600 tons, in 1867 to 139, aggregating 74,000 tons, in 1893 and 265, with a tonnage of 118,000, in 1907. The total traffic entering Iranian ports on the Caspian in 1907-8 consisted of 2,171 steamers, with a tonnage of 800,000, and 584 sailing-ships of 15,000 tons” (Issawi, in Camb. Hist. Iran VII, p. 592). An early impact of the rise of Russian shipping was the demise of Persian shipping in the Caspian.
The improvement of transport in the Tehran-Anzalī route and the extension of the Russian railways to Baku in 1884 and to Astrakhan in 1909 were instrumental in the rise of the Caspian maritime transport. Also important was the improvement of port facilities in the period from 1905-13 when Russia invested some 1.3 million rubles in projects at Anzalī (Issawi, 1971, p.163; idem, in Camb. Hist. Iran VII, p. 592). As a result of these developments the customs at Anzalī accounted for over two-fifths of total foreign trade of the country in 1910 (Jamālzāda, p. 39).
Silk production and trade. Since the medieval period, Gīlān was well known for its silk production. As early as the 13th century, it attracted the Genoese merchants (see genoa) from the Crimea, across the Caspian, to Gīlān (Marco Polo, I, chap. 4). Silk output increased substantially during the Safavid period when, in the estimate of Jean Chardin (q.v.), it was well over 1.7 million pounds and according to Adam Olearius over 2.1 million. The chaotic conditions which afflicted Persia in the 18th century led to a sharp decline in the output of silk, when Hanway estimated it at about 360,000 pounds (for a table of various estimates of silk produce of Gīlān from Adam Olearius and Jean Chardin in the Safavid period to Jonas Hanway in mid-18th century and those in the 19th century, see Curzon, Persian Question I, p. 367).
This period of decline was followed by a steady rapid growth in the first half of the 19th century as in the 1840s “most estimates put the Gilan crop, which accounted for about five-sixths of total output, at over 1,000,000 pounds and its value at around ć500,000; and a peak of 2,190,000 pounds, worth ć1,000,000 was reached in 1864” (Issawi, 1971, p. 231). The rapid expansion of silk production was made possible by improvement in security of the country and the activity of various foreign firms which advanced the necessary funds to growers. The muscardine disease reached Persia from Europe by 1864, and the crop was reduced by about four-fifths in the 1870s. Then the introduction of silkworm eggs from Japan and Bursa by foreign firms succeeded in improving the crops, and by the early 20th century output had reached the previous peaks. However, competition from Japanese silk producers and others kept prices down, and the value of exports did not exceed ć400,000 (for various estimates and collection of reports, see Issawi, 1971, pp. 231-38; see also Jamālzāda, pp. 24-29).
Caspian fisheries. Although fishing in the Persian part of the Caspian had been carried on for many centuries, the latter half of the 19th century saw a rapid increase in the fisheries. The world famous, high quality Persian caviar comes from sturgeon caught in the Persian rivers flowing into the southern part of the Caspian. But considering many kinds of fish, with the exception of salmon and white fish, as unclean or of doubtful state in religious terms, Muslims were cautious in touching and eating fish. Therefore, the industry was developed mainly by Russians and Armenians. As early as 1837-40 Russian subjects were involved in the Caspian fisheries with small amounts being exported to Astrakhan. Around 1868, Stepan M. Lianozov, an Armenian merchant of Russian nationality, obtained the first of several licenses to develop fisheries, which eventually extended along the entire Persian Caspian coast (Jamālzāda, pp. 102-3). By 1873, the concession had become a relatively large scale operation (Entner, pp. 76-77). William George Abbot, the British consul, wrote in his 1875 report that “the produce of these fisheries exceeds 200,000 tumans a year,” and in his 1876 report, Abbot pointed out that during the fishing season of December to March Lianozov employed about 1,100 men, mostly Russian subjects from Baku and Lankaran. At Anzalī, Abbot notes that “the establishment looks quite a Russian settlement, with its shipwrights and blacksmiths, its glove and boot makers, its huts for the men to sleep in, and its comfortable wooden house, constructed in Astrakhan and brought out in pieces for the manager” (apud Issawi, 1971, p. 256).
Lianozov’s concession was renewed, with slight increases in the annual rent from 400,000 francs in 1888 to 480,000 francs in 1919. The value of the catch increased from about 600,000 rubles in the early 1890s to around 2,250,000 rubles by 1913. “A British estimate for 1908/9 put the amount of fish exported to Russia at 10,911,000 pounds worth ć40,000 …. Lianozov’s net profits in 1913 were estimated at 510,000 rubles” (Issawi, 1971, pp. 256; see also fisheries).
Rice production and trade. Although rice was produced in most provinces of Persia, Gīlān was particularly noted for its rice production and export. The rice produce of Gīlān increased from 150 million pounds in 1865 to 392 million in 1872. However, until the 1880s, only a small portion of the output was exported and the bulk of the crop was consumed in Persia. In the closing decade of the century the commercialization of agriculture in Central Asia led to the rapid increase in production of cotton and transformed much of the rice fields to the cultivation of cotton and made the cotton producing regions dependent on the foreign grain. The completion of the Transcaspian railway enabled Persia to supply the increasing demand of Central Asia. As a result, the average annual export of rice to Russia from Gīlān rose from ₤25,000 in the 1870s to ć314,000 in the closing decade of the century (Issawi, 1971, p. 243; Entner, p. 75; Jamālzāda, pp. 21-22; Curzon, Persian Question II, p. 496).
Other products. The production and export of olives, jute, and timber also developed in the closing decade of the 19th century. In 1890, olive production came under the control of a Greek company called Koussis and Theophilaktos, which was under Russian protection (Issaw, 1971, p. 211). In 1902, the Yuzhno-Russkoe Company undertook the production of jute in Gīlān, exporting the products to Russia (Afary, pp. 148-49; Issawi,1971, pp. 210).
The impact of contacts with the West. The rise of foreign trade and the development of cash crops increased the prosperity of the province in the 19th century. Gīlān was one of the richest provinces in the country and its revenues, though fluctuating, were considerable and often ranked among the four top provinces (Jamālzāda, p. 123; Curzon, Persian Question II, p. 480; Issawi, 1971, pp. 361-62). Furthermore, the revenues of Gīlān from customs increased rapidly from 1897, when the new customs administration was established under the Belgians (see Destrée). In 1912 the customs revenues accounted for 9.6 million qerāns or well over two-fifths of the total revenues of the country from the customs. Furthermore, the peasants in Gīlān were distinctly better off than in most provinces of Persia. It must also be borne in mind that the very extensive presence of foreign merchants and workers (Russians, Greeks, Armenians) in Gīlān and a greater awareness of social developments in the West were contributory factors in producing several pioneering labor protest movements in Gīlān and the active participation of the province in the revolutionary movements of 1906-21.
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- Jonas Hanway, An Historical Account of the British Trade over the Caspian Sea, 4 vols., London, 1754.
- Reżāqolī Khan Hedāyat, Rawżat al-ṣafā-ye nāṣerī, Tehran, 1339 Š./1960.
- Ch. Issawi, The Economic History of Iran: 1800-1914, Chicago, 1971.
- Idem, “European Economic Penetration, 1872-1921,” in Camb. Hist. Iran VII, pp. 590-607.
- M.-ʿA. Jamālzāda, Ganj-e šāyegān, Berlin, 1335/1916.
- H. L. Rabino di Borgomale, Les Provinces caspiennes de la Perse: le Guîlân, RMM 32 (1916-17), Paris, 1917.
- Idem, “Rulers of Lahijan and Fuman in Gilan, Persia,” JRAS 34, 1918, pp. 85-100.
- Idem, “Rulers of Gilan,” JRAS 35, 1920, pp. 277-96.
- Idem, Mašrūṭa-ye Gīlān, ed. M. Rowšan, Rašt 1368 Š./1989.
- Moḥammad-Taqī Lesān-al-Molk Sepehr, Nāseḵ al-tawārīḵ, ed. M. Behbūdī, Tehran, 1385/1965.
GILĀN viiia. In the Constitutional Revolution of 1905-11
Two classes featured prominently in Gilān as the driving forces of the revolution, and the alliance of these two, the peasantry and the urban petty-bourgeoisie of artisans, shopkeepers, and petty traders, was the hallmark of a radical movementon the southern shores of the Caspian Sea. Peasant participation in the revolutionary coalition of Gilān marked the unique character of the constitutional movement in that province.
Two early twentieth-century foreign residents of Gilān left descriptions of the condition of the peasantry. Hyacinth-Louis Rabino (1877-1950), the British vice-consul in Rasht, published a monumental description of the province in 1917. He hints at the existence of two kinds of agriculturalists. One is the seemingly cunning and prosperous small-holder, who owned land and even employed seasonal agricultural workers. The other is the poor peasant, who leased a mulberry orchard or rice paddy from the landlord and in turn received, theoretically, one-third or less of the crop. Indeed, Gilān’s peasants were exceptionally prosperous. Rabino describes them as having many advantages in the production process compared to peasants in other parts of Iran. Moreover, landowners did not have to invest heavily in agricultural production, nor did they have to provide protection against tribal raids that brought about economic insecurity in other parts of the country. But Rabino also points to an arbitrary system of taxation in which a peasant had to pay an entire elite, from the landlord and his bailiffs to the local and regional governors. Economic prosperity in production, on the one hand, and arbitrary taxation, on the other, made Gilān’s peasants revolutionaries (Rabino, 1917, tr., pp. 12-19, 57-58).
The other description of conditions of the peasantry is provided by V. P. Nikitin (1885-1960), the Russian consul who arrived in Gilān in 1912, just after the Constitutional Revolution when Rabino was leaving Rasht. Nikitin has some harsh words for the system of taxation, which placed huge burdens on the peasants. Taxes in this system were comprised of both state and local taxes, often depending on the local governor’s individual greed and the amount of money he had paid to secure his office. In addition, governors often used every conceivable excuse to fill their coffers, while bailiffs charged the peasants with personal fees and an additional share for the landlord. Nikitin describes the condition of Gilān’s peasantry as one in which peasants were tied up with strong chains, and writes that by the end of the revolution “most farms and villages were deserted and in ruins” (Nikitin, pp. 162-63).
Conditions of the revolution. Both Russian and British reports of the events in Gilān begin their chronicles in early 1907, just about one year after the outbreak of the Constitutional Revolution in Tehran. But they speak of already existing unrest among the peasantry and a growing movement of anjomans—radical associations or societies—and revolutionary organizations connected to the Caucasian social democrats. In February 1907, the British embassy reported to the Foreign Office in London that Gilān had a total of more than 15,000 tomans in outstanding taxes, and that they therefore “expected bloodshed.” The same report states that the revolutionaries ran two associations, one secret and one public, in Rasht. They were subordinate to directives from the Caucasus (Rabino, 1989, p. 107). The revolutionaries were invariably referred to as mojāhedin or fadāʾiān, but occasionally they were also called Social Democrats, reflecting the immense influence of the Russian Revolution of 1905-7. Since the Russian events had featured Social Democrats, every political party, including the conservatives and even the pan-Islamists, referred to themselves as such.
The secret and later public societies found fresh vigor when the Soviets of the Russian Revolution became well knownin Iran as instruments of revolutionary agitation and orchestrated action. The revolutionary associations were also encouraged by the presence of social-democratic organizations and parties of Transcaucasia. In 1905, Japan’s defeat of Russia had triggered the outbreak of a revolution that in turn radicalized the Iranians in both direct and indirect ways. After the suppression of the first Russian revolution, the newly appointed Prime Minister Piotr Stolypin (1862-1911) clamped down on the revolutionary organizations, and Russian Transcaucasians came to support the Iranians. They hoped that the Czarist imperial designs on the southern neighbor would fail, thus leading to another revolutionary situation (Dailami, 1992, pp. 53-54).
Indeed, the Transcaucasian Social Democrats radicalized the constitutional revolutionaries, but that radicalization was hardly ideological. Faced with the constitutional government of landlords and an elite which was not at all bourgeois in character, they remained in essence populist subordinates of a bourgeois revolution. The radicalization of the Transcaucasians was, rather, organizational and military. While the anjomans merely roused the radical crowd at first, they later formed revolutionary committees that managed to organize the populace. In short, the story of the Constitutional Revolution in Gilān consists of the agitation of Transcaucasian revolutionaries, the anjomans’ calls to protest, and the clamor of the radical urban crowd roaming the streets. In addition, there were the endeavors of the peasantry, who were also representatives of bourgeoisvalues. The peasants’ engagement could ultimately only support a bourgeois revolution.
The radicals of the anjomans chose religious names, and they frequently organized religious ceremonies in which even the Transcaucasian revolutionaries participated. Their main activists were small producers, artisans, and petty traders. Although they were called mojāhedin, fadāʾiān, or even Social Democrats, they were populists of a petty-bourgeois mentality. It was precisely the submission of the Transcaucasian Social Democrats to the bourgeois revolution that secured their place in historyunlike their communist heirs, members of the Gilān Soviet Republic between 1920 and 1921⎯as harmless and loveable national heroes.
The Social Democrats of the Caucasus had no illusions as to the true character of the Iranian Revolution. One example is the testimony of the Transcaucasian member of the Muslim Social Democrat (Ḥemmat) party and historian Moḥammad Amin Rasulzāda (Mehmed Emin Resulzade; 1884-1954). At that time he worked in Iran as a journalist for Ottoman newspapers, and he Julfa: “As those familiar with trade have open eyes and ears everywhere, Julfa too has a modern and conscious population. They are alien to fanaticism and live their lives without any bounds. Their minds are open, and they are all supporters of the constitution. … Do not be surprised that in such a dusty and leafless place, in the middle of dark mountains and red earth, such serious and free thinkers can be found. It is because what has gathered them together is trade and industry. It is evident that trade and industry are enemies of ignorance and stupidity” (Resulzade, pp. 139-40).
As manifested by the general trend of the Constitutional Revolution, the true ideological inspiration came, in fact, from the Transcaucasian bourgeois enlightenment. Even the press of the Transcaucasian Social Democrats, who were organized in the Ḥemmat party, had nothing more radical to say. At that time, even the efforts of the Ḥemmatis were geared toward dragging the local Muslim populace towards modernism and bourgeois awakening.
An interesting aspect of Gilāni politics during the constitutional period is the peasantry’s active participation in a revolution that was originally an urban preoccupation. In order to be heard, peasants had to go to the cities, where they formed their alliance with the radical Social Democrats. They frequently marched to Rasht with their rifles and red flags to express their viewpoints on important political issues (Rabino, 1974b, pp. 19-20). Conversely, radical political forces were involved with the politics of the countryside. The peasants thus united the rural and urban movements, fusing the Constitutional Revolution in Gilān into a single movement, which, precisely because of the involvement of the peasantry as a strong, radical, and well-constituted class, was unique in Iran.
The demands of the peasants at this time were crystallized in their refusal to pay either taxes or dues (Ādamiyat, pp. 67-68). They demanded the legal protection of a constitution to end their legal status as absolute subjects of their landlords and governors. There are numerous examples of the lack of human rights for the peasantry. On one occasion, Rabino noted in his diary that the khan of Ṭāleš had literally sewn together the lips of six peasants because “they had spoken of the Constitution” (Rabino, 1974b, p. 26). The peasants’ political activism can be traced back to early 1907, when around 500 men occupied a mosque in Rasht to oppose rent payments to the landowners (ibid.). In Gilān, the revolutionary mojāhedin, known as Anjoman-e ʿAbbāsi, defended the rights of peasants. They had extended their activities to the countryside, and they established fourteen branches in the province altogether (Rabino, 1974b, p. 54).
The agrarian movement was led by Raḥim Šišabor and Sayyed Jalāl Šahrāšub, but the names of the local peasant leaders are not known. The Social Democrat Šišabor, who also represented the city guilds in the provincial anjoman (anjoman-e welāyati), publicly declared that the peasants should not pay tax to the landlords. In Ṭāleš, Šahrāšub led a large-scale rebellion in which thousands of peasants participated (Rabino, 1974b, pp. 54, 30-32) and which forced the local khan to flee (Ẓahir-al-Dawla, p. 315). Šahrāšub’s conduct was reminiscent of the behavior of legendary bandits like Robin Hood. He forgave the peasants their taxes, married one of the local khan’s wives, and proclaimed himself king (Rabino, 1989, p. 17).
Since the landowners were defied in every part of Gilān, they sent a telegram to the parliament in Tehran in which they complained that “the peasants think that the Constitution means being free and not paying rent” (Faḵrāʾi, p. 103). Consequently, the provincial anjoman, led by an otherwise unknown Ḥāji Mirzā Moḥammad-Reżā, publicly declared that land rents had to be paid (Rabino, 1974b, p. 30) and expelled Šišabor because of his support for the peasants. Later both Šišabor and Šahrāšub were imprisoned, an action that provoked a violent response fromthe Anjoman-e ʿAbbāsi in Rasht (Rabino, 1974b, pp. 31-32).
The provincial anjoman was soon identified with the government, and with the help of the local governors it opposed the peasants and the revolutionary movement. In particular, the parliament in Tehran (Ādamiyat, p. 74) authorized that a troopof the Russian-led Cossack Brigade be dispatched to reinstate the governors and landowners, close down the peasant anjomans, and collect the unpaid taxes, dues, and additional compensations for the landlords (Afšār, 1980, pp. 51-53; Rabino, 1974b, pp. 51-52, 58, 65, 72; Ẓahir-al-Dawla, pp. 315-16). In response, the peasants marched once again to Rasht with their rifles and red flags, while the Anjoman-e ʿAbbāsi demanded expulsion of some leading reactionaries from Gilān, including Ḥāji Mirzā Moḥammad-Reżā. The conflict grew more intense, and Ḥesām-al-Eslām, a member of the parliament, was sent to Gilān to establish order. During a public meeting Ḥesām-al-Eslām was told that “we will not let the landlords oppress the peasants,” and he responded in kind, “the parliament will not let the peasants confiscate the landowners’ property.” Later, Šahrāšub sent a death threat to the governor of Rasht, who retorted, “I will not leave you a hand to kill me with” (Rabino, 1974b, pp. 54-56). Then the parliament sent its final ultimatum, declaring that the government would not give up the country (Rabino, 1974b, p. 107), and most of the countryside was brought under control by force. Afterwards, ʿAli Khan Qajar Ẓahir-al-Dawla (1864-1924), a reform-oriented statesman, was appointed as the general governor of Gilān.
In Ṭāleš, however, the peasants did not surrender; they intended to keep their land. They took up arms and defeated, disarmed, and expelled a number of expeditionary forces. The newly-appointed general governor Ẓahir-al-Dawla inquired into the situation and reported to Tehran. He recommended that a conciliatory approach should be adopted to facilitate the return of the landowners to Ṭāleš (Ẓahir-al-Dawla, p. 315). The peasant uprising continued until the Russian army entered the province in late 1911 to confront the Constitutional Revolution as a whole. Since the khan of Ṭāleš did not succeed in reclaiming his property, he sold the land to A. M. Khostaria, a Georgian entrepreneur and Russian citizen (Camb. Hist. Iran VII, p. 652).The Russian military defeated the peasants and installed Khostaria as rightful owner of the land. Subsequently, Khostaria started his industrial enterprises, and was later even allowed to run his own Georgian police force (Nikitin, pp. 101-4).
Apart from the peasants, fishermen were the largest group of the discontented in Gilān. In the late 19th century, the Lianozov Fisheries obtained the Caspian fishing concession and effectively installed a monopoly. Fishermen were forced to surrender a large portion of their catch to Lianozov at low and prefixed rates; at the same time, the increased activities of a large Russian fishing fleet and new restrictive measures turned the fishermen into mere employees of the entrepreneur. Later, Sardār Manṣur, an influential landowner and Gilāni politician, obtained the monopoly for dealing in those fish that traditionally constituted the livelihood of independent fishermen, thereby stoking the flames of discontent among them. Once the Constitutional Revolution was underway, Anzali, Gilān’s main port, witnessed the protests of over 3,000 Caspian fishermen who demanded full control over their own catch. Their representatives succeeded in limiting the reach of both the Lianozov Fisheries and the customs office that oversaw the fish exports.
In general, Russian industrial and commercial activities had created a relatively large working class in Gilān. These laborers were mostly involved in the various sections of the fishing industry, in the port of Anzali, in Khostaria’s various enterprises, and in road building and timber manufacturing. Even though just over 5,000 Russians, mostly Transcaucasians, were employed in Gilān (Issawi, p. 23), the native working class in Gilān was still probably the largest in Iran. In the case of wage earners, discontent manifested itself in even more radical forms. For instance, the dockyard workers of Anzali were on strike for a good period of time in solidarity with their counterparts in Baku; and in areas such as Ṭāleš, where peasants had been recruited as laborers, the Lianozov plant was burnt down (Ādamiyat, pp. 87, 91; Ẓahir-al-Dawla, p. 318). In fact, when the Russian army entered Gilān in 1911, the suppression of the general strike, which was led by the Anzali workers, became its top priority.
The intensity of the struggle may induce a belief in a fully-fledged class-consciousness of the peasantry. But this was not the case. In Kargānrud, for instance, where 3,000 peasants had risen against their landlord, they eventually voted three to one to install another landlord if he promised not to repeat the atrocities of his predecessor (Rabino, 1989, p. 30). But this was not all. In truth, even the Social Democrat leaders of the peasants let them down. Furthermore, the Democratic Party (Ḥezb-e Demōkrātik) that social democrats eventually founded in Tehran in 1909 did nothing tangible to alleviate or improve the lot of the peasantry (Ādamiyat, p. 143).
Social democrats and their anjomans. The involvement of the Social Democrats in the Constitutional Revolution apparently began when the first Russian revolution was still underway. Rabino notes that most Social Democrats were migrant Iranians who worked or traded in the Caucasus, and he claims that they numbered some 6,000, which might be an exaggeration. The Social Democrats produced and smuggled arms and explosives into revolutionary Iran and extracted large amounts of money from anti-constitutionalists. They held public meetings “in which any one could speak,” but they also held secret committees with strict rules (Rabino, 1989, pp. 65-66). Rabino lists eleven anjomans. These associations or societies were seemingly less popular than expected among laborers, while they faired better among peasants. For instance, there is no sign of a fishermen’s anjoman, and the artisans had only one. The revolutionaries had their own Anjoman-e Mojāhedin, while the radical crowd of laborers and craftsmen had all gathered in the Anjoman-e Abu’l-Fażl, which later continued its activities under the name of Anjoman-e ʿAbbāsi. The landlords and the clergy had their own active associations (Rabino, 1989, pp. 73-74). Moreover, a provincial anjoman was set up to represent the constitutional government.
The earliest readily available record of discontent concerns the unrest of fishermen in Anzali. It led to some bloodshed, and negotiations came to naught (Rabino, 1989, pp. 63-64). The main agrarian unrests started in the spring of 1907, while in Gilān people had began to protest against the unfair trade insilk and other goods, trying to organize a boycott (Spring Rice to Grey, 24 April 1907, in Rabino, 1989, pp. 107-8). The anjomans intimidated the province’s general governor into leaving the province. For an entire month, no sources of central control remained in Rasht, yet life went on smoothly and in an orderly fashion (Spring Rice to Grey, 23 May, 1907, in Rabino, 1989, p. 110). Then a new general governor was appointed by Tehran, and he succeeded temporarily in suppressing the agrarian movement in Ṭāleš (Spring Rice to Grey, 19 July, 1907, Rabino, 1989, p. 112). But the ardor of the anjomans was not dampened, and by the end of 1907 artisans seemed to have become more involved with the movement (Hartwig, 11-24 December 1907, in Baširi, II, p. 53). The increased activity of the anjomans coincided with the shah’s efforts to restrict the power of the parliament in Tehran (Hartwig, 7-20 December 1907, in Baširi, II, p. 62). Around 4,000 people gathered in front of the governor’s quarters in Rasht, and some even camped before governmental buildings (kārgoḏāri). Eventually the general governor had to resign, the shah lost his confrontation with the parliament, and the unrest in Rasht calmed down (Hartwig, 7-20 February 1908, in Baširi, II, p. 103).
But unrest continued in the countryside. In Ṭāleš peasants confiscated the property of a noble landowner, but the expedition dispatched to reclaim the property failed miserably in early December 1908 (Berkley to Grey, 3 December 1908, in Rabino, 1989, pp. 115-16). In Asālem and Kargānrud peasants began selling the rice they had grown on their landlords’ property, and in Fuman, the landlord was driven from his property and killed (Marling to Grey, 28 February 1908, in Rabino, 1989, p. 113). At the same time, the mojāhedin continued to arrest some anti-constitutionalists, while intimidating others through hate mail and even holding their relatives hostage. They frequently extracted large sums of money from landlords and nobility, forcing them to flee the province. They also agitated against Russian interests in Gilān.
The Russian officials frequently noted the collapse of the administration in Gilān, since it allowed for the towns’ self-government and gave the peasants a free hand in the countryside. Although the government in Tehran appointed Ẓahir-al-Dawla as governor general in early March 1908 and dispatched him to Rasht, the mojāhedin’s agitation and the unrest among the peasantry continued. In March and April 1908, the mojāhedin burned the ships of an otherwise unknown ʿAmid Homāyun in Anzali; some were arrested, only to be rescued during their transport to Rasht. In Langarud peasants joined the movement when they refused to hand over all their raw silk cocoons and tried to buy silkworm eggs from Greeks and Turks offering better deals (Berkley to Grey, 10 April 1908, in Rabino, 1989, p. 115).
The provincial anjoman tried to represent the government and was composed of representatives from most classes in Gilān: landlords, ʿolamāʾ, merchants, and artisans; the peasants were excluded. It was to some extent bourgeois and pro-landlord, as well as anti-Russian. But when the movement of the radical revolutionaries and peasants gained momentum, the anjoman blatantly turned against them, presenting in essence the seemingly patriotic landlords of Gilān. There was indeed much internal friction in the provincial anjoman. On the one side, there were radicals such as Raḥim Šišabor, and on the other side, its leader Ḥāji Mirzā Moḥammad-Reżā was a staunch opponent of the peasant movement in principle. Nonetheless, the anjoman, despite all its inadequacies, was too much for both the shah and the Russians. In 1908, the new Qajar monarch Moḥammad-ʿAli Shah (r. 1907-9) carried out a coup and succeeded in shutting down the parliament in Tehran (see Constitutional Revolution). Subsequently, the government forces occupied the provincial anjoman in Rasht. But the people of Rasht and the mojāhedin put up a fight. On 14 June, a great crowd of traders and artisans gathered before the building of the provincial anjoman. Yet Qajar Cossacks and Russian soldiers, who had entered Gilān previously in large numbers (Resulzade, pp. 101-3) and supported the Cossacks, awaited the crowds with cannons at Rasht’s public square, the Sabza Meydān. They arrested a member of the anjoman and fired cannons into the crowd. Some people took sanctuary at the Ottoman consulate. Others tried the British consulate, but vice consul Rabino refused to accept them (Enclosure in Hartwig’s report of 14 June 1908, in Baširi, I, p. 260). On 27 June, the government forces stormed the provincial anjoman in Rasht. Exchanges of fire, which left casualties, led to the closure of the bazaar (Shtritter, 15-28 June 1908, in Baširi, II, p. 215). Thus, the Constitutional Revolution was temporarily suspended in Gilān. Ẓahir-al-Dawla was dismissed, since on the whole he had failed to curb the activities of the radical anjomans. In July 1908, the shah appointed Āqā Bālā Khan Sardār Afḵam as governor of Rasht and Sardār Amjad, the landlord of Kargānrud, as governor of Ṭāleš. Both were pro-Russian members of the nobility (Hartwig to the consul in Rasht, 21 July 1908, in Baširi, II, pp. 248-49).
The response of the Gilāni revolutionaries was to seek help from Baku and Tiflis. The young constitutionalist landowner Mirzā Karim Rašti, a younger brother of Sardār Moḥyi Moʿezz-al-Solṭān, went to the Caucasus. He spent a considerable amount of his wealth buying weapons and explosives while recruiting Transcaucasian revolutionaries to help combat the newly established dictatorship in Iran. Arms and volunteers began arriving in Gilān in late 1908, while Mirzā Karim returned to Rasht in early February 1909. A great amount of rifles and ammunition was confiscated, and a number of northern revolutionaries were arrested when they tried to enter the province. Yet, on the whole, a good number of Georgians, Armenians, and Muslims secretly found their way to Rasht and Anzali (Afšār, 1980, pp. 1-48). The Georgian Bolshevik Sergo Ordzhonikidze (1886-1937) was among the well-known men who went to Gilān. He was Stalin’s right-hand man in the Baku underground, heading a group of 140 revolutionaries, consisting of 40 men from Georgia and 100 from Baku (Ordzhonikidze, p. 122). Others included the Armenian Epʿrem Khan, who was a member of the Iranian branch of the Armenian Revolutionary Federation, called Dašnaktsutyun (Arkun, p. 92), and the Bulgarian anarchist Feodor Panov, who was a correspondent of the Russian newspapers Rech and Russkoe Slovo. Both distinguished themselves in the revolution.
In early 1909, the revolutionaries formed their secret Sattār committee, named after Sattār Khan (1868-1914). The committee included artisans, journalists, a few intellectuals, and some petty landlords (Malekzāda, V, p. 148). It decided to restart the revolution in two essential steps. The first was to capture Rasht by force in order to establish a revolutionary government in the city. The Committee was responsible for the assassination of Sardār Afḵam, the governor of Rasht, under the command of Sardār Moḥyi. At the same time, Mirzā ʿAli Tarbiat and Ḥosayn Kasmāʾi attacked the quarters of the Qajar Cossacks and subdued them after a few hours. Subsequently, police and gendarmes surrendered to the revolutionaries, and the government apparatus fell under their control (Šāhin, pp. 83-84; Navāʾi, pp. 41-50). After the fall of the Rasht government, between 150 and 200 anti-constitutionalists were killed in the city (Rabino, 1989, p. 47). The second step was to organize a revolutionary army in Gilān, which became the military force that eventually marched to Tehran and toppled the shah with the help of the Baḵtiāris.
The Sattār committee invited the northern magnate Sepahdār (later Sepahsālār) Aʿẓam, who owned much of the neighboring Māzandarān province, to Rasht to assume the governorship. Although Sepahdār himself was a member of the elite, he had just turned against the shah, who had given the governorship of Tonekābon, which had been in Sepahdār’s family for 200 years, to someone else. Sepahdār went to Gilān with a large armed force to join the revolutionaries, and the Russians in turn dispatched troops to Baku and Julfa. Some of those troops entered Gilān, and the number of guards around the Russian consulate increased (Nicolson to Grey, 3 March 1909, in Rabino, 1989, p. 119). Nevertheless, no Russian measure hindered the work of the revolutionaries. They immediately elected a war commission in Rasht to organize the revolutionary army. Each ethnic group (Gilānis, Tabrizis, Armenians, Georgians, Transcaucasian Muslims) chose a representative, and they included Panov for his special abilities as a professional revolutionary. The war commission immediately began to dispatch troops towards Qazvin. Among the first men were Epʿrem, Sardār Moḥyi, and Mirzā Kuček Khan (1880-1921), who was later to lead the Jangali movement in Gilān (Kasravi, I, p. 12). By mid-March, the revolutionaries controlled the road to Qazvin, with the exception of the last 60 km (Berkley to Grey, 14 March 1909, inRabino, 1989, p. 120). Tehran began to send troops, and Qazvin, halfway between Rasht and the capital, became the main battleground.
The revolutionaries immediately began their march on Tehran with the help and nominal leadership of Sepahdār, but they were not as quick as it is generally thought, or as they would have liked to be. Not only did the radicals have to tame landowners, they also suffered from financial difficulties that hampered their efforts. Sepahdār tried to be diplomatic with both the Russians and the British and claimed moderation in the revolution. Consequently, he made known that he was uneasy about what he called the extremism of the Transcaucasian revolutionaries who enjoyed much popularity in the province. Yet red flags were raised above almost every house in Rasht (Churchill’s note in Berkley to Grey, 23 March, 1909, in Rabino, 1989, pp. 122-24), while the revolutionary army became stronger and better armed everyday, because more volunteers from Gilān and the Caucasus joined.
On 5 May, the revolutionaries captured Qazvin with little bloodshed (Berkley to Grey, 5 May 1909, in Rabino, 1989, p. 127); in Tehran Moḥammad-ʿAli Shah backed off and reinstated the Constitution (Berkley to Grey, 20 May 1909, ibid.). The revolutionaries were near Tehran by 11 May, and their advance caused much consternation at the court(Berkley to Grey, 11 May, 1909, in Rabino, 1989, pp. 128-29). But once again the revolution moved at a slow pace, because more orchestrated movements with the Tabriz resistance and the Baḵtiāris were needed. It took another two months until the revolutionary army finally accomplished its mission of capturing the capital.
On 8 June 1909, Sepahdār was appointed governor of Gilān and Māzandarān. As the revolution once again gained strength, he submitted his demands to the Tehran government: Russian and British troops were to leave Iranian territory; the provincial anjomans would nominate ministers as long as a new parliament was not yet elected; and the local anjomans would choose the provincial governors (Berkley to Grey, 5 July 1909, in Rabino, 1989, p. 139). But there was no time for a response, since the revolutionary army reached Tehran on 13 July 1909, entering the city at Bahārestān square. Fighting ensued for some days before the capital was captured. On 16 July, the shah took sanctuary in the Russian embassy (Isolskii to Russian representatives in other countries, 18 July 1909, in Baṣiri, II, p. 242). The next day, Moḥammad-ʿAli Shah was deposed, and his young son succeeded him as Aḥmad Shah (r. 1909-25). Moreover, Epʿrem Khan was appointed as Tehran’s chief of police.
In Rasht, the anjomans had been resurrected after the revolutionary coup. But now new issues came to the foreground, although efforts for democracy and peasant emancipation continued. Indeed, the revolutionaries, with the help of the provincial anjoman, intensified their efforts to extract money from notables and landlords in order to finance the revolution. The prominent landowner and cleric Šariʿatmadār was forced to pay 36,000 tomans to avoid being killed, while Ẓell-al-Solṭān, another well-known member of the ruling elite, had to pay 100,000 tomans (Rabino, 1989, p. 51). Rabino estimated that altogether between 220,000 and 350,000 tomans were collected (idem, p. 47). In general, the activities of the anjomans appear to have become more radical. Ordzhonikidze organized the International Club, for which the Bolsheviks produced revolutionary literature and which agitated the population (Ordzhonikidze, p. 96). In October 1909, the revolutionaries held a large demonstration on the occasion of the death of a Spanish radical.
It appears that the popularity of the red flag alarmed the Russian authorities in an unprecedented way. On 7 July 1909, ships of the Russian navy with 2,000 men aboard anchored at Anzali. Although the provincial anjoman issued strong protests, it managed to halt the landing of the Russian Cossacks and soldiers only temporarily (Rabino, 1989, p. 49). Still, the Russian threat to the revolution allowed the provincial anjoman to gain the upper hand in its rivalry with the mojāhedin and radical anjomans of artisans. In late July, 8,000 people are reported to have participated in a meeting at Rasht, and a similar meeting took place at Anzali. People gathered to discuss and protest against the landing of some Russian troops, while Ḥāji Mirzā Moḥammad-Reżā, the leader of provincial anjoman, dominated the urban movement. People concluded that the solution was a general strike, a closure of the bazaar, and a boycott of Russian goods (Resulzade, pp. 234-35). Officially, the Russians were trying to keep open the road from Rasht to Tehran, while protecting Russian interests in the region. But the revolutionaries were quicker and captured Tehran before the Russian military.
After the restoration of the Constitution in Tehran, the situation of the peasants and the radical anjomans did not change. The new constitutional government disarmed the mojāhedin and fadāʾiān (Berkley to Grey, 25 February 1910, in Rabino, 1989, p. 174), and most Transcaucasian revolutionaries returned to their home countries, perhaps with the exception of the Armenians who had gathered in Tehran around Epʿrem Khan. Tehran sent governor after governor to Rasht and dispatched gendarmes to collect taxes in the countryside, but without much success until the Russians suppressed the revolution in late 1911.
In July and August 1911, when the deposed shah attempted to return to Iran and topple the new government, a flicker of disquiet appeared in Rasht. The resistance against Moḥammad-ʿAli Shah was organized in Tehran (Berkley to Grey, 9 August 1911, in Rabino, 1989, p. 182). Yet the Russian consul Nekrasov and the Russian military authorities tried to sabotage the revolution in Gilān in the same manner as they had donein Tabriz, in an overall attempt to bring the northern provinces under Russian control. They began by undermining the various institutions in the province. The governor resisted the Russians, and the provincial anjoman sent numerous telegrams to Tehran, though their efforts were fruitless (Kasravi, I, pp. 458-59). Czarist sabotage continued until December 1911, when the Russian government officially issued its famous ultimatum to the Iranian government. In Gilān, the Russian officials brazenly suppressed all institutions in order to seize power. But in response to the ultimatum, the people of Gilān closed the bazaar and boycotted Russian goods, although that was not always in the interest of the merchants. Crowds gathered at large political meetings at the quarters of the provincial anjomans, and held a general strike. The Russians violently ended this strike. They forced the traders to open shop, shut down the anjomans, arrested numerous constitutionalists, and began a house-to-house search of the cities (Jurābči, pp. 85-91).
What is significant about the Russian actions is that they attacked Iranian society in its entirety, hanging a number of constitutionalists, political activists, and merchants. Not only did they suppress peasants and anjomans, but they also made an attempt on the life of the governor of Anzali, arrested landowners, and disarmed and shot soldiers and policemen (Kasravi, II, pp. 459-75). This put into motion a process that united Iranians against foreign intervention and culminated in an armed struggle. It was triggered by the outbreak of World War I and emerged after the war as a sort of nationalism. The anti-imperialist Jangali movement flared up in Gilān in 1915 and lasted until late 1921. Near its end the Qajar Cossack brigadier Reżā Khan (r. 1925-41 as Reza Shah Pahlavi) led a coup, seizing power in the capital.
Bibliography
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GĪLĀN ix. Monuments
Gīlān is an area with high precipitation, where the annual rainfall may reach as high as 120 cm. Building materials, except for hard rocks, rapidly wear out, turning aging structures into mounds of rubble. Trees, weeds, and grass grow on these mounds, changing old buildings into hills covered with vegetation. Many such hillocks, locally called kūl, kūtī, dīn, and devīn, stud the Caspian shoreline, each one presenting a site worthy of archeological excavation and research. None of them, however, have so far been scientifically excavated and studied except for Čerāḡ-ʿAlī Tappa at the mouth of the Gowharrūd River, which was excavated by Ezzat-Allah Negahban and is better known as Marlik Tepe (see Van den Berghe, pp. 17-18).
There are also buildings of historical interest, most of which have been repeatedly repaired and rebuilt throughout their history. Some have clear records of their history, but most of them lack reliable, primary documents, and one has to rely on a variety of indirect evidence such as the dates engraved on entrance doors, on tombstones, on transenna (żarīḥ), and/or on sepulchers in order to reconstruct part of the past of a given edifice and hazard a guess about its origin.
Shrines found on mountain tops most probably are built on pre-Islamic sites (nos. 1-11). The major monuments of Gīlān, described in detail in the present writer’s Az Āstārā tā Estārbād, are listed below in chronological order.
1. Čerāḡ-ʿAlī Tappa (Tappa-ye Mārlīk), situated on the Gowharrūd River near the village Nesfī/Neṣfī in the district of Rūdbār; it dates from the Median period.
2. The Assatāšān shrine between the villages Bonān and Rāhsarān, to the east of a mountain on the top of which is the shrine of Mollā Ḵorūša. It is apparently built on the site of an ancient temple (Sotūda, II, p. 391).
3. Sūrī, on a mountain top behind Marvesen village, built on the site of an ancient temple (Sotūda, II, pp. 390-91).
4. Sām o Lām on the top of Savāta Mountain, regarded as one of the most ancient temples in Gīlān (Sotūda, II, p. 400, pl. 269).
5. Gerda Kūl, also known as the shrine of Āqā Sayyed Abu’l-Ḥasan b. al-Mūsa al-Kāẓem, on the peak of Gerda Kūl Mountain near Komonī village in the Somām district of Rūdsar. The date of the building, 1048/1638-39, is recorded on a marble slab on the wall of the antechamber. It seems to have been built on the site of an ancient temple (Sotūda, II, p. 369-72, pls. 353-54; Jaktājī, p. 564).
6. Mollā Ḵorūša/Hūreša on the top of a ridge between the villages Šūʾīl and Talābonak in the Rūdsar area of Lower Eškevar.
7. Šāh Safīd Kūh, on the top of Bolūr Mountain, built on the site of an ancient temple (Sotūda, II, p. 414).
8. The shrine of Āqā Sayyed Ebrāhīm b. al-Mūsā al-Kāẓem, also known as Emāmzāda Tūrār, on the top of the Tūrār Mountain, at about 4 miles southeast of Kelīšem in the Rūdbār district. The trunk of an old, large ash-tree in front of this shrine has a few stag horns nailed onto it, which has gradually been covered by tree barks in such a way that the horns look like natural branches of the tree. This is an indication of the esteem in which the stag, locally called ganj-e gāv, is held by the local population. The same feature was noticed by the present author also in the village Langarkaš at the springhead of Amu Darya (q.v.). The oldest gravestone in the cemetery surrounding the shrine is dated 1220/1805-6 (Sotūda, II, pp. 36-43, pl. 35; Jaktājī, p. 558; Rabino, p. 282, tr., p. 328).
9. Qalʿa-ye Govar Mīrzā, also called Qalʿa-ye Ṭāher Mīrzā, in the middle of the Safīdrūd River, facing the village of Lūya in the Rostamābād district of Rūdbār. H. L. Rabino, who refers to it as Qez Qalʿa, describes it as a fortress built upon a rock in the middle of Safīdrūd River at a distance of 6 km from the Manjīl bridge. Ruins of a bridge can be seen at a short distance to the south of the fortress. This bridge dates from the pre-Islamic era, and, according to Adam Olearius, it was destroyed by Alexander the Great (Rabino, pp. 210 n. 2, 212, tr., pp. 245, 247; Sotūda, I, pp. 471-72, pl. 240).
10. Qalʿa-ye Šīndān, clearly visible from the top of the mountain pass of Ḥayrān/Ḥājī Amīr, is a large stone fortress located at a short distance from the border separating Persian Azerbaijan from the Republic of Azerbaijan. It was the stronghold of Amīr Ḥamza, the governor of Āstārā, who revolted against Shah ʿAbbās in 1001/1593. Šīndān seems to date from the pre-Islamic period (Fūmanī, pp. 140-41; Eskandar Beg, pp. 441-43, tr. Savory, pp. 615-16; Sotūda, I, pp. 14-15; Bazin, I, p. 36, II, p. 67).
11. Qalʿa-ye Kūl, near Kīšḵānī Māsāl in the Šānderman district of Ṭavāleš, a pre-Islamic structure at an elevation of about 200 m above the surrounding rice fields (Sotūda, I, p. 120).
12. Āstāna-ye Haft Emām, a shrine in the village Rūdbārak of Eškevar, dating from the Zaydid period, i.e., the 8th-9th centuries. It must be identified as the Rūdbārak Mosque mentioned by Ẓahīr-al-Dīn Marʿašī, who credits its building to Imam Nāṣer al-Ḥaqq (Marʿašī, 1968, p. 472; Rabino, p. 382, tr., p. 445; Sotūda, II, pp. 391-92).
13. Espīa Mazgat in the village Kīšḵāla of Denyāčāl in the Ṭavāleš district; it dates from the 9th century (Sotūda, I, pp. 70-72, pls. 31-37).
14. The brick minaret of the village Azbar in Fūman district (Sotūda, I, p. 166).
15. Qalʿa-ye Garmāvar, or Garmāvarī Borj, in the village Garmāvar, the Somām district of Rūdsar; it probably dates from pre-Islamic times. The mud-brick tower to the southeast of the fortress was built in the 19th century (Sotūda, II, pp. 362-63, pls. 246-48; Rabino, p. 369, tr., p. 434).
16. The tomb of Sayyed Abū Jaʿfar, apparently dating from the 11th-12th century. According to Rabino, an inscription carved on a board and dated 1009/1600-1601 identified the tomb as belonging to Jaʿfar, the cousin of the Prophet. The tomb was located in an old cemetery situated in the Ostād-sarāy district of Rašt. The entire cemetery was destroyed when the area was undergoing modernization under Reżā Shah (Rabino, pp. 76-77, tr., pp. 82-83; tr. Sotūda, I, pp. 262-63).
17. Qalʿa-ye Līsār, a fortress built of rocks and gypsum in the village of Nūmandān, apparently dating from the 12th or 13th century (Rabino, pp. 97-98, tr., pp. 109-10; Sotūda, I, p. 43, pls. 20-24).
18. The brick dome at the village of Pīr Maḥalla in Rānekūh at a distance of 10 km from Rūdsar. This octagonal dome, is the only historical monument in Gīlan that is made of composition plaster. It apparently dates from the latter part of the 13th century (Sotūda, II, p. 313-14, pl. 204).
19. Čahār Pādšāhān in Lāhījān, Bīa-pīš, where four Kīāʾī leaders are buried. It originally was the tomb of Sayyed Ḵor/Ḵorram Kīā, killed in 647/1249, whose sarcophagus, bearing the date, is still in situ. The main part of the tomb was built by Sayyed Hādī Kīā, the ruler of Tonokābon, who had his brothers buried there in 791/1389. The second oldest sarcophagus belongs to Sayyed Rażī Kīā, the ruler of Gīlān, who died in 829/1426 (Marʿašī, 1968, pp. 93, 95-96; Rabino, pp. 294-96, tr., pp. 342-44; Nafīsī, pp. 266-83; Sotūda, II, pp. 98-113, pls. 74-85; Jaktājī, pp. 551-52; PLATE XII, PLATE XIII).
PLATE XII. Detail of the wooden sarcophagus in the first chamber of the Čahār Pādšāhān shrine in Lāhījān (#19). After Sotūda, II, plate 75.View full image in a new tab
PLATE XIII. Antique faience tiles on the dado of the ayvān of the Čahār Pādšāhān shrine (#19). After Sotūda, II, plate 84.View full image in a new tab
20. Mīl-e Omām, a pole made of unhewn stone and plaster on a hilltop near the village Omām in the Rūdsar district of Lāhījān; it dates from the period of Marʿashid rulers of Gīlān (Sotūda, II, p. 357, pl. 235; Razmārā, Farhang II, p. 23).
21. The tomb of a 13th-century Gīlakī poet, Pīr Šarafšāh, on the edge of Haft Daḡanān forest, at the border of Kasgar and Gīl Dūlāb regions. The old wooden structure was replaced by th present-day building in 1946 (Sotūda, I, pp. 85-88, pls. 41-44).
22. The tomb of Tāj-al-Dīn Maḥmūd Ḵīvī in Lamīr Maḥalla of Āstārā in Bīa-pas, a square building of brick and stone covered by a dome; the gravestone bears the date 11 Jomādā 732/9 March 1332 (Sotūda, I, pp. 12-17, pls. 1-4).
23. The shrine of Sayyed Moḥammad, believed to be a son of Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādeq, in the village Pīnīčā of the Āstāna district. An elaborately wrought, wooden transenna with a pyramidal top surrounds the grave. The walls are decorated with paintings of religious scenes (PLATE XIV). The date 780/1378 is inscribed on the south ayvān (Sotūda, II, pp. 188-91, pls. 146-49; Jaktājī, p. 561).
PLATE XIV. Mural in the shrine of Āqā Sayyed Moḥammad int the village of Pīnčā in Āstāna (#23) illustrating the Prophet’s ascension (meʿrāj) to heaven. After Sotūda, II, plate 149.View full image in a new tab
24. The tomb popularly known as that of Amīr Kīā in the village Valam in Lašt-e Nešā, which is, according to the inscription engraved on the entrance door, the tomb of Jānbāz b. Šaraf-al-Dawla who died in 827 (Sotūda, I, pp. 435-36, pl. 228).
25. The tomb of Sayyed Abū Jaʿfar Ṯāyerī Ḥasanī in the village Mīānda of Ūšīān in Rūdsar district. It must be identical with the tomb of Abū Jaʿfar Hūsamī, referred to by Marʿašī. The inscription on the portal bears the date 842/1438-39, but the wooden sarcophagus (ṣandūq) is dated 855/1451; the gravestones of Mīr Morād b. Mīr Salīm and of Esmaʿīl b. Āqā Qorbān, both in the mausoleum, bear the dates 1045/1635-36 and 1275/1858-59 respectively (Marʿašī, 1976, p. 279; Sotūda, II, pp. 330-33, pls. 216-20).
26. Zanjīr Āstāna, also known as Āstāna-ye Emāmzāda Sayyed ʿAlī Ḡaznavī b. Imam Jaʿfar al-Ṣādeq, in the village Tajen Gūka in Lāhījān. According to Rabino, Ḡaznavī was an ancestor of Amīr Kīā, the ruler of Bīa-pīš. The wooden, beautifully wrought sarcophagus bears the date 871/1466-67; another grave, belonging to a certain Moḥammad-ʿAlī Khan, has the date 1216/1801-2 (Rabino, p. 331, tr., pp. 382-83; Sotūda, II, pp. 170-73, pls. 132-38; Jaktājī, p. 572; PLATE XV).
PLATE XV. Detail of the wooden sarcophagus in Zanjīr Āstāna, the shrine of Sayyed ʿAlī Ḡaznavī at the village of Tajen Gūka in Lāhījān (#26). After Sotūda, II, plate 136.View full image in a new tab
27. Sar-e Torbat-e Omām, the family mausoleum of the Kiaʾī amirs, built by Mīrzā ʿAlī in the fields of Kašāčāk, where Solṭān Moḥammad (d. 883/1478) and his son Mīrzā ʿAlī (k. 912/1507), the rulers of Bīa-pīš, and two Kīāʾī women are buried. The mausoleum had pious endowments made by Mīrzā ʿAlī, the document of which, dated 883, is inscribed on a slab of marble in the wall of Dār-al-Ḥoffāẓ. The gravestone of a certain Āqā Moḥammadqolī b. Āqā Qorbān-ʿAlī, situated near the entrance threshold, bears the date 1258 (Sotūda, II, pp. 343-54, pls. 225-34; Jaktājī, pp. 569-70).
28. The tomb of Pīr Qoṭb-al-Dīn, a brick building near Bāḡča-sarā village. The surrounding graves do not seem to date from earlier than the 10th/15th century (Sotūda, I, p. 21, pls. 6-11; Jaktājī, p. 567).
29. The Sīmrūd bridge on Lāhījān River near the city of Lāhījān. It was built in 892/1486 and repaired in 1271 by the merchant Ḥājī Qorbān Lāhījī (Marʿašī, p. 442; Rabino, p. 304, tr. pp. 355-56; Sotūda, II, pp. 146-48, pl. 122).
30. The tomb of Solṭān Sayyed Ḥājī Maḥmūd Marandī in Ḥarzavīl in the Rūdbār district. The dome was built in 998/1590 by Amīra Tītī, the daughter of Solṭān Moḥammad, the governor of Kūhdam. The gravestones in the precinct of the tomb are dated as follows: 908/1502, of Parī Solṭān, the daughter of Solṭān Moḥammad; 989/1581, an unidentified grave; 995/1587, of Malek Abu’l-Qāsem; 1057/1647, of ʿAlī b. Moḥammad -Amīn Zāwīa (Sotūda, I, pp. 473-77, pls. 243-46; Jaktājī, p. 562).
31. Qalʿa-ye Rūdḵān (also called Qalʿa-ye Qalāḡū and Qalʿa-ye Ḥosām), a huge mountain fortress south of Fūman; it was rebuilt in 918/1512 by the order of Amīr Ḥosām-al-Dīn b. Amīra Dobbāj Fūmanī (Rabino, pp. 166-67, tr. pp. 187; Sotūda, I, pp. 157-61, pls. 73-85).
32. The tomb of Shaykh ʿAlī b. Ākāšāh in Rūdborda, a village in the Sangar dehestan of Rašt, apparently built in 920/1514; it was repaired in 1319/1902. An imprecation text (laʿnat-nāma) dated 1228/1813 is inscribed on the portal (Sotūda, I, pp. 310-12).
33. Jām-ḵāna of Deylamān palace, built in 930 as engraved on a door currently at a shrine of Emāmzāda Qāsem and Emāmzāda Ḥamza in the village Kūmes of Deylamān (Sotūda, II, p. 30).
34. The tomb of Shaikh Abu’l-Wajīh in Kohlabar in Zāklabar of Lāhījān; the tomb is surrounded by a lattice transenna; writing engraved on a piece of board originally belonging to the wooden sarcophagus bears the date 948/1541 (Sotūda, II, pp. 161-63, pl. 128).
35. Pīr Solaymān Tomb at Solaymān Dārāb near Rašt; the wooden sarcophagus was made in 953/1546 by the order of Sarfarāz Solṭān, a military leader of Bīa-pīš. Mīrzā Kūček Khan, the leader of the Jangalī movement (q.v.), is buried here (Fūmanī, pp. 28-29; Sotūda, I, pp. 300-302) .
36. The shrine of Awn b. Moḥammad b. ʿAlī b. Abī Ṭāleb in Māsūla, built in 969/1561-62 by Malek Ḵalīl b. Malek Ḵebr Beyg; the lattice transenna was built in 1015/1608. The gravestones found in the tomb precinct bear the following dates: 955/1548, of Tork Ḵānom; 997/1589, Hāšem Beyg; 1004/1595-96, Maryam, daughter of Mīr Ḵalīl the custodian of the tomb; 1052/1642-43, of Moḥammad-badiʿ; 1060/1650, a grave near the entrance door; 1167/1753-54, of Moḥammad-Zakī; 1195/1781, of Moḥammad-Ḥasan; 1262/1846, the grave in front of the entrance door; 1262, the grave in front of the entrance door (Sotūda, I, pp 133-38, pls. 61-68; PLATE XVI).
PLATE XVI. The shrine of ʿAwn b. Moḥammad in Māsūla (#36). After Sotūda, I, plate 61.View full image in a new tab
37. The shrine of Abu’l-Ḥasan and Abu’l-Fażl, the sons of Imam Mūsā al-Kāẓem, at the village Fīldeh in Rūdbār district; the dates of gravestones in the tomb precinct are as follows: 986/1578, Badīʿ-al-Zamān Mīrzā; 1029/1620, of Šāh Manṣūr b. Šāh Malek Āqā; 1080/1669-70, of Mīrzā Raḥīm b. Mīrzā Kabīr; 1250/1834-35, of Kolṯūm, the daughter of Mīr Qāsem. The document of the endowment of a Koran by Mīr Qāsem Fīldehī for this tomb is dated 1194. During the reign of Reżā Shah, the old portal was removed and taken to the Iran Bastan Museum (Sotūda, I, pp. 464-69, pls/. 238-39; Jaktājī, p. 564).
38. The shrine on the top of Fīrūzkūh Mountain, believed to be the burial place of emāmzādas Kanʿān, ʿOmrān, and Borhān. It seems to be the site of an ancient temple. There are two wells near the place, one of which, according to Rabino, had the date 994/1586 on its opening (tanūra/tandūr); this date could not be found by the present author. The banner (ʿalam ) of the shrine is dated 1047/1637-38; there is also a gravestone dated 1038/1628-29 that belongs to a certain Bāz-ʿAlī, son of Panja ʿAlī (Rabino, pp. 370-71, tr. p. 435; Sotūda, II, pp. 374-75, pls. 258-59; Jaktājī, p. 565).
39. Bābā Walī shrine or the burying grounds of the prophet Qāder at the village Bābā Walī in Deylamān. Murals depicting religious scenes decorate the walls (PLATE XVII). The remaining frame of the entrance door that was stolen in 1969 is dated 1042/1632-33. Gravestones found here bear the following dates: 995/1548, of Pīrī Beyg; 998/1580, of Mahdī Beyg; 999/1581, of an unidentified grave; 1004/1595-96, of Nad-ʿAlī Beyg Ḵalīfa, 1014/1606-6, of Emāmverdī Beyg, 1040/1630-31, of Naqd-ʿAlī Jaʿfar (Rabino, p. 287, tr. 332; Sotūda, II, pp. 25-29, pls. 19-28).
PLATE XVII. Mural in the shrine of Bābā Walī in Deylamān (#39) illustrating the Prophet’s ascension. After Sotūda, II, plate 20.View full image in a new tab
40. Tītī carvansery, a Safavid monument, on the Šīmrūd River on the road from Sīāhkal to Deylamān; it is now used as a cattle pen (Sotūda, II, p. 50-52, pl. 41).
41. Pordesar, also called Ḵašta Pol-e Bozorg, a large bridge near the Menāra Bāzār in Gaskar, at the village Pordasar of Ṣawmaʿa-sarā in Fūman district. It was damaged in the flood of 1957; a Safavid monument (Sotūda, I, pp. 195-96, pls. 104-5).
42. The brick minaret in the Menāra Bāzār of Gaskar, at a distance of about 500 m from the tomb of Sayyed Zakī; apparently dating from the Safavid period.
43. The old brick bridge on the Šafārūd River in Ṭāleš-Dūlab, also seemingly a Safavid monument (Sotūda, I, p. 85, pls. 38-39).
44. Ṣafī Mosque, also called Šahīdīya Mosque, at a quarter of the same name in Rašt (PLATE XVIII). Ḥasan Rūmlū (ed. Navāʾī, II, p. 18) refers to it as Safīd Mosque, which seems to be its original name (II, p. 18). Here is buried Ṣafī Mīrzā the son of Shah ʿAbbās I of a Circassian mother, who was killed in Moḥarram 1024 by the order of his father. The mosque is now named after Shaikh Ṣafī-al-Dīn Ardabīlī, the eponym of the Safavids, who is believed to have had a hospice here (Sotūda, I, pp. 283-86, pls. 172-75).
PLATE XVIII. The interior of Ṣafī/Šahīdīya Mosque in Rašt (#44). After Sotūda, I, plate 173.View full image in a new tab
45. The watch tower of Qalʿa-ye Bandabon at the Bālā Qāsemābād village in Rānekūh, apparently dating from the Safavid period.
46. Golšan Mosque at the square of Kūček Maḥalla of the bāzār in Rašt. Building of mosques and public baths by the name golšan in large cities was a common feature under the Safavids. There was a public bath of this name in Lāhījān, but it was destroyed to expand the square where it was standing (Sotūda, I, pp. 256-57).
47. The shrine of Sayyed Aḥmad, believed to be the son of Imam Mūsā al-Kāżem, in Deylamān; the gravestone of a certain ʿAlī Beyg buried here bears the date 1007/1598 (Sotūda, II, pp. 20-21).
48. The tomb of Āqā Mīr Šams-al-Dīn in the Ordūbāzār quarter of Lāhījān; the sarcophagus was made in 1017 (Rabino, p. 294, tr. p. 342; Sotūda, II, pp. 82-85, pls. 59-63).
49. The tomb of Sayyed Reżā Dāvar Kīā at Bījār Bona in Lāhījān; the wooden sarcophagus bears the date 1018/1609 (Sotūda, II, pp. 127-29, pl. 99).
50. The old cemetery of Ḵašt Masjed village in Kūčeṣfahān. The oldest gravestone here is dated 1023/1614 and belongs to Bībī Raḥmat (Sotūda, I, p, 321, pl. 215).
51. Gerda Kūl shrine, believed to be the burial ground of Sayyed Abu’l-Ḥasan b. Imam Mūsā al-Kāẓem, upon a mountain of the same name, which seems to have been originally a very ancient temple. A marble slab on the wall of the antechamber is dated 1048/1638-39. The shrine contains the following gravestones with dates: 1171/1757-58, of Bībī Ḵānom; 1220/1805-6, of Walī Khan; 1221/1806, of Malek-Moḥammad; 1241/1825-26, of Golestān Ḵānom, daughter of Āqā Mīrzā; 1254/1838, Šahrbānū, daughter of Shaikh Ḵalīl b. Jalāl-al-Dīn; 1257/1841, of Āqā Shaikh Rafīʿ, son of Shaikh ʿAbd-Allāh; 1266/1849-50, of Nāzī Ḵānom, daughter of Shaikh Ḥosayn; 1266/1849-50, of Bemānī, daughter of Malek Moḥammad; 1271/1854-55, of Shaikh Jaʿfar, son of Shaikh Kāẓem; 1284/1867-68, of Borj-ʿAlī, son of Ostan Qorbān-ʿAlī; 1284/1867-68, of Ganj-ʿAlī, son of Naẓar-ʿAlī; 1301/1883-84, of Amīr ʿAlī, son of ʿAmū Ḥasan Gāleš (Sotūda, II, pp. 369-73, pl. 254-55; Jaktājī, p. 564).
52. Sāqī Mazār, now known as the shrine of Āqā Sayyed Moḥammad-Reżā b. Mūsā al-Kāẓem, at Jūršar of Lašt-e Nešā. A lattice transenna surrounds the wooden sarcophagus in the middle of the shrine. Rabino mentions an inscription on the portal that bore the date 1055/1645; this portal has been replaced now; no trace of the inscription was noticed (Rabino, p. 251, tr., p. 295; Sotūda, I, pp. 425-27, pls. 218-20).
53. The old cemetery at the Bāzār Maḥalla quarter of Sīā Rostāq village in Lāhījān. The gravestone of Ḥosām-al-Dīn Ḥosayn buried here bears the date 1058/1745 (Sotūda, II, p. 402).
54. Emāmzāda Šafīʿ shrine at a village of the same name in Šānderman; the lattice parapet was finished in 1073/1662-63 (Sotūda, I, p. 108-9, pls. 51-53; Jaktājī, p. 564).
55. The shrine at Laspū village, where Qāsem and Ebrāhīm, the sons of Imam Mūsā al-Kāẓem, are believed to be buried. Gravestones in the shrine bear the following dates: 1074/1663-64, of Ḵᵛāršāh b. Moḥammad Khan Laspūʾī; 1262/1846, of Ādīna, son of Moḥammad-ʿAlī Khan; 1269/1852-53 of M oḥammad-Ḥasan, son of Āqā ʿAlī (Sotūda, II, pp. 397-99).
56. The congregational mosque of Tamījān in Rūdsar; the pool small water tank (lāka) were built in 1075/1664-65 (Sotūda, II, pp. 310-11).
57. The shrine of Shaikh Zāhed at the village Šayḵ Zāhed Maḥalla at Čāboksar in the Ūšīān district of Rūdsar; the portal was made in 1086/1675 (Sotūda, II, p, 334).
58. The Ḥarzavīl gate, wrongly believed to have belonged to the fortress of Ḥarzavīl. As indicated by the inscription, it was built to provide a sanctuary for the local population (see BAST); the cornerstone is dated 1090/1679 (Sotūda, I, pp. 473-74, pl. 241).
59. The congregational mosque of the village Omša in Sangar district; it dates from the 12th/19th century (Sotūda, I, p. p. 313-14, pls. 204-5).
60. The old congregational mosque of Lāhījān, locally believed to stand on the site of a fire temple. A royal decree, inscribed on stone in this mosque, is dated 1106/1694-95; another inscription, dated 1107 /1695-96, is placed on a wall here. The gravestone of Ḥalīma, daughter of Āqā Shafīʿ, buried in the ayvān has the date 1217/1802-3 (Sotūda, II, pp. 114-18, pl. 86-88).
61. Ṣāḥeb-al-Zamān Mosque in Māsūla, built in 1117/1705-6 (Sotūda, I, pp. 139-40, pl. 69).
62. The shrine Āqā Sayyed Esmaʿīl and Āqā Sayyed Ebrāhīm, locally believed to be the sons of Imam Mūsā al-Kāẓem, at Sīāhkal Maḥalla of the village Sīāhkal. The dated gravestones in this shrine are: of Moḥammad-Ḥasan Beyg, dated 1137/1724-25, and of Moḥammad-Ḥosayn b. Aḥmad, dated 1213/1798-99 (Sotūda, II, pp. 54-57, pls. 42-46; Jaktājī, p. 559).
63. The shrine of Āqā Sayyed Moʿīn and Āqā Sayyed Mobīn near Tamījān in Rūdsar, locally believed to be the sons of Imam Mūsā al-Kāẓem; a gravestone here is dated 1145/1732-33 (Sotūda, I, pp. 293-944, pl. 199; Jaktānī, pp. 562-63).
64. The shrine at the village Šayḵānavar in Lāhījān; one of the most unusual buildings in Gīlān; the four-sided pyramidal dome is unique (PLATE XIX; the tile-work dates from the Safavid period. It is known as the tomb of Shaikh Tāj-al-Dīn Zāhed Gīlānī (d. 711/1311), whose grave one expects to be the one directly under the dome; but the inscription on this grave’s transenna identifies it as the grave of Sayyed Rażī b. Mahdī al-Ḥosaynī who died in 834/1431. There is a grave in a room adjacent to the dome area that is now believed to be that of Shaikh Zāhed, but Rabino ascribed it to a Timurid prince (Rabino, pp. 309-10, tr., pp. 364-66; Sotūda, II, pp. 148-57, pl. 123; Jaktājī, p. 573; Mūsawī, pp. 548-49).
PLATE XIX. yramidal roof of the tomb of of Shaikh Tāj-al-Dīn Zāhed Gīlānī at Šayḵānavar (#64). After Sotūda, II, plate 123.View full image in a new tab
65. The shrine (torbat) at Qūš-e Jad at the mountain pass of Dītūl at Haštpar, believed to be the burial ground of Sayyed Maḥmūd and Sayyed Zayn-al-ʿAbedīn, descendants of Iman Jaʿfar al-Ṣādeq ; the custodianship document of this shrine bears the date 1171/1757-58 (Sotūda, I, p. 47; Jaktājī, pp. 573-74).
66. The shrine of Āqā Šīr Sotūn-al-Dīn at Šalmān village in the Langarūd district of Lāhījān; religious scenes are painted on the walls; the gravestone of a certain Ṣādeq at the shrine is dated 1172/1758-59 (Sotūda, II, p. 274).
67. The shrine of Mīr Jamāl-al-Dīn Ašraf, believed to be a son of Imam Mūsā al-Kāẓem, at Pordesar quarter of Lāhījān. The gravestone of Karbalāʾī Maʿṣūm buried here has the date 1189/1775 (Sotūda, II, pp. 88-89).
68. Emāmzāda Hādī b. Imam Mūsā al-Kāẓem at Mīkāl village in Deylamān; the following dates were noticed on gravestones: 1197/1783, of Moṣṭafā Beyg b. Allāhverdī Solṭān Anbārlū; 1260/1844 of Jawāher, daughter of Sabz-ʿAlī (Sotūda, II, pp. 32-35, pl. 33; Jaktājī, p. 566).
69. The shrine known as Āstāna-ye Haft Emām at Rūdbārak, a village on the Kākrūd River in the Eškevar district. It must be identical with the mosque of Rūdbārak that, according to Marʿašī, was built by the order of the Zaydid Nāṣer al-Ḥaqq. The following dates were noticed on gravestones: 1199/1784-85, of Āqā Amīn b. Āqā Mīr Savār; 1255/1839, of Āqā Mīrzā, son of Mīrzā ʿAlī (Marʿašī, p. 472; Rabino, p. 382, tr., 9. 445; Sotūda, II, p. 391-92, pls. 267-68; Jaktājī, p. 574).
70. The shrine of Āqā Sayyed Ḥosayn and Āqā Sayyed Ebrāhīm, descendants of Imam Mūsā al-Kāẓem, at Foškālī Maḥalla in Langarūd (PLATE XX). It was once burned by fire in 1268 as described in a poem inscribed on the western wall. The following dates recorded in the shrine were noticed: the eastern entrance door was built in 1200/1785-86; the decree entrusting the custodianship (tawlīat) of the shrine to Ḥosayn is dated 1207/1792; the directive assigning the custodianship to Mollā Moḥammad-Ḥasan is dated 1240/1824; the building of Ḥosaynīya, ʿAbbāsīya, and the hostel (ḡarīb-ḵāna) were completed in 1320/1902-3 (Sotūda, II, pp. 233-46, pls. 163-71; Jaktājī, p. 560).
PLATE XX. Murals illustrating religious scenes; the shrine of Āqā Sayyed Ḥosayn and Āqā Sayyed Ebrāhīm at Foškālī Maḥalla in Langarūd (#70). After Sotūda, II, plate 167.View full image in a new tab
71. The shrine of Bābū Jān Darra in Somām, where Sayyed Kāẓem b. Āqā Sayyed Ebrāhīm, a descendant of Imam Mūsā al-Kāẓem, is believed to be buried; three dates were noticed on the gravestones found in the shrine: 1202/1787-88, of Naqd-ʿAlī b. Moḥammad-ʿAlī; 1223/1788-89, of Karam-ʿAlī b. Āqā Qanbar; 1245/1829-30, of Āqā ʿAlī, son of Moḥammad (Rabino, p. 368, tr., pp. 432-33; Sotūda, II, pp. 355-57).
72. Sāḡarīsāzān Mosque at the Sāḡarīsāzān quarter of Rašt, built in Rabīʿ II 1204/1789 by Ḥājj ʿAlī, a merchant from Šīrvān (Rabino, p.75, tr., pp. 81-82; Sotūda, I, pp. 291-92, pls. 187-88).
73. The shrine of Sayyed Naṣr-al-Dīn b. Imam Mūsā al-Kāẓem at the village Kūlka-sarāy in Rānekūh; these dates were noticed on gravestones: 1207/1792-93, of Rabīʿ b. Mūsā; 1209/1794-95, of Moḥammad-ʿAlī b. Moḥammad-Ṣafī; 1212/1797-98, of Nāzdār Ḵānom, daughter of ʿAlīmardān Khan. Paintings of religious scenes cover the walls (Sotūda, II, pp. 315-16, pl. 205-6).
74. Emāmzāda Hādī at Mīkāl village in Deylamān; murals illustrate religious scenes such as the Prophet’s ascention to heaven (meʿrāj), Abraham sacrificing his son, etc. The dates noticed on gravestones are: 1210/1785-96, of Parīzād Ḵānom, daughter of Ṣafī Khan Solṭān; 1215/1800-1801, of Allahverdī Solṭān b. Ḵodāverdī Beyg; 1243/1827-28, Allāh-Bedāšt, son of Karbalāʾī Naqd-ʿAlī; 1256/1840, of Ḏu’l-faqār, son of Mīrzā ʿAlī (Sotūda, II, pp. 32-35, pl. 33; Jaktājī, p. 566).
75. The shrine of Šāh-e Šahīdān near Šāh-e Šahīdān village in Deylamān, a tomb-tower with circular interior; Moḥammad and Hādī, sons of Imam Zayn-al-ʿĀbedīn are believed to be buried here; murals depict the battle of Karbalāʾ and the Prophet’s ascension to heaven; a gravestone here, belonging to ʿAlī b. Mīrzā ʿAlī, is dated 1218/1803-4 (Sotūda, II, pp. 24-25, pls. 15-18; Jaktājī, pp. 565-66).
76. The lighthouse minaret in Anzalī (q.v.), apparently built during the Qajar period (Sotūda, I, p. 236, pl. 113).
77. Emāmzāda Tūrār, a domed shrine on the peak of Tūrār Mountain to the southwest of Fīrūzkūh, probably built on the site of an ancient temple; it is also known as the shrine of Āqā Sayyed Ebrāhīm b. Imam Mūsā al-Kāẓem. The following dates were noted on gravestones: 1220/1805-6, of Moḥammad-Qāsem, son of Moḥammad-Yūsof; 1221/1807, of Ḵodāverdī Solṭān, son of Allāhverdī Solṭān; 1222/1807-8, of Omm Kolṯūm, daughter of Allāhverdī Solṭān; 1222/1807-8, of Danīāl b. ʿAlī Khan; 1233/1817-18, of Allāh-Badāšt; 1238/1822-23, of ʿAlī-Akbar Beyg, son of ʿAbd-Allāh Beyg; 1240/1825-26, of Mollā ʿAlī Khan, son of Karbalāʾī Ḥājī; 1243/1827-28, of Rayḥān Ḵānom, daughter of Allāhverdī Solṭān; 1248/1832-33, of Āqā Beyg, son of Ḥasan Khan Beyg; 1253/1837-38, of ʿAlī-Akbar Beyg, son of Sohrāb Khan; 1260/1844, of Mīrzā Khan, son of Moḥammad; 1271/1854-55, of Ḡolām-ʿAlī, son of Allāhverdī; 1273/1856-57, of Mollā Qāsem, son of Mollā Kāẓem; 1281, of Faṭema, daughter of Āqā ʿĀšūr-ʿAlī; 1289/1872-73, of Qorbān Ḥaddād, son of Šāh Walad; 1295/1878, of Ḥosayn, son of Mūsā Khan Tonokābonī (Sotūda, II, pp. 36-43, pls. 35-36; Jaktājī, p. 558).
78. The shrine of Āqā Sayyed ʿAlī b. Imam Mūsā al-Kāẓem at Mūtar Maḥalla village in Now Bījār, Lāhījān. The north entrance door is dated 1224/1809; the mural of the outside wall is signed dated 1353 /1934-35 (Sotūda, II, pp. 203-4).
79. The shrine of Āqā Mīr Sahīd at Ordūbāzār quarter of Lāhījān. Āqā Sayyed Aḥmad b. Imam Mūsā al-Kāẓem is believed to be buried here (PLATE XXI). The gravestone of Aḥmad b. Moʾmen buried here bears the date 1224/1809 (Rabino, p. 294, tr. p. 342; Sotūda, II, pp. 80-82, pl. 53-57; Jaktājī, p. 563).
PLATE XXI. he wooden lattice transenna in the shrine of Āqā Mīr Šahīd at the Ordūbāzār quarter of Lāhījān (#79). After Sotūda, II, plate 55.View full image in a new tab
80. Mollā Ḵorūša, one of the ancient temples of Gīlā built on the sharp peak of a mountain in Eškevar on the border dividing Šūʾīl, Talābonak, and Sūtakaš; dates found on gravestones in the shrine are: 1224/1809, of Māh-Šaraf, daughter of Āqā Kāẓem; 1229/1813-14, of Zarrīn Jān Ḵānom; 1246/1830-31; Ḥājī Ḵānom (Sotūda, II, p. 390).
81. The shrine of Sayyed Naṣr-al-Dīn b. Imam Mūsā al-Kāẓem at Gūka village in Lāhījān; the dates 1235/1819-20 and 1242/1826-27 were noticed on the gravestones of Fīrūza Ḵānom, daghterr of Mo ḥammad-Qāsem, and of Karbalāʾī Mīrzā, son of Mortażāqolī, respectively (Sotūda, II, pp. 199-200).
82. Akbarīya Mosque in Lāhījān, built in 1239/1823-24 by the order of Fatḥ-ʿAlī Shah Qājār (Sotūda, II, pp. 96-97, pls. 70-72; PLATE XXII).
PLATE XXII. The pulpit and the prayer niche in Akbarīya Mosque, Lāhījān (#82). After Sotūda, II, plate 70.View full image in a new tab
83. The shrine of Šāh Maḥmūd at the village Šayḵān Kafša in Lašt-e Nešā; the wooden sarcophagus is dated 1240/1824-25 (Sotūda, I, pp. 433-34, pl. 226).
84. Ḥājī ʿAlī Mosque at the Bāzār quarter of Langarūd. The portal was built in 1241/1825-26 (Sotūda, II, pp. 267-69, pl. 186).
85. The shrine of Āqā Mīr Ṣādeq in Lāhījān. The shrine banner is dated 1242/1826-27 (Sotūda, II, p. 86, pl. 65).
86. The shrine of Adham and Rūḥ-Allāh at Sīā Rostāq in Eškavar. The dates 1242/1826-27 and 1310/1892-93 were noticed on the gravestones of Mollā Ḡolām-ʿAlī, son of Āqā Akbar and of Shaikh ʿAbd-al-Ḥosayn, son of Āqā Mīrzā Yūsof (Sotūda, II, pp. 401-2, pl. 273).
87. Mostawfī Mosque in Rašt; the inscription of the prayer niche bears the date 1242/1826-27 (Sotūda, I, pp. 264-66, pls. 147-51).
88. The shrine of Sayyed ʿAbbās and Sayyed Esmāʿīl at Sāḡarsāzān quarter of Rašt. The door bears the date 1243/1827-28 (Rabino, p. 75, tr. p. 82; Sotūda, I, pp. 289-91, pls. 181-85).
89. The shrine of Sayyed Aḥmad b. Imam Mūsā al-Kāẓem on a hilltop in Ḡozdārebon fields of the village Deylamān; the dates noted on gravestones are: 1244/1828-29, of Qorbān-ʿAlī Beyg; and 1267/1850-51, of Ramażān-ʿAlī, son of Jaʿfar (Sotūda, II, pp. 19-20, pl. 14).
90. The shrine of Āqā Sayyed Amīr Kīā b. Imam Mūsā al-Kāẓem at the village of Šīrjū-pošt of Rūdbona district in Lāhījān; the gravestone of Ḵᵛāja Moḥammad, son of Ḥājī ʿAlī-Akbar, buried in the shrine area, bears the date 1246/1830-31 (Sotūda, II, pp. 205-6, pls. 156-59).
91. The shrine of Āqā Sayyed Abu’l-Qāsem at Šekarkaš, a square building surrounded by ayvāns in the district of Bijār-pas in Rānekūh. The wooden lattice sarcophagus bears the date 1290/1873. The dates noticed on gravestones are: 1248/1832-33, of Qorban-ʿAlī, son of Moḥammad Gāleš; 1259/1843, of ʿĀšūr, son of Allāhverdī; and 1290/1873, of Borj-ʿAlī, son of Āqā ʿAlī (Sotūda, II, pp. 288-89, pls. 197-98).
92. Āqā Ebrāhīm shrine at the Gābona quarter of Lāhījān, facing the Akbarīya Mosque. A transenna surounds the wooden sarcophagus that was made in 1253/1838 (Sotūda, II, p. 94).
93. Safīd Āstāna, the tomb of Āqā Sayyed Moḥammad, at Kīā Kalāya in Langarūd, on the right side of the road linking Langarūd with Rūdsar; a gravestone belonging to Šahrbānū, daughter of Qorbān-ʿAlī, is dated 1255/1839 (Rabino, p. 343, tr. p. 399; Sotūda, II, p. 272).
94. The shrine at Kūmes village in Deylamān, where Emāmzāda Qāsem and Emāmzāda Ḥamza, sons of Imam Mūsā al-Kāẓem are believed to be buried.; 1255/1839-40 is the date of the grave of Ḥosaynqoli, son of Ḥasan Ṭāleš Kulī, buried in the shrine (Sotūda, II, pp. 29-31, pl. 29-32).
95. The shrine of Aḥmad b. Imam Mūsā al-Kāẓem at Gīlavā in Kūčeṣfahān; 1240/1824-25 is the date on the grave of Moḥammad-Beyg Gīlavāʾī, buried in the shrine. An imprecation (laʿnat-nāma) inscribed on stone bears the date 1255/1839-40 (Sotūda, I, pp. 318-20, pls. 219-11).
96. Morād-dahanda shrine at the village with the same name in Lāhījān; 1260/1844 is the date of the grave of Gol Ḵātūn, daughter of Āqā Kāẓem Dīlmaqānī, buried here (Sotūda, II, pp. 175-76).
97. Āqā Sayyed Ḵalīl shrine at the village of Kīā Zanik in Rānekūh district; the gravestone of Rostam Khan buried here, the son of Moḥammad Khan, has the date 1264/1847-48 (Sotūda, II, p. 297).
98. The shrine known as Āstāna-ye Čahār Tan at the village of Sayf Dārbon in Rānekūh; 1264/1838-39 is the date of the gravestone of Mahdī Khan Beyg buried here (Sotūda, II, pp. 291-92).
99. The shrine of Sayyed Abū Jaʿfar b. Imam ʿAlī al-Reżā, also known as Fūšā shrine, at the Sādāt quarter of Bārgū Sarāy in Lāhījān; the entrance door was made in 1265/1848-49 (Sotūda, II, pp. 208-9).
100. Āqā Shaikh Ḥabīb-Allāh Mosque at the Rāh-pošta quarter of Langarūd; 1270/1853-54 is the date of the entrance door (Sotūda, II, pp. 265-66).
101. Mollā Mīr Šams-al-Dīn shrine at the village of Lāšīdān in Lāhījān. The shrine was repaired in 12751858-59. A memorial by Mollā ʿAlī Lāšīdānī written on a tile brick is dated 1279/1862-63 (Sotūda, II, p. 139).
102. The shrine of Sayyed Ḥasan b. Imam Mūsā al-Kāẓem at Lafmajān village in Lāhījān; the gravestone of Belqīs buried here, daughter of Jaʿfar, bears the date 1278/1861-62 (Sotūda, II, pp. 177-78).
103. Sayyed Qāsem shrine at the village of Čūlāb in Kūčeṣfahān, built in 1284/1867-68 (Sotūda, I, pp. 317-18, pls. 207-9).
Bibliography
- M. Bazin, Le Tâlech: une région ethnique au nord de l’Iran, 2 vols., Paris, 1980.
- ʿAbd-al-Fattāḥ Fūmanī Gīlānī, Tārīḵ-e Gīlān, ed. M. Sotūda, Tehran, pp. 1349 Š./1970.
- M.-T. Jaktājī, “Beqāʿ-e motabarraka wa amāken-e maḏhabī-e Gīlān,” in Ketāb-e Gīlān, 3 vols., Tehran, 1374 Š./1995, I, pp. 557-81.
- Mīr Sayyed Ẓahīr-al-Dīn Marʿašī, Tārīḵ-e Gīlān o Delamestān, ed. M. Sotūda, Tehran, 1347 Š./1968.
- Idem, Tārīḵ-e Ṭabarestān o Rūyān o Māzandarān, ed. M.-Ḥ Tasbīḥī, Tehran, 2535=1355 Š./1976.
- S. M. Mūsawī, “Banāhā-ye tārīḵī-e Gīlān,” in Ketāb-e Gīlān, 3 vols., Tehran, 1374 Š./1995, I, pp. 547-56.
- S. Nafīsī, “Āṯār-e tārīḵī-e čahār pādšāh dar Lāhījān,” Taʿlīm o tarbīat 3, 1306 Š./1927, pp. 266-83.
- E. Negahban, The Complete Excavation Report, 2 vols., Philadelphia, 1996.
- H. L. Rabino di Borgomale, Les Provinces caspiennes de la Perse: Le Guîlân, RMM 32 (1915-16), Paris, 1917; tr. J. Ḵomāmīzāda as Welāyāt-e dār-al-marz-e Īrān: Gīlān, Rašt, 1357 Š./1978.
- M. Sotūda, Az Āstārā tā Estārbād I-II Tehran, 1349 Š-51 Š./1970-72.
- L. Vanden Berghe, Bibliographie analytique de l’archéologie de l’Irān Ancien, Leiden, 1979, pp. 15-19.
GĪLĀN x. LANGUAGES
Introduction: linguistic diversity. In Gīlān there are three major Iranian language groups, namely Gīlakī, Rūdbārī, and Ṭālešī, and pockets of two other groups, Tātī and Kurdish. The non-Iranian languages include Azeri Turkish and some speakers of Gypsy (Romany, of Indic origin). Gīlakī is spoken by possibly three million people as a first or second language, and has had a budding literature and fledgling prose publications, including newspapers, but both Gīlakī and Ṭālešī are rapidly losing ground in many cities of Tavāleš due to heavy immigration of people from Azerbaijan.
Dialectology. The five Iranian languages in Gīlān belong to the Northwestern branch of Iranian. Gīlakī, which has two main dialect types, eastern and western, with the Safidrūd River as the general border, is a member of the Caspian subgroup. Tātī and Ṭālešī (Talyshi) together make up the larger dialect chains which together make up the larger Tatic family (not to be confused with Tat-Persian spoken in pockets north of the Baku area). Among these, the two Tātī pockets in Gīlān, Kalāsī and Kabataʾī, have their closest relatives in Upper Tārom in Zanjān province. Tālešī is a dialect chain of three main types, southern, central, and northern; and southern Ṭālešī is closer in type and mutual comprehension to some forms of Tātī than it is to central or northern Ṭālešī. Rūdbārī may originally have been a subgroup of Tatic that has largely adapted structurally to Gīlakī.
In the citations below, Gīl. = common Gīlakī/all dialects; WG and EG = Western and Eastern Gīlakī; Lāh. = Lāhījānī; Gāl./Lang. = Gālešī/Langarūdī as in Pāyanda; Māč. = Māčīānī (unlabeled forms cited below are WG/Raštī; EG refers to Lāhījānī unless otherwise stated).
Diachronic developments. Due to heavy influence from Persian and SW Iranian, the typical NW Iranian have been retained only sporadically: IE * ǵ > Proto-Ir. *dz > z: zama “son-in-law, bridegroom, wife’s brother” but SWI d, as in Gīl. dan- “to know,” dil “heart” diruz “yesterday.” IE *ḱṷ > *tsv > sp: səbəj “louse,” but SWI s, as in Gīl. səg “dog.” IE *tr > Ir. *Θr > hr- > r-: dare “sickle,” but SWI s-, as in Gīl. se “three,” pəsər “son.” Initial Proto-Ir. *dṷ > b: Gāl. bər “door,” but SWI d-, as in WG dər “door,” Gīl. de, digər “else, other.” Ir. -rt > -rd/-rt, as in purd/t “bridge” (cf. Pers. pol). Ir. -šm > -m in čum “eye” besides čušm. Retention of initial IE *l in Gāl. luas “fox” (cf. Skt. lopāśá, Pers. rūbāh).
Later changes include: Initial Ir. *fr- > WG: f-, EG h-, as in the preverb *frā- > WG fa-, EG ha-, e.g., WG fa-gift-, Lang. ha-git- “to take from, to buy,” but SWI fr, as in Gīl. furuš- “to sell,” fərma- “to command.” Initial Ir. *xr- > h-: hin- “to buy,” but SWI xr-, as in Gil. xurus “rooster,” xərəd “wisdom.” Initial Ir. *w- > v- versus SWI g, as in WG. višta “hungry,” Gāl. vəšnə “hungry,” vuruj- “to flee,” vərg “wolf,” but also WG guriz- “to flee,” gurg “wolf,” and Gīl. gul “flower,” guzər- “pass”; Gīl. v-versus SWI b- as in vásti “must,” var|varəst “to precipitate (rain, snow),” və́stə “enough!,” və-gərd- “turn, return,” vini- “nose” (in vinizək “snot”), Lang. va “wind,” vəlg “leaf,” vərf “snow,” Māč. and Gāl. vi- “willow,” but also Gīl. bad “wind,” and WG bərg “leaf,” bərf “snow,” bid “willow,” badam “almond” (note Mid. Ir. vyāg- “place” > Gīl. jiga, cf., Solaymānī/Mokrī Kurd. jēga, South Tātī yaga, Ḵᵛānsārī yaγa. Ir. *-ft, -xt > -(h)t > -(t)t, exemplified in EG past stems: (a) ft > t in git- “took,” kət- “fell,” gut- “said,” xot- “slept,” but SWI ft,in WG: gift-, kəft-, guft-; xuft-; (b) xt > t, in sut “burned,” pet “cooked,” dut “sewed,” sat “built,” but WG. soxt-, pəxt-, doxt-, saxt-; note also Gāl./Lang. dətər “daughter.” Initial Ir. *xw > x,as in xab “sleep,” xast- “wanted,” xand- “read,” xiš “relative” (probably all borrowed words), and xaxur “sister.” Ir. *č >j,as in suj- “to burn,” Māč. vürüj-, Gāl. vuruj, “to flee,” but SWI z as in WG pəz “to cook,” guriz “to flee”; note alternates je ~ az “from,” duj ~ duz- “to sew”; but č is retained in WG alternate: pəč- and Gāl./Lang.: puč- “to cook”).
More recent changes include weakening or loss in intervocalic and final position: Loss of d as in Gīl. mar “mother,” per “father,” Lang. məar, pier,Gīl. bərar “brother,” du “smoke,” zama “son-in-law.” Loss of γ, as in Lang. duro “lie,” du “buttermilk,” but WG: doq, duroq.
Other miscellaneous consonant changes: nd > d, as in WG: du-xan-, du-xad “call, invite” (cf. Pers. xān/xānd-), də-vəd- “to close, to tie.” p > b > v, as in va-vurs- “ask” (cf. Pers. pors-); va-vixt-, Lang. fi-vit “tied, wrapped,” but di-pext- “idem,” luas “fox,” aseyə, aseyow, “mill,” but WG asiab, ruba; note devoicing in Māč. juraf “socks,” jif “pocket” vs. WG. jurab, jib. Ir. b- > v- in bərd- “carry, take away” vs. fə-vərd- “swallow,” va-bin ~ va-vin “to cut,” də-bəd- ~ də-vəd- “to close, tie.” r may be dropped in clusters, as in kud “made” < kurd, gift- “to take” < grift, bin- “to cut” < brin-, bij- “to roast, fry” < brēj- (cf. Sangesarī berin-, beriž-; Vafsī birin-, biriz). Other typical Northwestern Iranian features not found in Gīlakī, such as the retention of initial y- vs. SWI j-, have been totally lost probably due to heavy borrowing from Southwestern Iranian.
In some cases, the Southwestern Iranian borrowed root has become the primary word in the modern language, but the original Northwestern Iranian equivalent, or a Gīlakī innovation, is found as a doublet in frozen form, often in compounds, e.g., WG: duz- “to sew,” but fuduj kudən “to darn,” az ~ jə “from,” damad, zama “son-in-law, bridegroom.”
Vowels. The distinction of length is lost in both the inherited and borrowed words, and the resulting merger often includes original majhūl vowels as well. Thus, long ī > i, as in fil “elephant,” bil “spade,” and short i > i, as in dil “heart.” Long ū > u in mur “ant” and short u > u in pur “full,” note gul “flower” (< gul), gul “deceit” (< gūl); occasional u > o in Arabic loan words, as in sob “morning,” roxsət “permission, leave,” šoql “occupation,” sol “peace,” but also buxar “steam,” fursət “opportunity” hukumət “government.” Due to heavy influence from Persian, there is considerable variation. Earlier long ē, ō are retained as mid vowels e, o, or merge with i, u.; thus ē > e, as in der “late,” seb “apple,” bex “root,” teγ “blade,” but > i in tiz ~ tij “sharp,” bi “without,” bivə “widow.” Similarly ō > o, as in doxt- “sewed,” soxt- “burned,” xob “good,” kob- “to pound,” but > u in dust “friend,” ruz “day,” mum “wax,” zur “strength.” There are doublets such as mex ~ mix “nail,” gor ~ gur “grave,” including alternation in present and past stems, as in soxt ~ suz- “to burn,” doxt ~ duz- “to sew,” and contrasts such as sir “garlic” vs. ser “satiated.” The retention of o < ō and o < u may be conditioned by back consonants (k, g, x, g, h), e.g., present stem duz-, but past stem doxt, sob < subh, but it is inconsistent, as in buxar, hukumət. The diphthong ow merges with o, as in nobet “turn,” julo “forward.”
In terms of historical morphology, the most significant features are two tense formants in Eastern Gīlakī (see Table 6a): (1) the present tense formant, -ən-, which originates in Indo-European *-ent-, the formant of the active present participle. This feature unites Eastern Gīlakī with Māzandarānī, the dialects in the Semnān area (including Šahmīrzādī, Sangesarī, Aftarī, Sorḵaʾī, Lāsgerdī, but not Semnānī itself), Northern Tātī, and Zāzākī/Dimlī (q.v.) in eastern Turkey (immigrated from former Deylam abutting on Gīlakī-speaking areas). (2) The past conditional formant, -èn- (see Table 6a ), which parallels the conditional -èn- in Gōrānī/Gūrānī (q.v.; found north of Kermānšāh and in the area of Mosul) and in Baluchi past subjunctive -ēn- (Rastorgueva, pp. 336-37), is suffixed to the past root and used in irrealis conditional sentences in all three languages. In both of these features, Western Gīlakī behaves more like its western and southern neighbors, since the present and imperfect tenses are formed the same way they are in Southern Ṭālešī, in Kolūrī Tātī, and in Rūdbārī.
Phonology. Consonants are similar to Persian, except that uvular q has only voiced fricative pronunciation in all positions, e.g., γurban [γurbšn] “sacrifice.” The Gīlakī vowel system sounds radically different from other Iranian languages and seems quite elusive. Eastern Gīlakī vowel phones have never been clarified, and transcription in this article (ə, š, I, U, etc.) is not meant to imply phonemic status. While Arthur Christensen (1930) distinguishes twenty-one vowel phones and Rastorgueva (1971) posits nine phonemes for western Gīlakī, there are probably not more than six or seven phonemes: i, u, e, o, ə, a1 (a2?). Russian sources transcribe a1 and a2 as a and å respectively and distinguish between kari “you plant” and kåri “working (adj.)” or mašin “machine, automobile” and målik “landowner.” The present author has not been able to find any such distinction. The symbol å usually represents a low, back, rounded a, but this sound only occurs in the heavily Persian-influenced speech of some bilinguals; a1 and a2 seem to be pronounced exactly the same in most situations and contrast only marginally. That is, while a2 always remains constant, a1 has a wider allophonic distribution, alternating between central [a] and [æ>](dášti “you had” is often pronounced [dæˊ>šti], almost identical to Pers. dæˊšti “a field”). Only in cases of potential ambiguity are a1 and a2 clearly distinguished, e.g., gila1n [gilan] “Gīlān” vs. gila2n [gilæn] “mud (pl.).” The pronunciation [ɶ] is heard more commonly in Lāhījānī. Further confusion is caused by the reflexes of original proto-Ir. *a! in Gīlakī as ə in all positions except initial, where it is also realized as a, e.g., atraf “sides,” asban “horses,” adəs “lentil.” The phoneme ə alternates between [ə], [e ], [e],and final [I]:xəstə [xəstI] “tired.” Gīlakī e and o are seen in: der “late,” bihem “I bought,” vapéxtəm “I wrapped (it), wound (it) around,” and kor “girl,” sob “morning,” and xob “good.”
Stress. Stress is mostly syllable-final, but some morphemes, particularly in verb forms, require stress shifts: xayə́m “I want,” nə́xayəm “I don’t want,” bəxástidi “you/they wanted,” bəxastə́-bid “you/they had wanted,” facukəstə́n-dərimi “we are climbing,” duṹcəkəstə-bu “it hadn’t stuck.” More Eastern Gīlakī verb forms take initial stress than western Gīlakī: EG pórsənəm “I ask,” bə́porsəm “that I ask (subjunctive),” bə́porsem “I asked,” bə́porse-bum “I had asked,” hæˊdyenæ-bum “I would have given,” but other stress rules are common to all dialects. Note the following stress contrasts: Gīl. xaná “legible,” xána “the khan (dir. obj.)”; ruzí “daily sustenance,” rúzi “some day, per day”; bidarí “wakefulness,” bidári “you are awake”; WG vavursə́m “I ask,” vávursəm “that I ask”; bídin “see!” bidín “irreligious”; EG xánəm “I want,” xanə́m “lady.”
Noun phrase: Number. One plural, -an (Lang. -ən, Lah., Gāl. -on ), for all noun types: seb-an “apples,” kor-an “girls”; Lang. kərk/kərkən “chicken/s”; Lah., Gāl. kərk/kərkon “chicken/chickens.” Unstressed suffixed -ì indicates indefiniteness (singular or plural): xob duktúri-ə "He/She is a good doctor,” xob cizáni aya naha "There are good things here.”
Object marking. Unstressed -(y)a/-ra (-ra with ki “who” and či/čə “what” and with most pronouns in Western Gīlakī [see Table 5 for EG pronouns], -ya after nouns ending in vowels, -a after other nouns) marks both direct and indirect objects: WG mən dastán-a həsə́n-a /tə́-ra bugúftəm, EG mu dastán-ɶ həsə́n-ɶ /tæ bútəm “I told the story (dir. obj.) to Hasan/to you (ind. obj.).” WG ána ána fadám, EG únæ únæ hádam “I gave it (dir. obj.) to him (ind. obj.).”
Modifiers. Most possessives and adjectives precede the head noun, with a “reverse- eżāfa-like” connector, e.g., noun-noun possessives: WG məhin-ə zakan "Mahīn’s children,” baγ-ə gulan “garden flowers” (not “flower garden” as in Persian); EG (Lang.) xærs-ə kutə “bear cub,” kɶrk-ə owlə “chicken pox”; adjectival modification: WG pilla-yə zakan “big children,” surx-ə gul “red flower”; EG (Lang.) særd-ə aw “cold water,” kul-ə caqu “sharp knife.”
Eżāfa. In addition to modifier + head noun, the Persian eżāfa construction with modifiers following the head noun also abound, probably exclusively as borrowings: rúz-ə təvəllud “birthday,” ijazə-yə xuruj “exit permit,” kár-ə šəbanə “night work,” hə́rf-ə muft “worthless talk, nonsense.”
Deixis (words that point to specific items, places, manners). Demonstratives are: (adj.) a “this,” u “that,” ha/hu “this/that very (same)”; (pron.) an “this one,” un “that one,” (plurals: ašan, ušan), han/hun “this/that very (same) one”; uy, uy-danə, uy-ta “that (other) one” (pron., adj.) (< u + i “one”): kitáb-a úyta-ya fadám “I gave the book to that one,” uy-ta xiaban “that other street.” Other deictics are: áya “here,” úya “there,” háya “right here,” húya “right there,” ára/úra “this/that way (direction),” ato/uto “so, such a, this/that way, this/that kind of,” hato/huto “this/that very way, just like this/that, this/that very kind of.” In Māč. hin and hun are not intensives as in the other dialects, but the usual demonstratives, cf., words derived from them: hišon “they,” hi(n)tor “this way,” etc.
Personal pronouns. A special set of possessive pronouns exists preceding the head noun as other possessives do. Generally pronominal suffixes do not occur, but are increasing due to Persian influence: bə gəmán-əm “I guess,” šni šoon/šoón-əš “his going,” xúdəš “himself”; EG: nevištɛ̄nèš sɶxt-ə “It is hard to write (lit: its writing),” ɶmu xówemun š́ne "We are sleepy” (alternate forms with full pronouns probably exist as a more common occurrence). When possessives are used independently, a meaningless šin (EG ši/še ) is required: mi šin “mine,” həsən-ə šin "Hassan’s,” etc. (see Table 5, above).
Reflexives. Gīlakī has two reflexive forms: xu (xo) and xud- + pronominal suffixes(the latter probably borrowed from Persian). Xu only occurs in the third person, with an obligatory pronominal suffix in the plural, i.e., xušan:xo-ra bide “he saw himself,” xu per “his own father,” but pl. xušan-a biden, xušan-ə per. Other persons use the regular personal pronouns, sometimes interchangeably with xud-:tu be ti per bušói "you take after your father,” ti-məra/xudət-ə məræ bə́bər “take it with you.” Xud- (any person) occurs as either a reflexive, Lang. xúdɶšə cakun-vakun bugud “she gussied herself up,” or as an emphatic, especially when alone: xúdəm bugúftəm “I said it myself” (xu may also occur here: Lang.: mu xu buššom “I went myself”). Xud- may also be used with suffixes after the head noun or before the head noun with an eżāfa (and no personal suffixes, as in Persian): həsən xúdeš, xúd-ə həsən "Hasan himself.”
Adpositions. Gīlakī probably originally had only postpositions, but prepositions borrowed from Persian are increasing. Postpos. -jə(n), -ja “from,” -re “for,” durun, mian “in, within,” -məra, am(a)ra “with,” bija, virja (EG værje) “near (person),” jir “under,” sər, ru “on,” jor “above”; Lg. muson “like,” vas(t)i (Lg. visin ) “for, for sake of,” etc. Examples are: baγ-ə ja “from the garden,” ti-re “for you,” WG/EG: ti məra, də́st-ə məra “with you, with the hand,” WG áb-ə durun/áb-ə mian “in the water”; mi bija/mi virja “near me,”(EG equivalents: áb-ə mian, mi værje), Māč. mi-ji “from me.” Prepositions are: az/jə “from,” ta “until, up to,” bə “to,” etc. Postpositions and prepositions often alternate: ti per-jə /az ti per “from your father,” or are used slightly differently: EG áb-ə mian “in the water”; mian-ə dərd-ə sər “in trouble.” Occasionally both occur together: az ún-ə ja “from it.” Postpositions occasionally take the objective form of pronouns: ti-ja or tə́ra-ja, Ga.: tə́rə-ji “from you.”
Verbs. The major differences in grammar between Western and Eastern Gīlakī are found in the verb (see Table 6, Table 6a, and Table 7).
Verb stems. Gīlakī generally retains a clear distinction between present and past roots of verbs, with the same types of connections between the two roots as in most other Iranian languages, e.g., Pres. root + -əst: jav/javəst “chew/chewed”; +-d/-t: man/mand “stay/stayed,” kəf/kəft “fall/fell”; + -e: kəš/kəše “pull/pulled,” (and all causatives, see below); + -a: is/isa “stand/stood”; -n dropped from Pres. root: hin/he “buy/bought”; Pres. root + various changes: šor/šost “wash/washed,” xus/xuft “sleep/slept,” guriz/guroxt “flee/fled” (and many others). Some verbs have alternate past roots formed with different processes: gərd/gərdəst~gəšt “go/went around, look/looked for,” kob/kobəst~koft “pound/pounded.” A certain number of verb roots have been converted to the invariable element of a compound verb: xəndə kud- “to laugh,” amuj da- “to teach” (still a simple verb root in Māč. amuj), etc.
Preverbs. Preverbsfurther expand or specify the root lexically and have proliferated in form and use, especially in Western Gīlakī: də-/di-, du-, fa-/fə-/fi-, fu-, jə-/ji-, ju-, va-/vi-; rare forms: a-, i-, u-, ca-, cu-, ta-. Note the lexical function of preverbs: kəf- “to fall,” va-kəf- “to attack,” də-kəf- “to fall (into),” jə-kəf- “to fall down”; xus- “to sleep,” u-xus- “to attack”; fu-xus- “to attack,” ju-xus- “to hide”; cin- “to pick (fruit), pile up,” u-cin- “to gather,” di-cin- “to pile up,” fu-cin- “to peck”; gift- “to take, catch,” fa-gift- “to take from, buy,” jə-gift- “to wean”; and the latter verb in Lang.: git- “to take, catch,” ha-git- “to take from, buy,” vi-git- “to pick up,” dš-git- “to start (raining, snowing),” va-git- “to escape (from someone’s clutches).” Other contrasts in Lang.: kutane “to pound (generally),” fu-kutane- “to pound body against something,” dš-kutane “to punch,” and gərdəst- “to go around, wander,” va-gərdəst- “to turn around (partially), turn back, return,” ju-gərdəst- “to snap out (of place),” də-gərdəst- “to turn over, turn around (completely).” Eastern Gīlakī has fewer forms: də-, u-, ha-, va-, vi-, rare: ca-, to-. WG fa- is EG ha-. Some Western/Eastern Gīlakī differences: WG va-vurs- “to ask,” va-vin- “to cut,” vs. EG: pors-, bin (but, va-pors- “to investigate”) and WG va-kəft- “to attack” vs. Lang. va-kət- “to fall off one’s feet (from fatigue).” There does not seem to be support for the claim (Rastorgueva, p. 127) that alternate forms of preverbs are determined by the following vowel, e.g., WG fa-: fa-da- “to give,” fa-cukəst- “to climb,” fa-gift- “to get, buy,” fa-kəš- “to pull out”; fi-: fi-caləst- “to wring,” fi-bišt- “to roast”; fu-: fu-rad- “to chase,” fu-duš “to milk,” fu-bost- “to spill (intrans.),” fu-cin- “to peck.”
Negation. Negationis expressed by an obligatorily stressed, prefixed nVˊ-, which has the same four alternations as bV- (see below): nə́-xayəm “I don’t want,” nú-goftəm “I didn’t say,” ní-dinəm “I don’t see,” n-amo “he/she didn’t come.” Western Gīlakī present and subjunctive fall together in their negative forms: dinə́m “I see,” bídinəm “that I see,” nídinəm “I don’t see, that I not see”; usanə́m “I pick up,” úsanəm “that I pick up,” uṹsanəm “I don’t pick up, that I not pick up”; nVˊ- always follows preverbs, and is then expressed in two variant forms: (1) preverb + -nVˊ-, (2) preverb + vowel of preverb repeated, nasalized, and stressed: dunə́cəkə, duṹcəkə “doesn’t stick,” dənə́kəfəm, dəkəfəm “I don’t fall” (latter forms probably best analyzed du-ún-cəkə, də-ə́n-kəfəm). Eastern Gīlakī has more vowel alternates to the negative but, as mentioned, phonemic status of the vowels is not clear: nə́šənəm “I don’t go,” nóxonəm “I don’t want,” nÚdonəstəm “I didn’t know,” nɛˊporsənəm “I don’t ask.” Here the negative form with preverbs is -n-:vítəm, víntəm “I picked up/didn’t pick up,” hádyenəm, hándyenəm “I give/don’t give.”
Non-finite forms. There are two non-finite forms each derived from the present stem (present participle 1, present participle 2) and the past stem (infinitive, past participle). Present participle 1 (present stem + -əndə ): bər-əndə “winner, winning”; present participle 2 (present stem + -an ): xəndə kun-an “laughing.” Infinitive (past stem + -ən or -n after vowels): WG/EG: kəft-ən/kət-ən “to fall,” amo-n/ɶmš-n, “to come,” butmonosyllabic stems repeat vowel: ze-en “to strike” (EG: zə-ən ), šo-on “to go.” Past participle (bV-/preverb- + past stem + -ə́ or ø after vowel): (WG/EG) bə-kəft-ə́/bə-kət-ə́ “fallen,” fa-gift-ə́/ha-git-ə́ “taken,” bamo/bemma “come” (= b-amo-ø/b-emma-ø ).
Personal endings. There is no distinction in past intransitive and transitive conjugations (as opposed to other NWI; see Table 5, Table 6, and Table 6a). In Western Gīlakī (a) 3rd singular present differs from subjunctive/past; (b) 2nd and 3rd plural are identical; (c) and the final vowel is optional in plural. In Eastern Gīlakī the 3rd person singular subjunctive ending of those present stems that consist of one consonant is -un, -on: bÚ-g-on, bÍ-š-un, bÚ-b-on “that he/she says, goes, becomes,”e.g., Lang. va bazar bəšun “he/she must go to the bazaar.”
Tenses. (a) Present. The present has no marker (ø) in Western Gīlakī and Gālešī, but a suffixed -(ə)n- in most other dialects (see Diachronics, above): WG gə, dəvədə́, xayə́; Gāl. gue, də-bəsə, xay; Lāh./Lang. gÚnə, də́vədənə, xánə “says, closes, wants.” The sounds r- and n- generally drop before the -(ə)n- suffix: xor-, (vi-)gir-, dan-, din- > EG xónəm, víginəm, dónəm, dínəm,but WG: xorə́m, girə́m, danə́m, dinə́m “I eat, pick up (take), know, see.”
(b) The tense/aspect marker bV- is used in the formation of the common Gīlakī subjunctive, imperative, past and perfect tenses (see past participles above) and is omitted when a preverb or the negative particle is present. Three Western Gīlakī alternates, bə, bi-, and bu-,are determined by the vowel of the following syllable and a fourth variant, b-, occurs directly before a vowel, e.g., (subj., past) bídinəm, bidíem “I should see, I saw,” búxurəm, buxúrdəm “I should eat, I ate,” bə́šəm, bušóm “I should go, I went,” b-ávərəm, b-avə́rdəm “I should bring, I brought.” In verbs with no vowel in the present stem (-š- “go,” -g- “say,” -b- “become,” etc.), Western Gīlakī bV- changes according to the vowel of the ending: bə́šəm, bíši, bə́šə, bíšim, bušóm (1st-3rd sg. and 1st pl. subjunctive, 1st sg. past of “go”). Western Gīlakī bV- is stressed in the subjunctive and imperative, and unstressed in the past, and perfect tenses. In Eastern Gīlakī bV- is stressed in all forms and the alternates are somewhat different, e.g., (subj., past) bə́binəm, bə́beəm “I should cut, I cut,” bóxorəm, bóxordəm “I should eat, I ate,” bə́zənəm, bə́zyeəm “I should strike, I struck.”
(c) Imperfect marker is an unstressed, suffixed -i in Western Gīlakī, as in xórdim “I used to eat,” kə́ftim “I used to fall,” danə́stid "You knew,” gúftid "They used to say,”but no marker (ø) in Eastern Gīlakī, as in xórdəm, kə́təm, donə́stən, gútən “I used to eat, fall, know, say.” Since the imperfect 3rd sg. ending is ø in both dialects, the 2nd sg. and 3rd sg. fall together in Western Gīlakī, as in xórdi “you, he/she used to eat” (< 2nd sg. xord-i-i, 3rd sg. xord-i-ø),but remain separate in Eastern Gīlakī, as in xórdi,“you used to eat” (< xord-ø-i) vs. xórd, “he/she used to eat” (< xord-ø-ø). Eastern Gīlakī past and imperfect fall together in their negative forms, e.g., bóxordəm “I ate,” xórdəm “I used to eat,” nóxordəm “I didn’t eat (simple or habitual),” as do all verbs with preverbs (affirmative and negative), e.g., váporsiem/vámporsiem “I investigated/didn’t investigate” (both forms are simple or habitual).
(d) Progressive (all examples mean “I am/was taking”) has three present/past forms in Western Gīlakī: (1) infinitive plus be4 “be in,” as in giftə́n-dərəm/giftə́n-dubum, (2) invariable kə́ra (< proto-Ir. *kā/ăr- “work, doing”) preceding a fully conjugated present or imperfect, as in kəra girə́m/kəra gíftim, or (3) both types combined, as in kəra giftə́n-dərəm/kəra giftə́n-dubum. Eastern Gīlakī forms only parallel Western Gīlakī types (1) and (3) with: (1) the infinitive (minus final -n) plus be4, as in gité-dərəm/gité-dəbum and (3) by an invariable ka inserted between the elements of type (1), as in gite-ká-dərəm/gite-ká-dəbum.
(e) Future. Western Gīlakī future is formed with the conjugated present of xastə́n “to want” plus the infinitive. The process is reversed in Eastern Gīlakī, in which an invariable present form of xastə́n (devoid of personal ending) is followed by the conjugated subjunctive, e.g., WG xayə́m guftə́n “I shall say,” xayí guftə́n "You will say,”etc. versus EG xan bú-gom, xan bégi, etc.
(f) Perfects. Most dialects of Gīlakī have lost the present perfect, merging most functions with the past: mən fərda ta a moqe vagərdə́stəm “I will have returned by this time tomorrow” (but see Dialects below). Other perfect tenses are formed with buon “be1,” as in mən γəblən buguftə́-bum “I had already said it.” Perfect subjunctive forms are buguftə́-bim, buguftə́-bi, buguftə́-be, buguftə́-bim, buguftə́-bid, buguftə́-bid, e.g., núkune bugúftə́-be “I hope he hasn’t said (anything),” mən xayəm ta fərda in moγe bərəsé-bim “I want to have arrived by this time tomorrow.”
(g) Past subjunctive and conditionals. Past subjunctive and conditionals exhibit two completely different situations in Western and Eastern Gīlakī. The past subjunctive in Western Gīlakī has coalesced with the perfect subjunctive, except for an optional 3rd sg. buguftə́-bi, which is interchangeable with buguftə́-be (see above sec. f). The past subjunctive is used in various present and/or past contrary-to-fact (irrealis) senses both in if-clauses (in the protasis) and other situations: agər zudtər bamó-bim, həsən núšoi “If I had come sooner, Hasan wouldn’t have left” (present or past situation), mi dil xasti, mi pəsər kučik bu¦, giləki yad bəgiftí-be~ bəgiftí-bi “I wish (that) when my son was little he had learned (would have learned) Gīlakī” (¦= sustained subordinate clause intonation, implying “when”). In some cases, however, the past subjunctive is interchangeable with the past perfect with no difference in meaning: vássi zudtər buguftú-bum (past perf.) /bugoftí-bim (past. perf./past subj.) “I should have said something sooner.”
Eastern Gīlakī, while it has no tense like the Western Gīlakī past subjunctive, has instead three additional formal tenses, conditional 1-3, used for various expressions of conditionality. The first two are formed by the addition of a conditional marker -en- to the past root (hence not the same as the present -ən-, but parallel to forms in Gūrānī, Dimli/Zāzākī and Baluchi, qq.v.), and are distinguished from each other by the presence or absence of the perfective marker, bV- (there is no distinction with preverbs): bóxordɛnæ-bum vs. xórdɛnæ-bum. While these two forms sometimes contrast with each other, they are often interchangeable. The three conditionals are used in the following situations: (1) in either clause of present contrary-to-fact sentences (less commonly): æger mo xassæm, xótènæ-bum “If I wanted to (right now), I would sleep”; æger hæva rošèn-æ bona-bu, mu èrè núbom “If the weather were better (would get better), I wouldn’t be here.” The imperfect tense is most common in both clauses of this type of sentence: æger mo donəstəm, tæ gúttam “If I knew (now), I would tell you.” (2) in either clause of past contrary-to-fact sentences (more commonly): æger mu donəstəm, diruz tæ gÚttɛnæ-bum “If I had known, I would have told you yesterday”; æger tu mš búttɛnæ-bi, i ettefaqdə́nkətɛnæ-bu (or past perfect: də́nkətə-bu) “If you had told me, this would not have happened.” Note the following contrast between imperfect and conditional2 in the apodosis in the following contrary-to-fact situations: š́ge mu donəstəm, ta gÚttam “If I knew, I would tell you (present situation),” æˊge mu donəstəm, ta gUttena bum “If I had known, I would have told you (past situation).” (3) After kaški/ey kaš! “I wish, would that,” conditional2 may be used, but the past perfect is more common (conditional 1 may not be used): kaški/ey kaš mi dəvš hɶr ruz bóxordɛnæ-bum/bóxordə-bum “I wish I had taken my medicine every day.” (4) Occurring alone in the sense of “should have”: zudtær gÚttènæ-bi "You should have said (something) sooner!” (5) In a past subjunctive usage: be:tær bu tæ búttɛnæ-bum or gÚttɛnæ-bum “It would have been better to tell you/It would have been better had I told you.” The third additional tense, conditional3, is simply the past perfect, minus the perfective marker (bV- ): xórdə-bum. The present author has collected only two examples of this tense, and both were interchangeable with the past perfect, the other two conditional tenses presented in this section and even the imperfect: š́gš bəxástə-bum (protasis), mo xórdə-bum, bóxordə-bum, xórdɛnæ-bum, bóxordɛnæ-bum “If I had wanted (to), I would have eaten it"(four interchangeable forms in the apodosis, the last of which is possible but not common), bəyÉsti zudtær gÚtti-bi, bÚtti-bi, bÚttènæ-bi, gÚttènæ-bi, gÚtti “You should have said (something) sooner” (5 possibilities, “all very acceptable” according the native speaker).
The verbsto be. Gīlakī distinguishes six verbs “to be” for combinations of equation, existence, animateness, humanness, containment, and emphasis (cited here in 3rd sg., affirmative forms; EG forms differ only in be5; it is not known if be6 exists in EG): (1) -ə (neg: níyə ), a general, neutral copula(enclitic in the affirmative), as in həsən duktur-ə “Hasan is a doctor,” EG mi nom irej-I, “my name is Iraj”; (2) íssə (transcribed isə in Rastorgueva), used only in the present affirmative and generally in those places the enclitic copula cannot occur: (a) independently, as in Gīl. íssə? “Is he?” or (b) stressed, as in Gīl. həsən duktur íssə "Hasan is a doctor,” but may also be used in the same places as the copula (no special emphasis), as in a məγåzə ci məγåzə íssə? “What kind of store is that (store)?” (Kerimova, Mamedzade, and Rastorgueva, p. 121); (3) isá (neg: né:sa), location (with human subjects), as in həsən aya isá, EG həsən e isá "Hasan is here”; (4) də́r-ə (neg: dəníyə, diínnə ) “be in” (usually with inanimate subjects, but full distribution is quite complex): čay γurí-ə durun də́r-ə, EG čay γurí-ə miɛn də́r-I “The tea is in the teapot”; (5) nahá (neg: nə́na), EG: hánna (neg: nə́nna), inanimate existence “there is,” hence only occurring in the 3rd person: pəla nahá búxurim? “Is there any rice to eat?”; EG kisey miɛn pul hæˊnnæ? “Is there any money in the bag?” (6) mane occasionally replaces nahá (in dependent forms only): ita cəšmə vásti u γár-ə mian bə́manə~nahá-bi “There must be a spring in that cave”; isa, nahá,and mane still function as “to stand,” “to put,” and “to stay” respectively, but lose their original senses when used as “to be,” as in həsən utaγ-ə xab-ə durun isá "Hasan is in the bedroom” (even when sitting or sleeping). Note that a contrast in verbs may have implications for the noun in both dialects, as in EG pəley miɛn jujš isɶ “There is a chick in the rice” vs. pəley miɛn jujš də́r-ə “There is chicken in the rice.” The first sentence indicates that the chicken is alive, whereas the second sentence means that it is cooked chicken.
Statives (a past participle used as an adjective with no tense or action implied; the action is completed and its results are in a fixed state, e.g., “a broken glass,” “the glass is broken”). As is the case in some Iranian languages (cf. Sangesarī, Windfuhr and Azami), Vafsī, and others, a special stative form exists sporadically for certain Gīlakī verb forms, and examples are not easily uncovered, due to the general tendency to avoid the grammatical situations that require statives. These forms consist of the past participle without the addition of bV-. When bV- is present, it forms the past participle as part of the perfect tenses that contrast with the stative forms: Stative (no action, a description of a state): səg xuftə́-bu "The dog was asleep, lying” (Kerimova, Mamedzade, and Rastorgueva, p. 268) vs. past perfect (an action) səg buxuftə́-bu "The dog had gone to sleep, had lain down.” The stative forms, however, are indistinguishable from the perfect tenses either when the verb root takes a preverb (since preverbs remain in all verb forms) or in the negative forms, e.g., vavostə́ bu “it was open” and “he/she had opened (it)” < va-v/bostən “to open.” The stative may also occur in attributive uses, as in EG vapitə čušm “crossed eye (lit: twisted eye).”
Modals. Modals are Gi. xa/xast “to want,” WG tan/tanəst, EG: ton/tonəst “can,” and WG va/vas(t)i,EG: všne~bayæd/bayésti “must,” WG ša/šasti,EG: šane/? “must, should,” Gīl. b/bost “be possible, acceptable (= become),” e.g., WG xástim bə́gəm və́li núguftəm “I wanted to say (something), but I didn’t,” be tu a kára búkuni? “Is it possible (i.e., would you mind?) for you to do this (work, favor)?”; EG mašin všne rošen-æ bon "The car must start (i.e., turn on).” “Can” occurs in a personal sense either with the subjunctive or with a full infinitive (less commonly, frequency depending on dialect): kaški tanəstim bə́šəm/kaški tanəstim šoon “I wish I could go.” The last three modals listed may also be used impersonally with a full infinitive, e.g., WG nə́ša guftən, EG nə́šane gutə́n “it shouldn’t be said”; WG/EG: nəva dəs zeen/zəən “one must not touch it”; šasti šoon “one should go (there).” The past forms of both verbs for “must” given here, WG/EG vas(t)i /bayésti and šasti/??, have essentially lost any sense of tense and are used interchangeably with the present forms. The sense of time is conveyed by the present subjunctive, perfect subjunctive, or past subjunctive of the following verb, e.g., WG mašin nə́na, piyadə va/vasi bíšid "There is no car, you will have to walk”; EG bayæd/bayésti hæˊdyenæ-bom və́li hæˊndam “I should have given it, but I didn’t.”
Change of state. The verbs kudən “to make, do” and bostən, boon “to become” with adjectives form causatives and inchoatives respectively. In both cases an unstressed -(v)à is optionally added between the adjective and the verb. In tenses formed with bV, either -a or bV- is usually eliminated: mən livə́n-a púr-a kúdəm, mən livə́n-a pur bu kúdəm “I filled the glass” and livan púr-a bo, livan pur bu bó “the glass became full” vs. livan pur bu “the glass was full.” The alternate -va occurs after a (and occasionally elsewhere), as in sia-va bo(st) “it turned black,” sia-va-m-bo(st) “It didn’t turn black.” When an -ə vowel is followed by the -à particle, the former vowel is then lost, as in kar-ə duruzə > kar-ə duruza-bo(st) “It turned into a two-day affair.” This particle may also occur with nouns, as in áb-a bo(st), áb-va-bo(st) “it turned to water, it melted,” zən-o šohər-a bóstid “they became husband and wife.”
Causatives and passives. The causative marker is -an, added to the present stem, but the present is marked with the infix-an- and the past with the infix -ane- : pər/pərəst “to fly” > pəran/pərane “to make fly” and gərdan/gərdane “to make turn.” The passive is formed analytically, as in Persian, but occasionally the suffix -(v)a, which is an additional formant to indicat e a change of state, is added to the past participle, as in buxurdə́ bubo(st), buxurd-á bo(st) “it was eaten.”
DIALECTS
There are many subdialects of Gilaki, and, progressing to the east, it gradually blends into Māzandarāni. The intermediate dialects of the area between Tonokābon and Kalārdašt serve as a transition between Gilaki and Māzandarāni. The differences in forms and vocabulary lead to a low mutual intelligibility with either Gīlakī or Māzandarānī, and so these dialects should probably be considered a third separate language group of the Caspian area. Some additional Eastern/Western Gīlakī differences are the following:
Phonology. A medial d is lost in the negatives of two WG verbs: danəˊm and nánəm “I know” and “I don’t know” (EG dónəm and núdonəm), and darə́m and nárəm “I have” and “I don’t have” (EG dánəm and nə́danəm), but EG dínəm and báynəm “I see” and “that I see” (WG dinə́m and bídinəm). Langarudi seems to have lost this medial d altogether in the verb di-, as in inə “he or she sees.” Medial g is sometimes lost in eastern Gilaki (e.g., vítəm, bútəm ), though not in western Gilaki (e.g., fa-gíftəm, bugúftəm) and Gāleši (e.g., vi-gítəm, bəgut). An original a: before a nasal is raised to o (e.g., da:- > dónəm “I know” vs. WG danə́m), but only if the nasal is not part of the stem (e.g., EG xa- > xánəm “I want” and dar- > danə́m “I have”).
Grammar. The main areas where eastern Gilaki differs from western Gilaki concern the verbal system (see Table 6, Table 6a, and Table 7): different formation of present and future tenses and imperfect; three eastern Gilaki conditionals correspond to one western Gilaki past subjunctive; different stress patterns for past and present tense; different plural personal suffixes; and two versus three progressives. A unique negative form of tonəstən “can” exists in eastern Gilaki: mányem “I can’t” and mányəssəm “I couldn’t.” Gālešī, and possibly Langarudi, seem to distinguish a present perfect: Gāl. bəmurdi “you died” and bəkət “he fell” vs. bəmurdəy “you have died” and bəkəti “he has fallen.” The western Gilaki preverb fa- corresponds to the eastern Gilaki ha-: WG fa-dám and EG há-dam “I gave.” Even though Āstāna is on the east bank of the Safidrud river only 9 km from Lāhijān, in Āstānaʾi the present tense has no marker and if formed as in western Gilaki, while its other conjugations follow the rules of Lāhijāni. Gāleši, or at least the dialect of Deylamān as described by Maḥmūd Pāyanda Langarudi, is located well within the limits of eastern Gilān, yet its present tense has also no marker. In general, however, Gāleši contains many features of both western and eastern Gilaki.
PERSIAN INFLUENCE ON GILAKI
Since the time depth between southwestern Iranian and northwestern Iranian is greater than that of, for example, English and Swedish within the Germanic languages, Gilaki and Persian differ on almost all grammar points mentioned above. Time depth within western Iranian, however, is not an absolute measure of distance, since northwestern Iranian and south¬western Iranian have coexisted within the same cultural zone for millennia, during which Persian has consistently been by far culturally dominant. All Caspian languages contain many lexical items (e.g., dan- “to know,” xast “to want,” guft- “to say,” tanest “can”) and certain grammatical features (the loss of the conjugation of transitive verbs and the use of ra) that most likely show quite early influence of Persian.
More recently, however, due to both the economic importance of the Caspian and the Gilān’s proximity to Tehran, Gilaki has been under¬going a massive, indelible Persian imprint: heavy influx of vocabulary (e.g., Pers. pəsər, duxtər, damad, negah kudən have replaced the native rey, kor, zama, fəndərəstən), significant syntactic interference (e.g., eżāfa), changes in vowel pronunciation, and even morpheme borrowings. One thus gets the erroneous impression that Gilaki is merely a dialect of Persian. Yet it is a mixed language, and is becoming even more mixed. Virtual one-to-one correspondences between Gilaki and Persian are commonplace, and often unavoidable: Gil. məšγul-ə taayi kudən durust kudə́n-əšåm-u γəzå bid (Rastorgueva, 1971, p. 140) and Pers. mašḡūl e tahīya kardan dorost kardan e šām o ḡaḏā būdand “they were busy providing and making dinner.”
Not all native elements of Gilaki are lost. Gilaki verbs have been particularly resistant: e.g., WG u san/sad “to pick up,” də gan/gad “to throw,” bu-bux/əst “to rot,” va vin/ve “to cut,” məj/məxt “to crawl, wander around,” va məj/məxt “to look for;” Lang. də rgen/e “to hang up,” varjin/rje “to slice, mince,” va viškan/e “to kindle, light,” də var/əst “to pass by,” fu čurusan/e “to hold back tears,” hæ klašt “to scrape” (WG fa-kəlašt), fu rus/æs “to scratch”; Lang. dæ raγen/e “to stuff (esp. food),” gæn/æss “to bump into”; and Gāl. jur/æs “to look for,” pir/æs “to look at.” Other elements have also sporadi¬cally resisted Persianization: e.g., WG čičini, Lang. mæl(i)jə, Āstānaʾī čušnək “sparrow;” WG hæsə, Gāl./Lang. isə “now;” WG sukule, EG tæla “rooster;” Gāl./Lang. hænde “again;” Lang. kæsæni “each other;” xuræm “good;” lako(y) “girl;” rika “boy;” burmə “weeping.” Note also the long list of features, in which the Gilaki verb system differs from the Persian one. In addition to the examples, quoted above, one can find contrasts such as this: Gīl. kə́fš-ə tə́xt-a in γədər bəsavane, de nə́-ša dukudən (Kerimova, Memedzade, and Rastor¬gueva, p. 205) and Pers. taḵt e kafš-rā īn qadr sābid, dīgar namišavad pušid “he or she wore down the soles of his or her shoes so badly that they can no longer be worn.”
Bibliography
- Lāhijāni and Āstānaʾi materials and most examples of Rašti are from the author’s own field notes. The following works were also consulted: H. ʿAbbāsi, Šāʿerān e Gilak o šeʿr e gilaki: Taḏkera-ye šāʿerān e gilakisarā, Rašt, 1997.
- M.-ʿA. Afrāšta, Šeʿrhā-ye gilaki, tr. M. Pāyanda Langarudi, Rašt, 1954.
- M. Bošrā, Ilah jar: Dujah gilakišeʾran jah salana (1344-1356 Š) , Rašt, 1989; Gilaki poems with Pers. translation. A. Christensen, Contributions à la dialectologie iranienne: Vol. I – Dialecte guiläki de Recht, dialectes de Färizänd, de Yaran et de Natanz, avec un supplément contenant quelques textes dans le persan vulgaire de Téhéran, Kongelige Danske Videnskabernes Selskab: Historisk-filologisk Meddelelser 17/2, Copen¬hagen, 1930; in part tr. J. Ḵomāmizāda as Guyeš-e gilaki-ye Rašt, Tehran, 1995.
- ʿA. ʿEmād, “Por-nemunatarin pišvandhā-ye afʿāl e sāda-ye deylami,” in M. ʿA. Ṣādeqiān and M. Ḥ. Iskandari, eds., Proceedings of the Fourth Congress of Iranian Studies, 3 vols., Shiraz, 1974-75, I, pp. 322-37; in Persian.
- ʿA. K. Golšani, “Gilaki,” ibid., III, pp. 131-52; in Persian. T. Gurgin, “Šeʿr e gilaki wa šāʿerān e gilakisarā,” in E. Eṣlāḥ ʿArabāni, ed., Ketāb e Gilān, 3 vols., Tehran, 1989-95, II, pp. 515-61.
- A. A. Kerimova, A. K. Mamedzade, and V. S. Rastor¬gueva, Gilyansko-Russkiĭ slovar’ (Gilaki-Russian dictionary), Moscow, 1980.
- M. F. Māčiāni, “Zabān o farhang e Māčiān,” NDAT 16, 1964, pp. 277-96, 451-70; 17, 1965, pp. 109-28, 261-84.
- D. N. MacKenzie, The Dialect of Awroman (Hawrāmān-i Luhon): Grammatical Sketch, Texts, and Vocabulary, Kongelige Danske Videnskabernes Selskab: Historisk-filosofiske Skrifter 4/3, Copenhagen, 1966.
- A. Marʿaši, Vāža-nāma-ye gūyeš e gilaki, Rašt, 1984.
- ʿA.-A. Morādiān Garrusi, Tarānahā-ye rustāʾi e Gilak, Tehran, 1968.
- M. Pāyanda Langarudi, Maṯalhā o eṣṭelāḥāt e Gil o Deylam, Tehran, 1973.
- Idem, Farhang e Gil o Deylam: Fārsi be gilaki, Tehran, 1987.
- L. A. Pireiko, Talyshsko-russkiĭ slovar’ (Ṭāleši-Russian dictionary), Moscow, 1976.
- M. Rahmani, “Ethnography of Language Change: An Ethnolinguistic Survey of the Gilaki Language,” Ph.D. diss., University of Oklahoma, 1985.
- V. S. Rastorgueva, “Beludzhskiĭ yazyk” (Baluchi language), in Yazyki narodov SSSR, 5 vols., Leningrad, 1966-83, I, pp. 323-41.
- Idem, Gilyanskiĭ yazyk (Gilaki language), Moscow, 1971.
- V. S. Rastorgueva and D. I. Edel’man, “Prikaspiĭskie yazyki” (Caspian languages), in V. S. Rastorgueva, et al., eds, Osnovy iranskogo yazykoznaniya (Foundation of Iranian linguistisc), 3 vols., Moscow, 1979-82, III, pp. 447-554.
- J. Sartippur, Vižegihā-ye dasturi o farhang e vāžahā-ye gilaki, Rašt, 1990. M. Sotuda, Farhang e gilaki, Tehran, 1953a.
- Idem, “Tarānahā-ye Gilān,” FIZ 1, 1953b, pp. 41-56, 271-86.
- Idem, “Amṯāl e gilaki,” ibid., pp. 363-74.
- D. Stilo, “The Tati Language Group in the Sociolinguistic Context of Northwestern Iran and Transcaucasia,” Iranian Studies 14, 1981, pp. 137-87.
- Idem, “Ambipositions as an Areal Response: The Case-Study of the Iranian Zone,” in E. Bashir, et al., eds., Select Papers from South Asian Languages Analysis 7: Roundtable Conference Held in Ann Arbor, Mich., May 17–19, 1985, Bloomington, Ind., 1987.
- M. A. Ṭabāṭabāʾi, “Guyeš e gilaki,” in E. Eṣlāḥ ʿArabāni, ed., Ketāb e Gilān, 3 vols., Tehran, 1989-95, II, pp. 505-14.
- Y. Ṯamara, “Taḥlil e sāḵtāri ye feʿl dar guyeš e gilaki ye Kalārdašt,” MDAM 24, 1988, pp. 169-87.
- G. Windfuhr, “A Sketch on Persian and Parthian, Kurds and Medes,” in Monumentum H. S. Nyberg, 2 vols., Acta Iranica 4-5, Liège and Tehran, 1975, II, pp. 457-72.
- G. Windfuhr and C. A. Azami, A Dictionary of Sangesari with a Grammatical Outline, Tehran, 1972.
- V. I. Zavyalova et al., “Gilyanskiĭ i Mazanderanskiĭ yazyki” (The languages of Gilān and Māzandarān), in Novye svedeniya po fonetike iranskikh yazykov, Trudy Instituta Yazkyoznanija 6, 1956, pp. 92-112.
GILĀN xi. Irrigation
In the Caspian region of Iran, abundantly watered by rivers descending from the mountains, irrigation methods differ significantly from the techniques and methods used in the country’s arid zones, characterized by their use of subterranean aqueducts (qanāts). In the rice-growing regions of the Caspian hinterland, water requirements are considerable and irrigation requires careful organization. It is estimated that one hectare of rice requires from 9,000 cubic meters in the Fumanāt region (Bazin, I, p. 115), to 18,000 cubic meters of water, with the average being 12,400 cubic meters (Sogreah-Cotha, p. 28). The flooding of rice terraces alone at the beginning of the crop cycle accounts for 2,700 cubic meters per hectare (Sahami, p. 73).
To meet this demand various techniques are used, depending on the micro climate of the area and the resources available. Local springs are used in the upstream valleys, as well as rain water, but this is not sufficient by itself. Reservoir pools (sal in Gilaki and Tāleši; estaḵr in Persian), which receive watershed runoff in addition to rain water, and occasionally water from drainage ditches, also contribute to the irrigation system, as well as streams and mountain rivulets channeled via makeshift dams (mountain runoff, however, is usually quite cold and not conducive to germination beside the fact that water flows tend to be extremely variable and minimal from early June). The water from the Sefidrud is also channeled and subdivided into multiple small ducts to irrigate the lands of the central plain. To improve irrigation, an immense storage dam 425 m long by 110 m high (originally with a capacity of 760 million cubic meters, see Pluquellec, p. 98), was built in 1962 by the French company Sogreah-Cotha, downstream from the confluence of Qezel Ozon (the Turkish name for Sefidrud upriver from Gilān) and Šāhrud river in Manjil. It may appear paradoxical that such a large irrigation project should be necessary for one of the wettest regions of Iran, but this can be explained by the fact that Gilān, together with Māzandarān, are the principal growing regions for rice, a staple food of the country. Downstream from this large reservoir, two weirs were constructed on the Sefidrud: one at Tarik, to provide water to the Fumanāt (see FUMAN) via a 17 km underground canal; and the other at Sangar, to complete irrigation of the left bank including the Rasht (Rašt) region, and to ensure a regulated flow of irrigation water to lands on the right bank of the Sefidrud. These dams replaced the makeshift weir dams built on the Sefidrud to channel water in the riverbed. The original, makeshift structures consisted of tetrahedra constructed of wood with interleaved branches (see diagram and photos in Rabino and Lafont, 1911, p. 7; Sogreah-Cotha, plate illustration, and Sahami, plate illustration). From a main canal, diverted from a riverbed or from the Sefidrud to the ditches (lāju), which irrigate neighboring fields, there follow a succession of secondary, tertiary and even quaternary canals (nahr: ‘stream,’ or šāḵa :’branch,’, or in Taleši ḵola). Before every irrigation season, the derivation canal (dahana) that directs water to a village or a farmer’s fields must be scoured and maintained. Meanwhile the drainage water is channeled through canals known as qanu or bijārbin and used for irrigation of lands further down.
From the water source to the irrigation canal, before each irrigation season (from April to August), it is necessary to organize the maintenance of the canals, clean and scour the conduits (nahr-kani) and eventually set water allotments (nawbat) and ensure equity among property holders in the event of insufficient water flow. At a higher level, that is with respect to the river source and the main canals, maintenance and water allotments must also be addressed. In the past, prior to the Land Reforms of the 1960s (see AGRICULTURE), these tasks were the responsibility of the large landowners. Since 1963, the communal irrigation authority (Sāzmān-e ābyāri) selects a sar mirāb (“Chief water master”) or mirāb-e kolli (“General water master”) who oversees several jub-sālārs, each assisted by two to five mirābs or ābyār-šāgerds (“assistant irrigators”) whose job it is to ensure the fair distribution of water among the different villages (Bazin, I, p. 118; Rabino and Lafont, 1911, p. 8). At a more local level, that is, at the level of the hamlet (maḥalla), a basic social unit in Gilāni society (Bromberger, pp. 34-38), one or more mirābs (miro in Gilaki) or ostād-e ābāvar-e maḥalli (“local irrigation master”) are elected by the villagers at the beginning of each year, the elections taking place at the mosque or bazaar. These officers oversee the smooth functioning of the work teams (iljār, bigār, biqār), including: construction or rehabilitation of dams on the Sefidrud by men drafted for the task among village property holders (a widespread practice in the past), redeployment of main canals according to water requirements, and the cleaning and scouring of local canals. The day following the sizdah bedar (i.e. 13 Farvardin/2 April), the miro summons the local farmers to the sound of a horn (frequently a cattle horn) to complete the work. Each property holder must clean a length of canal proportional to the size of his rice field (FIGURE 1). The unit of measure for the chore, equivalent to one jerib, (about one hectare in the central plain, see Bazin and Bromberger, p. 54 and map 30) of the cultivated surface area, is the toqs, a measure that ranges in length from 30 to 50 meters and is determined by the miro with respect to the terrain’s difficulty. Penalties are meted out to those who fail in their communal obligations; at one time offenders were tied to a tree and lashed with a pomegranate branch, now they are referred to the local Islamic Council (šowrā-ye eslāmi), which adjudicates such disputes. Compensation for the miro, whether in cash or in sheaves of rice (darz), is apportioned according to the acreage owned. At the beginning of the 21st century, compensation varied from two to six darz of good quality rice per jerib according to the work difficulty encountered by the “Chief water master.” Farmers must also pay a water tax proportional to the area cultivated.
FIGURE 1. Property holder cleaning a length of canal proportional to the size of his rice field. Sefidrud delta area, April 2000, courtesy of the author.View full image in a new tab
Irrigation being gravitational, water flows from one plot (kalla) to another through narrow gaps (biege) dug in the dikes (marz) with a long shovel (bil-e ābyāri, čelāru, ḵelik, gerbāz) unless it comes directly from the canal (lāju). The depth of water required varies with the cultivation task effectuated in the paddy and on plant growth. Water must be at least two centimeters above ground during plowing and harrowing (piškāvol, lat) and one centimeter at transplanting (nešā; FIGURE 2a, FIGURE 2b). After transplanting, “one does not water for three days while the roots take hold, only then does one flood the field leaving only the tops of the plants out of the water. From that time the rice should remain covered with water” (Rabino and Lafont, 1910, p. 163). The thickness of water reaches as much as ten centimeters over the course of plant growth (Bazin, I, p. 135; FIGURE 3), but one takes care to drain the rice fields during weeding (vijin, dobāra; FIGURE 4) after which an average of three further irrigations are undertaken, “up to a final flooding, if possible, at the moment of inflorescence. The water supply is cut off once the panicle is properly formed, so as to allow the ground firm up over the last three weeks prior to harvest” (ibid. p. 137).
FIGURE 2a. Harrowing the rice field before transplanting, witha board drawn by a horse. Sefidrud delta area, May 1993, courtesy of the author.View full image in a new tab
FIGURE 2b. Transplanting.View full image in a new tab
FIGURE 3. The thickness of water reaches 10 cm over the course of plant growth. Sarāvān area, June 2003, courtesy of the author.View full image in a new tab
FIGURE 4. The rice field has been drained before weeding. Sefidrud delta area, June 1996, courtesy of the author.View full image in a new tab
As storage for catchment rain water, run-off and drainage water, reservoirs (sal) play an important role in the irrigation and in social and economic institutions: they provide an essential complement of water in case of water shortages and may, at times, be the main, if not sole source of water. While they are shallow, their surface area may be considerable. “Their shallow depth limits their capacity despite their extensive surface development,” according to the Sogreah-Cotha report (p. 19), submitted in 1963. “Practically speaking,” it continues, “we found that on average one hectare of reservoir ensured the minimum supply for one hectare of paddy fields during critical periods.”
As mentioned before, prior to the Land Reforms of the 1960s, the construction and maintenance of reservoirs were the responsibility of the large landowners, while the maintenance of the canals and ditches of the distribution system was the responsibility of the growers (Rabino and Lafont, 1911, p. 6). After the Land Reforms, all maintenance tasks fall to the growers under the leadership of the miro. The sal are surrounded by a set of two dikes: the first and highest, the salkul, followed by the labband, which is lower. When one wants to use sal water to irrigate rice fields, gaps are made successively in the salkul and the labband. In the 1980s, through government initiative and aided by bulldozers, the capacity of the communal reservoirs was expanded. At the same time private and cooperative reservoirs were increased at private expense (for the Ḵortum example, see Allaverdian, p. 39). In the 1990s, new branches of the Manjil dam contributed to improve local irrigation (for Ḵortum, see ibid, p. 41), even though water inflows remain irregular and inadequate because of the growing demands of rice culture, the development of aquaculture in the region and the flawed design of existing diversionary dams. The sal not only contribute to irrigation, but provide primary organic materials such as reeds (ney) and bulrushes (li) used for weaving mats (ḥaṣir-bāfi), for basketry (the manufacture of baskets and hats, for example) or the making of fences (parda). In order to cut organic materials however, one must first seek authorization from the miro. The sal are also areas where the numerous species of migratory birds of the Caspian shore may be hunted. And finally, the sal constitute a reserve of arable land. This communal space is, therefore, one of the only if not the only space in rural Gilān, where there a strong collective vigilance is exercised. Attempts at privatization are subject to conflict and encounter peasant resistance. If ever, in this region dominated by a spirit of agrarian individualism (see Bromberger, p. 21), there were a subject for cooperative relations and community interests, it would surely be in the management of water resources.
Bibliography
- C. Allaverdian, “Diagnostic agraire de la région de Xorthum-Chomachah au Gilân en Iran: l’évolution des pratiques agricoles au Gilân de l’époque féodale à la crise du thé,” diss., Cnearc (Centre national d’études agronomique des régions chaudes), Montpellier, 2004.
- M. Bazin, Le Tâlech. Une région ethnique au nord de l’Iran, 2 vols., Paris, 1980.
- Idem and C. Bromberger, Gilân et Âzarbâyjân oriental. Cartes et documents ethnographiques, Paris, 1982.
- C. Bromberger, Habitat, Architecture and Rural Society in the Gilân Plain (Northern Iran), Bonn, 1989.
- H. Plusquellec, “Guilan, a successful irrigation project in Iran,” Irrigation and Drainage Systems 10, 1996, pp. 95-107.
- H.-L. Rabino and D.-F. Lafont, “La culture du riz au Guilân (Perse) et dans les autres provinces du sud de la Caspienne,” Annales de l’École nationale d’agriculture de Montpellier, X, 1910, pp. 130-64; XI, 1911, pp. 5-51.
- C. Sahami, Le Guilân, Paris, 1965.
- SOGREAH-COTHA, Réseau du barrage du Sefidroud, mise en valeur de la plaine du Guilân, Tehran, Report to the Plan Organization, 1963.
- T. Suzuki, Land Reform, Technology and Small-Scale Farming: The Ecology and Economy of Gilaki-Rashti Rice Cultivators, Northern Iran, Ann Arbor, Mich., 1985.
GILĀN xii. Rural Housing
There are considerable differences among settlement and building styles according to geographic location (see Map 1, Map 2 and Map 3). Roughly, one can isolate four geographic areas, each with a distinctive type of rural dwelling: the Gilān plain; the low foothills of the Alborz range; the mountains, covered with forest and capped by alpine meadows; and finally the arid slopes of the Alborz.
Map 1. House foundations and bases. The black symbols indicate various ways of raising the house above the ground.View full image in a new tab
Map 2. Distribution of the main types of house walls. Log walls are always covered with daub in the plain, never in the alpine meadows (summer chalets).View full image in a new tab
Map 3. Distribution of roof types and covering materials.View full image in a new tab
On the Gilān plain peasants’ enclosures are scattered around the rice fields or loosely knitted together in hamlets (maḥalla) thus forming alongside the enclosures the major units of social and territorial affiliation. The maḥalla is structurally defined in opposition to the equivalent units surrounding it (other maḥallas) and by its integration into the immediately superior unit, the maḥal “locality”. A maḥal thus groups together several maḥallas, each designated by its own name. Often the references to the names of the maḥalla are topographical in nature and in some cases distinguish, in the maḥal, between upper (bālā maḥalla; maḥalla-ye soflā in eastern Gilān), middle (wasaṭ maḥalla) and lower quarters (pāʾin maḥalla; jir maḥalla in western Gilān and Ṭāleš; maḥalla-ye ʿolyā in eastern Gilān). The difference between “upper” and “lower” does not refer to altitude but rather the relative position of the hamlet in relation to the mountains and the sea: the lower quarters are those closest to the sea and the upper quarters those closest to the mountains, even though the locality itself may be situated tens of kilometers from either.
A maḥalla (quarter), which may include just a few dozen houses or as many as several hundred, is foremost an irrigation unit and is usually endowed with a bāzārča (small bazaar), has its own emāmzāda and often has its own dasta . Together, these features confirm the identity of each maḥalla and its relations with neighboring maḥalla. Relations between maḥallas are frequently tense and marked by rivalry and antagonism.
A peasant enclosure is surrounded by a fence (parda, rameš, čapar), which both marks the boundaries of the domestic space and protects the gardens from wandering livestock and other predators. The enclosure very often includes an orchard, a jardin potager (kitchen garden; bāḡča), and many outbuildings varying according to the productive activities and wealth of the farmer. The well (čāh) and the rice barn (see Figure 1) are constant features of the enclosure landscape. The rice barn is either built directly on the ground—it is the type most generally found in the north of the province and to the west of the Safidrud, where it is called kuruj or telembār—or built on piles and of various forms (pyramidal in the Sefidrud delta, in the pattern of a house in the eastern plain, and circular or with pointed arches in the districts of Paresar and Gil-Dulāb to the west of the province, an “island” of barns on piles in a region where barns are built directly on the ground; see Map 4). These elevated structures, well suited for storing the sheaves, are called kundej in central and eastern Gilān and kuti in Paresar.
Figure 1. Types of barns (a) Barn set on the ground, telembār and kuruj type (Rašt and Fuman districts) 1. kula sakat 2. sar sakat 3. ajār (fixed lattice of branches before the entrance) 4. sar (roof) (b) Bar set on posts in the form of a house, kundej type (eastern plain of Gilān) 1. ḵāk and čine (clay and stone foundation) 2. lang “leg” (post) 3. kula 4. sutun 5. zigāl 6. sar (c) Barn set on posts (kuti), with pointed arch (Paresar, in the western plain) (d) Barn set on posts (kundej), pyramid shaped (Lāhijān low country) 1. ḵāk and čine 2. rit 3. taḵte (board) 4. liga (post) 5. par (rat guard made of a wooden disc) 6. lār 7. vāšan 8. parāčub (e) Covered rice stack on posts (kuppah) (western Māzandarān)View full image in a new tab
Map 4: Distribution of the main types of rice barns and different methods of drying rice.View full image in a new tab
In the north of the province, these minimal constructions (wells and rice barns) are traditionally complemented by a covered area for rice threshing, and, in Rašt district, by a separate building for drying paddy, known as a dudḵāna, garmḵāna, or bujḵāna. In the silkworm growing areas, the silkworm nursery (telembār; Plate I) occupies a place of honor in the enclosure. In places where silkworm breeding is a secondary activity, the nursery is not a separate building but is combined with one that also serves as a stable and tool shed. The stable (ṭavila) and the less attractive buildings (privy, chicken coop) are erected at the edge of the enclosure or behind the house, hidden from the view. The enclosure not only houses the means of production and the harvested crops, but is also a place of work. It is in the yard (ḥayāṭ, sarā, ḵonepiš; Ṭāleši kapiš) that the women weave their mats, sort the cocoons after the harvest, and it is here that the men perform most of the work involved in processing the rice: threshing, husking and polishing the paddy with a pādang (a foot-operated pestle with metal teeth), operations which have been mechanized in rice mills. The enclosure is thus a workspace and equipment storage space for farming and for family consumption (Figure 2). This is an original feature in rural Persia, where in the villages of the plateau, activities such as fetching water, watering the livestock, doing the washing, and threshing the harvest generally imply the use of communal facilities.
Plate I. Silkworm nursery (telembār) in the Langarud district, spring 1996. Courtesy of the author.View full image in a new tab
Fig. 2. Two examples of domestic enclosures in the Gilān plain (a) Domestic enclosure in Fešteke (Rasht district) (1972) 1. rameš : fence of branches 2. parde : fence of reeds 3. telembār : here, a cowshed 4. jub : stream 5. garm ḵāne : building used for smoking rice 6. čāh : well 7. kala : hearth (used in summer) 8. tut : mulberry tree 9. hayāt or sarā : yard 10. kundej : rice barn 11. ḵāne : house 12. mostara : privy (b) Domestic enclosure in Sarāvān (southern edge of Rasht district) (1974) 1. ḵāne : house 2. telembār : rice barn 3 : morḡ-lāne : poultry house 4. mostara : privy 5. bāḡ : kitchen garden 6. tabrizi : poplars 7. čāh : well 8. āḡoz : walnut tree 9. anjil : fig tree 10. tut : mulberry tree 11. bijār : rice field 12. beds of broad beans 13. balta : gate 14. rameš: fence of branchesView full image in a new tab
The framework for the traditional houses, including foundations, wall studs and roof frame is of wood, especially āzād . Daub plays an ancillary part, for filling in the gaps of timber framing (divār zigali) and for covering the bases, the floors and the walls; daub is mixed with chopped rice straw (kuleš-e gel) or with the smoother and more homogeneous husks of rice (fel-e gel). The use of wood defines the craft of the carpenter-joiner (najjār) and his assistants: wood framed substructures or piles of alternate layers of logs and small beams for foundations, various forms of timber-framing for the walls, and complicated roof-frame structures (Figure 3). In practice, however, the application of such complex techniques is fairly rudimentary. Traditional architecture ignores roof truss techniques (tie beam and principal rafters) for roof building, or the use of mortise-and-tenon joinery (pieces are traditionally held together by vegetable lashings, veris). Traditional roof coverings include rice straw (kuleš), rush (gāli), and, in northern Gilān, tiles (sofāl) fitted to the battens on their convex face, this last material having spread from Russia in the late 19th century.
Figure 3. Types of roofs Fig. 3.1. A hipped roof 1. egān : plate supporting the roof frame 2. vāšan : joists supporting the attic floor 3. češān : pole plate resting on the vāšan 4. sarčub : rafter 5. ḵārdār : upright king-post supporting the ridge pole 6. kulak : upright strut supporting a purlin 7. čap-das : diagonal strut supporting a purlin 8. das : purlin 9. ḵār : ridge pole 10. lula : batten 11. dasta : sheaf of rush or rice straw Fig. 3.2. Two variants of the pointed roof Legend for the “b” variant: 1. vāšan : joists supporting the attic floor 2. nāl : pole plate resting on the vāšan 3. bālak :short diagonal supporting the paračub 4. paračub, pole plate 5. lang : slanting poles forming a triangle 6. garzatāj : purlin 7. sarčub : rafter 8. ajār : battenView full image in a new tab
Morphologically, the dwellings are distinguished by two main features:
(1) The buildings are raised above the ground to insulate the living space from the damp soil. There are several techniques for raising the building: it can rest on piles of four or five layers of beams, on a frame made of vertical posts or, more rarely, on a base of unbaked bricks (Bromberger, 1989, pp. 55-58). In the marshy plain of the Safidrud delta, the floor of the house is one or even two meters above the muddy soil. This space (šikil or šigil), under the house itself, forms an extra room used for various purposes, e.g. cooking on a tripod, hanging clothes to dry, and parking a car.
(2) The roof, hipped or pointed (Plate II and Plate III), has four sloping sides and rests mainly on rows of posts (sotun), delineating a veranda ( ayvān ) on the façade. Two other forms of veranda are often encountered in the architecture of the plain: the first completely surrounding the house on the lower floor level and sometimes the upper, and the second forming a loggia (tālār) on the upper floor of the building or just along part of the façade and the adjoining sidewall (Figure 4). The main stylistic properties and aesthetic effects are due to the composition of the façade following a vertical or an oblique pattern (the latter when a loggia on the upper floor side is included), to the regular spacing between the posts of the veranda, and to the finely carved wooden elements, such as balusters and the capitals of the veranda posts.
Plate II. House in the northern Rašt district with a hipped roof and two tālārs, 1974. Courtesy of the author.View full image in a new tab
Plate III. A two-story house with a pointed roof in the Safidrud delta, 1974. Courtesy of the author.View full image in a new tab
Figure 4. A rich farmer’s house with two tālārs in Sadeh (the inner plain of central Gilān).View full image in a new tab
Conceptions of domestic space are distinct from those usually prevailing in Persia and other parts of the Middle East. While the houses of central Persia are hidden behind blank walls, the dwellings here offer their façades to the outside world. This is the expression of a fundamental feature of Gilān cultural values: the predominance of the “open” over the “closed” (see CLOTHING xxii). Among other notable features of the local lifestyle, rooms are not differentiated according to gender; they are used differently according to the season. The passage from the cold to the hot season is the occasion of a migration of the household from below to above, and from the inside to the outside (in Ṭāleš, families who have no tālār establish their summer quarters on a platform called lam or kutām, built a few feet from the house). If seasonal and everyday practices are combined with the rules governing the occupation of space according to the age group, it can be seen that the symbolic framework is ideally organized along three axes, the poles of each denoting opposed values (Figure 5). In this way, the bottom contrasts with the top just as the cold season contrasts with the hot, the older generation with the younger; when related families share a house, the younger family occupies the upper story (see Gilān, Kinship). In short, the first floor contrasts with the second as a semi-public universe exposed to the eyes of all with a world of privacy and secrets of the young people. The left side of the façade shelters the reception space, while on the right side stands the winter kitchen, symbolizing the grouping of the family and domestic intimacy. Lastly, contrary to the back of the house which is, as mentioned above, reserved for the less attractive activities, the front is naturally the part that is offered to view and is used for production, e.g. weaving, as well as for consumption, such as eating in the summer. Thus, the morphology of the house summarizes the cycles of the seasons and those of life, e.g. the ascending pattern which leads the young generations from below to above is reversed in the winter.
Figure 5. Formal and semantic organization of the house.View full image in a new tab
Recent developments have deeply affected building materials and techniques as well as the organization of space. Cinderblock construction (boluk) have replaced timber for wall construction, galvanized iron (ḥalab) has replaced straw and rush as a roof covering, and the saddle roof has replaced pointed and hipped roofs. Building operations are no longer in the hands of the traditional specialist: the through-stone builder or layer (boluksāz) has replaced the carpenter-joiner (najjār), and the iron-roofer (ḥalabsāz) has replaced the thatcher (gālisāz). The spatial pattern of these new houses, with only one habitable level, is horizontal, no longer vertical or oblique. Rooms are more specialized; the seasonal shifts within the domestic space are now more limited, and the sense of privacy is emphasized.
In the agricultural piedmont, traditional houses share the same generic features as in the plain: they are loosely knitted together in hamlets, surrounded by fences, made of wood (daub playing an ancillary part) but, owing to a firmer ground, they have lower bases than in the plain. Here, foundations consist of superimposed layers of stone and daub extended slightly above ground level. Wooden walls are often made of superposed logs (zagme, verjin) covered with daub. Roofs are covered with shingles (lata, taḵta) wedged in groups between two battens or with small boards nailed on to the battens (Plate IV). The ayvān is often partially closed by a low front wall, and the tālār is less prevalent in piedmonts than on the plains. In the areas where wheat is grown the outbuildings include a bread oven (tanur).
Plate IV. House from central plain, February 1974. Courtesy of the author.View full image in a new tab
The dwelling houses of Ṭāleš and Gāleš herdsmen and shepherds who winter on the wet downhill slopes (qešlāq) of the forests and summer on high grasslands (yeylāq, Ṭāleši giriya) also show unique features. Winter houses, made of rough logs (Ṭāleši durgun) with two sloping, shingle-covered roofs, are sometimes two- or three-storied, with the upper floor reserved for the livestock, which reach it by logged ramps (Ṭāleši pord; Plate V). This original style of building can be found in southern Ṭāleš, where it is called vāne or vuna and to the east of Safidrud in the Gāleš area, where it is called kulom. In Ṭāleš, shepherds’ abodes are often semi-cylindrical or semi-ovoid huts (pārgā, pori, poru) made of branches and covered with woven goat haircloth (Plate VI). These huts are divided by a wooden wall into two compartments, one reserved for the family, the other for livestock. The hut is called valar and gāč when it shelters the sheep and the goat, respectively.
Plate V. Winter house of herdsmen in southern Ṭāleš, the upper floor of which is reserved for the livestock which reach it by a logged ramp, 1974. Courtesy of the author.View full image in a new tab
Plate VI. Pārgā, shepherd’s abode in southern Ṭāleš, winter 1974. Courtesy of the author.View full image in a new tab
On the mountaintop grasslands, where houses (generically called ka in Ṭāleši) are more scattered, one can find diverse types of constructions: rough-logged, shingle-covered cabins (Plate VII) or, more rarely, constructions with walls made of stones, boards or branches, covered, in this latter case, with nylon-cloth, branches or woven goat haircloth (Bazin, II, p. 27; Bazin and Bromberger, p. 40). Shepherds’ huts, often hemispheric, do not include installation for livestock; they usually remain outside, with lambs in a lamb-fold (barajā) and sheep in a sheepfold (mandan; see Bromberger, 1974, p. 41).
Plate VII. Rough-logged, shingle covered summer cabin in southern Ṭāleš, summer 1972. Courtesy of the author.View full image in a new tab
The settlement pattern in the arid mountainous areas of southern Gilān is in grouped villages, in which public spaces and facilities, such as fresh-water springs and public baths (ḥammāms), play an important part, and where community structures (shepherd’s collectives, collective system of crop rotation, collective spaces for threshing and so on) are traditionally stronger. Two types of architectural pattern can be found: in Gāleš areas close to the forest one finds timber-framed houses coated with daub mixed with chopped wheat straw (kāhgel) or wheat husks (gel-e pil) and hipped, shingle roofs (Figure 6). Further south, houses are rectangular blocks with flat roofs that rest on main walls made of unbaked bricks coated with daub. An open veranda (ayvān) is created using heavy beams (tirs) supported by columns. They are made of large ceiling joists on which ceiling battens or reeds are laid; they are covered with a thick layer of brushwood. Then thin layers of mud and daub are added and compacted with a stoneroller. These houses are usually two-storied, the barn and stable being located in the basement (Plate VIII). There is here also a seasonal rhythm to the occupation of space: during summertime people sleep in the front veranda or on the flat roof. Over the last thirty years, change, accelerated by the reconstruction following the 1990 Manjil earthquake, has deeply affected traditional building techniques. Local unbaked bricks have been replaced by baked bricks, which are brought from outside of the community and are used to fill in the metallic frames of the wall and the roof. The roof is now sometimes covered with asphalt.
Figure 6. House in Deylamān, 1972.View full image in a new tab
Plate VIII. Houses with flat roofs in Kelišom, a southern district of Gilān, summer 1972. Courtesy of the author.View full image in a new tab
In a short span of time, vernacular architecture of Gilān, an important aspect of Iranian popular culture, has almost vanished.
Bibliography
- Marcel Bazin, Le Talech, une région ethnique au nord de l’Iran, 2 vols., Paris, 1980.
- M. Bazin and Christian Bromberger, Gilân et Azarbâyjân oriental. Cartes et documents ethnographiques, Paris, 1982.
- C. Bromberger, “Habitations du Gilân,” Objets et Mondes, XIV, 1, 1974, pp. 3-56.
- Idem, Habitat, Architecture and Rural Society in the Gilân Plain (Northern Iran), Bonn, 1989.
- Simin Geran-Pay, Habitat rural en Irân. Étude des unités d’habitation à Sadeh-Gilân, 2 vols., Paris, 1980.
- Lothar Götz and Issa Madani, Gilan, Iran. Traditionelle Architektur und Konsequenzen für die Stadtentwicklung, Stuttgart, 1986.
- Moḥammad-Hādi Javādi, Benāhā-ye karāna-ye jonubi-e daryā-ye Ḵazar, Tehran, 1964.
- Noṣrat Kasrāʾiān and Zibā ʿArši, Šomāl/The North of Iran, Tehran, 1995.
- Možgān Ḵākpur, Meʿmāri. Ḵānahā-ye Gilān, Rašt, 2007.
- Aḥmad Marʿaši, Vāžanāma-ye guyeš-e gilaki, Rašt, 1984.
- Hiacynthe-Louis Rabino and Denis-F. Lafont, “La culture du riz au Guîlân (Perse) et dans les autres provinces du sud de la Caspienne,” Annales de l’École nationale d’agriculture de Montpellier 10, 1910, pp. 130-63; 11, 1911, pp. 1-52.
- Roland Rainer, Traditional Building in Iran, Graz, 1977.
- Kāẓem Sādāt-Eškevari, “Taʿammol-i dar maskan-e Ḥaydar Ālat,” Honar o mardom, ser. no. 156, 1975, pp. 43-52.
- Idem, “Taʿammol-i dar maskan-e Morabbu,” Gilān-nāma, 1986, pp. 95-110.
- Cyrus Sahami, Le Guilân, Paris, 1965.
- Hans E. Wulff, The Traditional Crafts of Persia, Cambridge, Mass., 1966.
GILĀN xiii. Kinship and Marriage
Kinship in Gilān displays several remarkable characteristics: an exceptionally low level of intermarriage between consanguineous kin (a far cry from a “republic of cousins” in which intra-lineage marriages are encouraged); marriage “strategies” whose objectives are not to reinforce, as for the rural communities of the plateau, the cohesion of lineages or of groups of lineages, but to diversify, through the marriage alliance, the network of relations in towns and cities; a very low birth rate over the past twenty years, foreshadowing the actual trends in Iranian society; and the reduced size of households rarely containing more than two generations. Furthermore, lineal descent is patrilineal as it is in the rest of the country; a pre-inheritance is distributed at the time of marriage in a manner similar to Jack Goody’s concept of a “diverging devolution” of patrimony between boys and girls. The family institution remains here as elsewhere the cornerstone of social organization, a paradigm for personal relationships (close friends are referred to in terms of family relationships, as, for instance, ʿamu, or paternal uncle), a principal subject of discussion, a source of disagreement and the principal means of acceding to a profession. Marriage, characterized by a multitude of gifts (see GIFT GIVING) and counter-gifts between allied families, can be distinguished by several specific qualities unique to the Gilāni folklore.
Exogamous alliances. According to a 1991 sample survey (see Sāzmān), in Iran, the plain of Gilān has the lowest proportion of marriages whether with paternal or maternal cousins or with a near or distant (non-consanguineous) relation. For the whole country, where the average rate of endogamous marriages (including all degrees of kinship) is 29 percent, it is only 4.2 percent in the district of Āstāna, 5.1 percent in Langarud, 6.2 percent in Ṣowmaʿa-sarā, and 11.6 percent in Rašt. Only in the mountainous regions (sub-province of Rudbār) or in marginal areas such as the district of Āstārā is the rate of endogamous marriage on the same level as in the rest of the country. Several research monographs on the region have noted this exogamous tendency among the Gilāni peasantry. Paul Vieille (1972, p. 361) notes that “consanguineous relations are less important than those acquired by affinity.” Toshio Suzuki (p. 241) concludes after his investigation at Jānakbar (Kučeṣfahān sub-province), where 16 percent of married couples bear some family relationship, that “kinship endogamy is not the norm in marriage.” A recent enquiry conducted by the author in the district of Āstāna revealed that, over three generations, only 10 percent of marriages were endogamous, which figure is inflated by a tradition of consanguineous marriages among some affluent families.
The rarity of endogamous marriages is related to the special conditions and economic organization for land management in the Caspian region. Here, there is no common property (with the exception of the reservoirs: sal and estaḵr which serve for irrigation), few cooperative tasks (other than the maintenance of the irrigation canals at the beginning of the rice season, or the common defense of the fields against the damages of predators), no collective work organization (like the bona of the villages of the Iranian interior). The cultivated land has been cleared by individual concessions attributed to nuclear family units by the large landholders, and not in any cooperative mode by a community of parents. In short, the characteristics generally associated with structured society and patrilineal endogamous lineages are lacking. Commercial agriculture and the development of relations between the cities are consistent with the vision and practice of exogamy. With respect to marriage practices as well as the activities of daily life, the Gilāni peasantry is “extrovert” and not “introvert,” unlike that of the inhabitants of the Iranian plateau, concerned as they traditionally are with collective rights and the stability of the lineages.
Peasants willingly marry off their daughters outside of their villages and if possible in the neighboring villages, in the regional capital or in Tehran. Thus, in 2000, in a village of the Gilān plain, exogamous marriages with an urban spouse represented 35 percent of all marriages for the generation born between 1960 and 1970. Endogamy, in the context of this same locality (maḥal), was characteristic of 41 percent of marriages, of which 31 percent were between members of the same hamlet (maḥalla), and only 10 percent from the neighboring hamlets with whom relations are typically tense. The remainder of marriages was concluded with neighboring villages within the same precinct (for comparable data showing an even greater level of intra-regional endogamy, see Suzuki, p. 246). Such exogamy, whether near or far, creates and maintains social networks that facilitate, at a regional or state level, the social acceptance of family members driven to travel or migration. With the help of sons-in-law living in the city, one finds employment opportunities and lodging for the sons of families too large to be supported through subsistence from the narrow confines of their holdings (on the Gilān plain, the average holding is no larger than one jarib, a surface measurement roughly equivalent to one hectare, or 2.5 acres in the central part of the plain; see Bazin and Bromberger, map 30). Thus, in an urban setting one finds professional dynasties and neighborhood groups formed around a family member who benefited from a favorable alliance. Such links with the urban world can be reinforced by the marriage of a son who remained in the countryside with a patrilateral cross cousin (the daughter of his father’s sister) whose mother married into town. The marriage with a matrilateral cousin, very uncommon, is not quite as efficient in a society where one privileges the father’s side of the family (one is garm “warm” to one’s paternal side, and sard “cooler” to one’s maternal side). In order to reinforce links between related families, one willingly exchanges sisters (Rašti feda fegir, Lāhijāni ada agir, lit. “give and take”), a formula which presents the distinct advantage of reducing wedding spending (see below) to zero. In a more general way, one takes advantage of all of one’s possible relations (rawābeṭ) created by alliance, as for example those with one’s bājenāq, the husband(s) of the sister(s) of one’s wife. A system that promotes non-consanguineous relations (sababi) makes the woman the pivot in relations between family lineages (dudamān).
The only limits to this exogamous tendency concern the origins of the spouses: even if one lives outside of Gilān, one marries by preference a girl of one’s region. In the villages, such regional preferences do not exclude marriages with immigrants (mohājer), particularly with Ḵalḵāli-s from Azerbaijan, especially if the family lacks a son to assume the shareholding. In such cases the groom will live with his in-law family as a “son-in-law” (ḵ ān-dāmādi), an unenviable situation, but one that is not so difficult to accept here as in the rest the country. In northwest Gilān, among the Tāleshis, there is a significant Sunnite minority although the different religious affiliation does not exclude matrimonial alliances; marriages between Sunnites and Shiites are not exceptional. In this case, traditionally the sons receive their religious affiliation from their father, the daughters from their mother (see Bromberger, 2009). On the other hand, marriages between the Gilak Shiites and Kurdish Ahl-e ḥaqq (q.v.), who reside in the same villages, are extremely rare, the latter being considered heretics. Isogamous relations (i.e., where there is a socio-economic equality between the marriage partners) are the rule, with a slight preference for hypergamy (where men marry women of slightly inferior status). The only exceptions are cases of “son-in-law” marriages, as discussed above, and cases where an unattractive daughter is unable to find a spouse and her father resigns himself to accept a son of lesser status.
Domestic group structure, inheritance and marriage payments. The domestic group (ḵānavār) generally consists in a nuclear family: this was so in 82 percent of cases observed in Jānakbar in 1978, according to Suzuki (p. 241); in 81 percent of cases observed in Kalārdašt, according to Ziba Mir-Hosseini (1989); and in 86 percent of province households, according to the 1976 national census. The high incidence of nuclear family households in Gilān society underscores the precursory nature of Gilāni society with regard to the general Iranian population (nuclear family households represented 79.2 percent of Iranian households in 1986 and 82.3 percent in 1996 (see Ladier-Fouladi, p. 85). The average size of these households (3.5 persons in a village on the Caspian Plain in 1996, compared with 6.1 persons in 1972) is testament not so much to the break-up of the extended family, but of significantly decreased birth rates (2.1 children per woman today). Such statistics may convey the false impression of the break-up of local society into isolated units—not so. On the one hand, a significant number of households (14 percent in 1976) comprise more than one married family; such multiple-family households include frequently a married son who will eventually inherit the family home. Such households may occasionally include two married brothers, each occupying, with his family, a floor of the house: the eldest on the ground floor, the younger on the second floor. Such households may also contain an aged single parent (Bromberger, 1989, pp. 33-34). On the other hand, and most importantly, the devolution of family assets is accomplished in such a way as to ensure that family members and the family holdings remain in the family; this is achieved through a process which is worth considering as it relates to institutions and practices.
Before the Land Reform Act of 1962, a holding was not divided at the death of the holder, but transferred in its entirety to one of his sons. “The death of a holder”, says Cyrus Sahami (p. 46), “does not generally raise any complication; the contract is immediately renewed by his successors, although it is usually the landowner who chooses among the heirs the most solvent” (see also Ehlers, p. 294). The other children were forced to immigrate, to take up a minor profession in village society, or to obtain permission for the landowner (arbāb) to clear and farm other lands. Peasant access to landownership has been accompanied by a return to Islamic law regarding the transfer of property. According to Islamic law, the sons receive twice as much as the daughters. In practice, the behavior is much more complex. At the time of marriage sons receive from their father a parcel of rice field and a plot of land suitable for building, close to the family compound. Such gifts constitute a sort of pre-inheritance and are more often equal, although a father may favor one or another of his sons, often the youngest or the most docile (Vieille, 1975, p. 69) who might be called to help and eventually to replace him. It is this son who will be the last to leave the household, who will care for his parents in their old age, and who will inherit the family home. One can readily see the effects of such a system; brothers remain neighbors occupying with their families a portion of the fragmented compound (FIGURE 1) and working the adjacent lands.
Figure 1. Enclosure with several households in a village of Gilān central plain (1982). The genealogical tree shows the composition of the three households. 1. ḵāna, eldest son’s house; 2. tāvila, cowshed; 3. telembār, silkworm house and rice barn; 4. ḵāna, youngest son’s house; 5. kanduj, rice barn on posts belonging to the father; 5. ḵāna, father’s and second son’s house; 6. tāvila, cowshed; 7. telembār, silkworm nursery; 8. balta, barrier, entrance; 9. čapar, fence of branches; 10. kuče, path; 11. bāḡ, kitchen garden; 12. jub, Stream; fruit trees; 13. tut, mulberry trees.View full image in a new tab
As for daughters, with only a few exceptions, they will go live in or near their in-laws’ compound. Eventually they will receive from their fathers several darz of garden (a darz is a land measure equivalent to 10 m²; see Bazin and Bromberger, p. 54) and in every case, a dowry (jahāz), consisting generally of household utensils which are hers and which were identified and evaluated at the pre-nuptial meeting (ḵᵛāstegāri which includes a formal ṣurat hagiri “nuptial agreement”) signed by the elders and important members (bozorghā) of both families. The means by which the dowry is negotiated calls attention to the specific way in which marriage gift-giving is contracted in Gilān, and more generally in Iran, where one finds two combined formulas which are not usually associated (Goody and Tambiah, passim; Goody, pp. 349-69): the system of bride-wealth (širbahā “price of milk,” Ṭāl[eši] daram) and the dowry. The “price of milk,” “poured out” by the father of the groom to the father of the bride in the form of gold coins or, more rarely, in the form of rice holdings, allow the bride’s family to assemble the daughter’s dowry. One may thus speak, with Goody, of an “indirect dowry.” Wedding gift exchanges, however, do not end there, as the entire marriage process is regulated by gifts and counter-gifts, most at the expense of the father of the groom. The marriage contract (ʿaqd) specifies the amount of mehriya (sar mahr in Gilaki), a term dower (Linant de Bellefonds, II, p. 217) estimated in sekka “gold coins,” which the groom must pay to the bride in the event of repudiation, or whenever she may require it (this is a šamšir-e tiz “sharp sword”, notes a commentator). The father of the bride willingly gives his son-in-law a section of a rice field (bijār-a kalle); the father of the groom eventually offers his daughter-in-law a property of a similar kind to be worked by her husband. The groom’s family purchases the bride’s gown and inversely, the bride’s family purchases the groom’s clothes. During ceremonies held in the home of the bride (ʿarus), and following, in the home of the groom (dāmād), the groom’s parents present gifts of money (šābāš) to the bride, and the bride’s parents to the groom. The greater part of giving (ṣadāq), however, most notably the gift of gold coins and jewelry, the cost of the ceremony (the make up of the tablecloth (sofra) spread before the couple, the meal, etc.), is born by the father of the groom. The combination of the “price of milk” and of the dowry, the “term” dower, the multitude of gifts which form the basis of conjugal wealth, signal the originality of Gilak and Iranian weddings. The širbahā confirms the subordination of one generation (that of the children) to the other (that of the parents), the predominance of the patrilineal descent and recognition of the couple as being of the husband’s lineage; the dowry and the gifts ensure a fair independence to the married couple while the dower and her own belongings guarantee to the woman—at least theoretically—a protected status.
In the course of life, a father may favor one or more of his married children with additional gifts of land or money. Upon the parents’ death, after the deduction of funeral expenses and the cost of commemorative services (sevvom, haftom, čehellom, sāl—the third, seventh, fortieth and anniversary days of mourning), the remaining estate is divided among the male and female heirs according to Shiite Law. The sons who have remained in the village reassemble the property as they can, purchasing parcels from their brothers and sisters, or by share-cropping (monāṣefa). Relations among brothers are thus entirely regulated by money, although sales and leases are kept within the family lineage, as if there existed an unspoken right of family pre-emption.
Family values. The unequal distribution of goods, quarrels about the boundaries between gardens, and infringement of courtesy (adab) are causes for jealousy (ḥasudi) and can lead to splits within lineages. A head of household who feels offended can go as far as to change his family name and break with his blood relatives. Daughters-in-law, when they reside with their parents-in-law, never fail to protest against the extra load of work in the fields required by their mothers-in-law as yāvar “co-operation,” and say that they are treated like unpaid labor (kārgar-e majjāni). An atmosphere of both solidarity and tension thus weighs on family relations. Disputes are arbitrated, more or less successfully, by influential and older members (bozorghā) of the family. A marriage with a cousin may, as a last resort, reconcile conflicting branches. The family values that shape daily life have substantially evolved in the past thirty years: with the demographic change came a greater appreciation of children (birthday celebrations, practically unknown until recently, have become one of the most important family rites); a father’s authority, including over married sons, remains strong though it has declined somewhat (sons are not required to contribute to family chores as often as in the past); intimacy and a sense of privacy are somewhat developing but remain secondary to family and social obligations, which mark the passing of time. Nāmus, or honor, based as it is on the purity of girls, remains the unassailable foundation of integrity. In recent years, the fear of the unknown in a changing society and the increase in the number of divorces have caused a new wave of endogamy, and a considerable and dissuasive increase in the size of dowers.
The rites of marriage. While it concretizes alliances between lineages, marriage in Gilān shows some remarkable characteristics. As elsewhere in Iran, unions are generally arranged by a member, even by a friend, of the family who acts as an intermediary (dallāl). But the choices, though always subject to family approval, may be more personal; wedding celebrations, and picnics at the time of sizda bedar (the thirteenth day of the Nowruz), for example, are privileged occasions for meetings; the first vows are furtively exchanged behind the telembār (rice barn or silkworm nursery) or behind a thicket, and are followed by letters discreetly exchanged with the help of close relatives. Families then worry about the health, morals and courtesy of the future spouse. Traditionally, the boy’s (rikā) female relatives ask the dallāk (masseuse at the ḥammām) or the ruvigir (woman in charge of unwanted hair removal)—both of whom frequently play the part of go-betweens—if the girl’s (lāku) body shows any imperfections. At the time of the marriage proposal (zanḡāzi; Ṭāl. jena ḵāzi), they kiss the fiancée to make sure that she does not have bad breath, they ask her to remove her scarf (dastmāl) to make sure that she is not bald (ayā lāku sar kal neye), and they ask her for drinks to check her talent as a hostess (see Pāyanda Langarudi, p. 51). At the same time, the girl’s family inquires about the boy’s piety, morals, and temper. After the usual subtle inquiries, the leading men of both families meet at the fiancée’s house to determine and put in writing before witnesses the amount of the širbahā and of the mehriya, the contents of the dowry, the gifts (particularly gold jewelry or, in Ṭāleš, a cow or a sheep), and the preparations which the family of the groom will have to make for the ceremony. After this engagement-sealing agreement, both families visit and offer gifts to one another. The groom is responsible for the purchase of his future wife’s wedding dress as well as for the decoration of the wedding ceremony tablecloth (ʿaqd-e suri sofra). These objects are exhibited at the groom’s house at first, and then carried in a ceremonious procession, led by a dervish, to the bride’s house. Before the ceremony, depilation, particularly eyebrow plucking (known as ruvigiri), symbolizes the transformation of the girl’s body into a woman’s body.
The contract (ʿaqd) is made official and vows, subject to parental approval, are exchanged at the bride’s house in the presence of a cleric. The ʿarus, with her head covered, and the dāmād kneel in front of a tablecloth covered with sweet foods to ensure a harmonious union (honey, sugared almonds, cakes, candied sugar); a copy of the Koran; eggs to protect against the evil eye; a mirror—which the bride must stare at to avoid crossing eyes with someone else; two candles, the image of a luminous life; a needle; a hairpin; a pair of scissors to untie the knots (i.e., the difficulties of life, possibly the curse of a former suitor to make the groom impotent); the ring and jewels given to the bride, etc. (see PLATE I).
Plate I. ʿaqd, Gilān plain, spring 2000 (courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
While the cleric reads the marriage contract and hears the couple’s consent, two women thought to be lucky (sefidbaḵt) crush sugar over the canopy protecting the couple, and play with a needle pretending to sew the groom’s mother’s mouth closed (šu mār-a zuban dabustim “we bind the groom’s mother’s tongue”) or, according to other interpretations, to seal “love and affection.” Although a gold coin has been placed under her tongue (zirzabuni) by the groom’s mother or sister, so that she says “yes” as quickly as possible, the bride takes her time before giving her consent as she awaits a gift from her father-in-law. At the end of the religious ceremony, the bride uncovers her face (runamā) and is adorned with jewels. The bride and groom soak their finger in honey and introduce it into each other’s mouths, cut the cake together and drink successively from a cup containing a “two-colored” tea (čāy do-rang, where melted sugar and tea are superimposed), thus sealing a union placed under the sign of sweetness (širini). Then, they extinguish the candles and the oil lamp (lit at the beginning of the ceremony) with their shoes, adorned with money by the guests, or with a flower. Dances (PLATE IIa, PLATE IIb), gifts and cash donations given by family, friends and neighbors fill the ensuing hours. In the evening, still at the bride’s residence but this time under the responsibility of her family, it is customary to engage in a hanābandon “applying the henna”: one or two women, who are themselves deemed to have had good marriages, apply henna to the palms of each spouse and glue them together (see PLATE III).
Plate IIa. Marriage, Gilān plain, spring 1996 (courtesy of the author).View full image in a new tab
Plate IIb. Marriage, Tāleš, autumn 2007 (courtesy of the author).View full image in a new tab
Plate III. Hanābandon, Gilān 2000 (courtesy of the author).View full image in a new tab
Once the dowry is delivered, the young spouse goes to her father-in-law’s house. The “carrying of the bride” (ʿarus buron, Ṭāl. geša bari) is traditionally done by foot or on horseback, but never on a mule, because it is an infertile animal. Preceded by members of her family carrying the mirror and a lit lamp, and escorted by a dervish and by old women chanting wishes for a newborn boy (elāhi to pesar bezā ʾ i! “May God give you a baby boy”), the bride is welcomed by her husband who comes to meet her. At the gate of the house, she stops before entering and waits for her parents-in-law to promise her a gift (a cow, a garden patch, etc.; see Pāyanda Langarudi, p. 75). Sometimes, the bride’s younger brother stands in the way and refuses to move until he receives a gift from the parents-in-law (this custom, called damaras, barasari, is mentioned, about Ṭāleš, by Rafie Jirdehi, I, p. 65). When the ʿ arus finally enters the yard, people in the ayvān (q.v.; the balcony) throw her rice, coins (šābāš), sweets, oranges (these gifts are generally referred to as nāranj-zani, “throwing of oranges”), and a cooked chicken, then she and the groom are invited to walk three or seven times (lucky numbers) around the well and throwing coins therein—all gestures which are meant to bring protection. An animal (a cow, a sheep) is sacrificed at their feet to place their union and their entrance into the house under the most favorable auspices. The bride brings from her father’s house a fruit tree that she will plant, with her husband, in her father-in-law’s garden. The festivities are traditionally followed by wrestling demonstrations (košti gil-a-mardi) and the winner receives a baram, a branch decorated with fabric, a pair of socks, or a shirt. Sometimes, a lāfandbāz “tightrope walker” also comes to give a show and add fun to the wedding celebration through his acrobatics and tricks.
The day after the wedding night, the sheet (zafāf) soiled with blood, proof of the bride’s virginity, is presented to the bride’s mother by the dallāk, or during a small ceremony (called pā-ye taḵt, literally “at the foot of the bed”) exclusively for women. The groom then thanks his mother-in-law for keeping her daughter pure and receives from her hot food to reinforce his male ardor. Then comes the ʿarus tamāšā (the “bride’s visit”): the newlyweds sitting side by side in the ayvān of the groom’s house, welcome their neighbors, from whom they receive congratulations and gifts.
The traditional marriage scenario is subject to a few variations depending on place, the couple’s social background, and the urban or rural context. In the mountains where Gālešis reside, the bride would wear a strip of cloth (yašmāḡ) on her mouth from the time the contract (ʿaqd) is signed until her entrance into her father-in-law’s house (Pāyanda Langarudi, pp. 75-76), symbolizing the fact that she was no longer under the sole authority of her father and not yet under that of her husband. In order to seal the union between families, close relatives of the groom would steal an object from the bride’s house which they would bring to the groom’s house (idem, p. 68). Upon leaving her father’s house, the bride would take a little boy in her arms to symbolize the birth of a son (Rafie Jirdehi, I, p. 65-66). In addition, precautions are taken to prevent “hostile hands” (for example, of a woman related to a former suitor) from tying the knot on the bride’s scarf (taške-zan; Pāyanda Langarudi, p. 83). Such a gesture would likely cause the groom to become impotent and would require the help of the čellebori (a rite to ward off ill fortune). Finally, however rigid the rules of marriage and the choice of the spouse, a boy and a girl sometimes marry against their parents’ wishes. In such cases, the girl finds refuge with the leader of the village or with a close relative and, after some time, the parents usually grant their consent.
Among the rural middle class today, a preference is made towards wedding celebrations in the city, in salons (sālon, tālār), where men and women are separated, rather than celebrations in farmyards where behavior is less restricted (see Plate II, a and b). Whatever the setting, wedding celebrations generally take place at the time of the new year, and are characterized by intensive gift giving, numerous visits, and by submitting to propitiatory practices, e.g. to protect herself from the evil eye, the bride must wear a pin (ṣanjāq) on her lapel for forty days following the ceremony. These are also privileged moments of prodigality and ostentation (they are carefully filmed nowadays, certain phases of the ceremony are even edited to be better set to film).
A descriptive terminology of kinship. As far as the terminology of kinship is concerned, it is, as elsewhere in Iran, descriptive: when referring to someone or, more generally, when addressing someone, kinship relations are expressed by a combination of terms: mār “mother,” per “father,” barār “brother,” ḵ a ḵ ur (Ṭāl. ḵ ā) “sister,” ʿ amu “paternal uncle,” ʿ ame (Ṭāl. bibi) “paternal aunt,” dā ʾ i (Ṭāl. ḵ ālu) “maternal uncle,” ḵ āle, (Ṭāl. mar ḵ ā) “maternal aunt,” šu, mard “husband,” zan, (Ṭāl. jen) “wife,” zāk “child,” rikā, pesar, za, (Ṭāl. zoa) “son,” lāku, kor, datar, (Ṭāl. kila) “daughter”; mār-e mār “mother’s mother,” zan mār “wife’s mother,” šu mār “husband’s mother,” mard-a per “husband’s father,” barār za “brother’s son,” etc. (In Gilaki the determinant precedes the determined word: zan mār = Pers. mādar-zan; see GILĀN x. Languages). The Gilaki adjective pil “big” is sometimes used to designate the grandparents; pil-e per “grandfather” is used indifferently for the per-e per “father’s father” and mār-e per “mother’s father.” To address an older relative, one generally uses a term from the kinship vocabulary, often in a hypocoristic form to speak to a father (bābā), a mother (māmān), or grandparents (bābā for the grandfather, nana for the grandmother); a husband addresses his wife as ḵ ānom “Madam” or simply by her first name; a woman calls her husband āqā “Sir.” Terms of kinship can be classificatory when one addresses a friend or an older relative: ʿamu “paternal uncle” or dāʾi, ḵ ālu “maternal uncle,” mār “mother,” etc. Furthermore, while first names are seldom transmitted from one generation to another, the siblings’ unity is often expressed by the identity of the initial of the first names given to the children (e.g., Kāmbiz, Keyvān, Kāmrān, Kiumarṯ). Each person is given two first names (one, personal and for daily use, found in an open list, the other with a religious meaning). Personal names are somewhat influent: one will readily change a sick child’s name to place him under more favorable auspices.
Bibliography
- Marcel Bazin and Christian Bromberger, Gilān et Āzarbāyjān oriental. Cartes et documents ethnographiques, Paris, 1982.
- C. Bromberger, Habitat, Architecture and Rural Society in the Gilān Plain (Northern Iran), Bonn, 1989.
- Idem, “Famille et parenté dans la plaine du Gilân (Iran),” in A. Kian and M. Ladier-Fouladi, eds., Familles et mutations socio-politiques, Paris, 2005, pp. 125-42.
- Idem, “La solution tâlech. Sur la transmission de l’appartenance confessionnelle dans le nord de l’Iran,” in Les vertus de l’interdisciplinarité. Mélanges offerts à Marcel Bazin, Reims, 2009, pp. 105-9.
- Eckart Ehlers, “Agrarsoziale Wandlungen im Kaspischen Tiefland Nordpersiens,” Deutscher Geographentag Erlangen-Nürnberg 6/1-4, 1971, pp. 289-311.
- Jack Goody, Famille et mariage en Eurasie, Paris, 2000.
- Idem and Stanley J. Tambiah, Bridewealth and dowry, Cambridge, 1973.
- Marie Ladier-Fouladi, Population et politique en Iran. De la monarchie à la République islamique, Paris, 2003.
- Yves Linant de Bellefonds, Traité de droit musulman comparé, Paris, 1965.
- Ziba Mir-Hosseini, “Some aspects of changing marriage in rural Iran: The case of Kalardasht district in the Northern Provinces,” Journal of Comparative Family Studies 20/2, 1989, pp. 215-29.
- Mahmud Pāyanda Langarudi, Āʾinhā wa bāvardāšthā-ye mardom-e Gil o Deylam, Tehran, 1976.
- Ali Rafie Jirdehi, Le Tālech et le tālechi, Strasbourg, Université Marc Bloch, unpubl. disser., 2003.
- Cyrus Sahami, Le Guilān, Paris, 1965.
- Toshio Suzuki, Land Reform, Technology and Small-Scale Farming: The Ecology and Economy of Gilaki-Rashti Rice Cultivators, Northern Iran, Michigan, 1985.
- Sāzmān-e ṯabt-e aḥwāl-e kešvar, wezārat-e behdāšt o darmān o āmuzeš-e pezeški, Natāyej-e ṭarḥ-e nemunagiri-e zād o walad, Tehran, 1991.
- Paul Vieille, “Les paysans, la petite bourgeoisie rurale et l’État après la réforme agraire en Iran,” Annales E.S.C. 2, 1972, pp. 347-72.
- Idem, “Un groupement féodal,” in La féodalité et l’État en Iran, Paris, 1975, pp. 35-86.
GILĀN xiv. Ethnic Groups
The organization of work in Gilān is marked by an apparently ethnic division of labor. Each group living in the province is characterized by one or several specific production activities, so that an ethnonym refers as much to territorial, linguistic, and cultural roots as to any dominant professional specialization. Gil-a mard (lit. “man of Gilān”) thus refers to a farmer from the plain that speaks Gilaki (see GILĀN x. Languages), while Gāleš, a mountain breeder in the eastern part of the province, uses the dialect known as Gāleši. An ethnonym can have different meanings depending on the speaker, but it generally combines cultural and professional dimensions. As Marcel Bazin and Ali Pour-Fickoui (p. 26) note, to many Gilaks, particularly to the city-dwellers of western and central Gilān, a Ṭāleš is a stockbreeder, while the Ṭāleš use the same word, in the northernmost part of the area, to denote a cultivator of rice, as opposed to a Gāleš (stockbreeder). Whatever the differences, the various populations that coexist in the region do not have equal access to the most valued local resources. For this reason, collective names are not only identifiers, but also point to the relative position in the economic hierarchy.
The main regional resources (rice, and in the past, silk) are the prerogative of the Gilak and incidentally, of the Ṭāleš people on the plain. Gilaks also control the principal sectors of commerce and administration, even if, for the latter, they compete with civil servants from the inland. The mountain populations of the humid side of Mount Alborz (Gāleš and most Ṭāleš people), specializing in breeding cows and sheep, occupy a peripheral position in the regional space, and have a lower status than their Gilak neighbors. The Sunnite faith of a part of the population—indeed of the majority of the population in the Asālem and Ṭāleš Dulāb districts—contributes to the marginalizing of the Ṭāleš people (Bazin and Bromberger, pp. 14-15 and chart 4).
Subsidiary activities and jobs, in the context of the province’s overall economy, are allotted to different minorities who either reside permanently in isolated pockets in the province or form part of the province’s migratory seasonal labor.
At the forefront of these minority groups, quantitatively speaking, are the Azerbaijanis of the Ḵalḵāl region. They are employed specifically in the more menial tasks associated with agriculture, masonry, and itinerant trading, as well as in the more skilled work of fishing at sea, which has for long been completely out of the control of seaside Gilaks. As pointed out by H. L. Rabino and D. F. Lafont in 1910 (p. 141), for many generations, the Ḵalḵālis had been accustomed to leaving their own cold climate in the fall to seek work in the milder clime of the plains of Gilān and Māzandarān. Each year, 15,000 to 25,000 seasonal migrant workers of both sexes come down from their mountains, carrying all their belongings in a bundle tied to a stick. Further, on Nowruz, at the advent of spring, the Ḵalḵālis down their tools, pack up, and return home. During their winter stay in the plain of Gilān, Ḵalḵālis used to be hired for physically arduous tasks, such as land clearance, plowing, shoring up flood-banks in the rice fields, logging, and threshing rice with a pedal-driven flail. But with the mechanization of most agricultural tasks, the demand for Ḵalḵālis as rural laborers has substantially decreased. Today, many are hired on building sites as construction workers, and particularly as plasterers. Others are traveling salesmen who later become shopkeepers. In the eastern part of the province, Ḵalḵālis must compete with the Gālešis, with the inhabitants of the districts of Deylamān, Kelišom, and even of Ṭāleqān, who migrate each season from the highlands to the rice plains, and to the hills of Lāhijān to pick tea, or travel to eastern Gilān to pick oranges.
Even more surprising is the specialization of the Ḵalḵālis and other Azeris in fishing enterprises, which take two distinct forms. From the end of October to mid-March, part of the male population from the villages located around Herowābād migrates to the banks of the Caspian Sea to work in cooperative companies engaged in commercial catches with a seine (especially of the māhi-e safid, a variety of goatfish). Sturgeon fishing, which is carried out twice a year (February to June and August to September), under the control of the state company Šerkat-e sahāmi-e šilāt-e Irān, is carried out by Azeris, though from different regions. Most executives and permanent employees of the fish factories located in Ḡāziān, near Anzali, are descendants of Azeris from the Caucasus, a relic of the time when the fishing of scale-less fish (regarded as ḥarām “forbidden” by Shiite law) was under Russian control, and later under the control of an Iranian-Soviet company (Bazin, II, p. 130). The seasonal workforce comes primarily from the Ardabil plain.
As land-people, the Gil-a mard have, until recently, turned their back on sea-fishing activities, and devoted themselves to fishing in rivers and lagoons. The Gilānis’ distaste for the sea is manifested by the fact that commercial navigation on the Caspian Sea was during the first half of the 20th century in the hands of crews of Jaʿfarbāy Turkmens whose home ports and shipyards were Gomišān or Bandar-e Torkaman on the eastern bank of the Caspian (Rabino, 1917b, p. 63; Bazin and Bromberger, 1988, pp. 91-93; de Planhol, pp. 371-72).
The image of the Turkmens, and especially that of the Azeris (generically called Ḵalḵālis), is associated with robustness, discipline, and rusticity. These enduring stereotypes (Abbott, fol. 23; MacKenzie, fol. 19; Rabino, 1917a, pp. 28-29) affected the selection of industrial workers. Thus, when in the 1930s major textile companies set up businesses in several cities of Māzandarān, they chose to hire Ḵalḵālis rather than local residents, because of their reputation for hard work and adaptability to the tasks assigned to them (Kopp, p. 24).
The Kurds, who settled in Gilān over three distinct periods of time, are another marginal minority. In the southern part of the province (in the districts of ʿAmmārlu, Deylamān, and Raḥmatābād), Rišvendi Kurds, transplanted there during the reign of Shah Abbas I (r. 1587-1629), live in several villages and specialize in raising sheep. Other groups were transferred to the area under Nāder Shah (r. 1736-48). As a result, some villages in the Rudbār-e Zeytun area are populated with Kurds from Qučān, where they had been sent earlier by the Safavids. Finally, rural towns in the coastal plain (in the district of Langarud, in particular) are home to Kurds originally from around Kermānšāh, who at the beginning of the 20th century were sent to settle in this zone to form a defensive buffer against the Russian threat. The Kurds who live on the plain have a monopoly on buffalo breeding, a pastoral specialty met with scorn by their Gilak neighbors.
Moreover, these buffalo specialists are stigmatized for their religious affiliation: they are Ahl-e ḥaqq (q.v.) and called, as elsewhere in Iran, ʿAli-Allāhi (Rabino, 1917a, pp. 31, 260, 270, 280; Bazin and Bromberger, pp. 14-15; Bazin, 1988, pp. 80-81). The visible sign of their religious affiliation is their long moustaches, not in keeping with the feṭrat (the laws of maintaining a healthy nature, according to Islamic doctrines), which they grow over their upper lips, and which is the subject of stigmatizations.
Among these minority groups of a lower social status the ʿArāqi (a term for the inhabitants of the interior plateau derived from the old territorial divisions going back to the Abbasids; Le Strange, Lands, pp. 24-25, 185-86) were sārebān (camel rider) and čārvādār (mule driver). Inter-regional transport by caravans, from Qazvin to Anzali and vice versa, was left to caravan drivers from the arid side of Mount Alborz.
If the Kurds, the Azerbaijanis, and the ʿArāqi caravan drivers are at the bottom of the social ladder, some non-native urban minorities have enjoyed a more favorable fortune. Armenians, who were either transplanted from the Caucasus to Gilān during the wars of Shah Abbas I, or in the 19th and early 20th centuries emigrated from Russia, played a considerable part in international trade, particularly of silk. Many held trading posts in Baku, Darband, and Astrakhan, and were deeply involved in the Russo-Persian trade (Chaqueri, p. 64). In 1906, ten out of sixty households, delegations and simple agents sharing in the processing and marketing of silk were Armenian (Rabino and Lafont, pp. 143-44; Bromberger, 1989, pp. 74, 85). Another Armenian specialty was pig breeding, which was initiated in the 1920s by emigrants from the Caucasus. In the 1970s, there were eight pig farms and one porcine meat-factory near Rašt (Bazin and Pour-Fickoui, p. 107). In addition, the Armenians retrieved wild boar killed by peasants near the rice fields, and turned them into prepared meats.
The Greeks from Bursa, Smyrna (Izmir), Istanbul, and Baku also formed an active minority in the 19th and early 20th centuries. They focused their commercial and technical skills on three principal fields: silk trade and processing (an agent from the Pascalidis firm in Bursa even gave his name Bezanos to a type of cocoon in the 1890s), the production of olive oil in the Rudbār area (in the late 19th century and under Russian protection controlled by the Koussis and Theophilaktos company), and boxwood farming.
Thus, at the beginning of the 20th century, each group was symbolically associated with an activity, an animal, or a plant. The Gil-a mard were associated with rice cultivation, silkworm production and raising oxen. Bullfighting (varzā jang) was the symbol of this bovinophile culture (see GĀVBĀZI). The Gāleš and Ṭāleš people were known for their cattle drives from the forested piedmont plains (qešlāq) to the alpine prairies (yeylāq). The Kurds on the plain were buffalo-breeders, the Armenians pig farmers, and the ʿArāqis caravan drivers. Azeris fished the sea and worked in the fields. Turkmens specialized in marine transportation, while the Greeks partly controlled the production of olive oil (see Bromberger, 2008, pp. 155-57).
This brief description calls for three observations. First, it must be noted that certain specializations, such as Armenian pig breeding or Greek olive-oil production, are directly related to cultural and historical factors, while others are merely the ethnic expression of economic inequalities. Nothing in the culture of the Turkish-speaking Ḵalḵālis predisposes them to hard agricultural work, if not for their status as poor mountain people. As mentioned above, to the east, the Gālešis and the Ṭāleqānis traditionally came to work at the same tasks during the cold season. Therefore, the concept of an ethnic work division is, in many cases, likely to hide the real nature of underlying social relations (see Bromberger, 1988, p. 103). Second, the technical and political evolution in the 20th century caused some specializations to disappear or decline. The Greeks, like other foreign minorities, left Gilān after the First World War. The end of pig-breeding and import-export activities after the 1979 Islamic Revolution caused a significant decline in the Armenian population. The mechanization of agriculture often made the Ḵalḵālis’ tasks redundant, in spite of their continued willingness to do hard work. Lastly and more importantly, a process of cutting across and undoing these divisions of labor started about late 20th century. A greater number of Gil-a mard take part in cooperative fisheries, while some Ḵalḵālis and Gālešis have settled in villages on the plain, becoming sons-in-law (ḵān dāmādi) by marrying local girls, or by sharecropping land owned by people who have migrated to towns. In addition, Azerbaijanis have become active in the urban economy, particularly construction and trade, so that the traditional hierarchy, though still noticeable objectively and subjectively, is in fact beginning to wane..
Bibliography
- K. E. Abbott, “Narrative of Consul Abbott’s Journey along the Shores of the Caspian Sea,” 1843-44, MS FO 60/108, National Archives, Kew, UK.
- M. Bazin, Le Ṭâlech: Une région ethnique au nord de l’Iran, 2 vols., Paris, 1980.
- Idem, “Ethnies et groupes socio-professionnels dans le nord de l’Iran,” in J.-P. Digard, ed., Le fait ethnique en Iran et en Afghanistan, Paris, 1988, pp. 77-88.
- M. Bazin and C. Bromberger, Gilân et Âzarbâyjân oriental: Cartes et documents ethnographiques, Paris, 1982.
- M. Bazin and A. Pour-Fickoui, Élevage et vie pastorale dans le Guilân (Iran septentrional), Paris, 1978.
- C. Bromberger, “Comment peut-on être Rašti? Contenus, perceptions et implications du fait ethnique dans le nord de l’Iran,” in J.-P. Digard, ed., Le fait ethnique en Iran et en Afghanistan, Paris, 1988, pp. 89-107.
- Idem, “Changements techniques et transformations des rapports sociaux: La sériciculture au Gilân,” in Y. Richard, ed., Entre l’Iran et l’Occident: A daptation et assimilation des idées et techniques occidentales en Iran, Paris, 1989, pp. 71-89.
- Idem, “De barattes en pressoirs à olives. Pour une ethnologie des techniques dans le monde iranien en général et au Gilân en particulier,” Nouvelle Revue des Études iraniennes, I, 1, 2008, pp. 139-167.
- C. Chaqueri, ed., The Armenians of Iran: T he Paradoxical Role of a Minority in a Dominant Culture , Cambridge, Mass., 1998.
- C. F. Mackenzie, “Narrative of a Journey from Resht to Asterabad,” 1859, MS FO 60/245, National Archives, Kew, UK.
- H. Kopp, Städte im östlichen iranischen Kaspitiefland: Ein Beitrag zur Kenntnis der jüngeren Entwicklung orientalischer Mittel- und Kleinstädte, Erlangen, 1973.
- X. de Planhol, L’islam et la mer: La mosquée et le matelot—VIIème-XXème siècle, Paris, 2000.
- H. L. Rabino, Les provinces caspiennes de la Perse: Le Guilân, Paris, 1917a.
- Idem, Les provinces caspiennes de la Perse: Le Guilân—Illustrations, Paris, 1917b.
- H. L. Rabino and D. F. Lafont, “La culture du riz au Gilân (Perse) et dans les autres provinces du sud de la Caspienne,” Annales de l’École Nationale d’Agriculture de Montpellier 10, 1910, pp. 130-63; 11, 1911, pp. 5-51.
GILĀN xv. Popular and Literary Perceptions of Identity
Peoples and ethnic groups are often referred to in association with culinary habits that are regarded as peculiarly distasteful. In Afghanistan, Uzbeks are called “noodle eaters” by their neighbors and in Persia the Arabs from Khuzestan are stigmatized as susmārḵor “lizard eaters”.
The characterization of collective identities in Northern Persia does not escape the influence of such food comparisons: it is the preferred medium both for the Raštis and the ʿArāqis, i.e. people of the plateau or “interior” of Persia (mutual terms with a potential for stigmatization). Given the variety and contrast of their culinary practices, these are particularly fertile grounds for reflections on otherness. The Gilāni people are rice lovers—rice is traditionally eaten with all three main meals (Bromberger, 1994, pp. 187-89)—which they complement with fish, eggs, olives, and to a lesser extent, beef. This contrasts with the traditional diet of the ʿArāqis, which consists of bread, dairy products, and occasionally mutton. Observing the culinary habits of their neighbors, the Raštis take particular note of their predilection for bread, which they view at times with amusement, and at other times with scorn. They call the people of Tehran dahān-gošād (“wide mouthed”), because they display their large teeth while chewing bread. According to traditional stereotypes, the ʿArāqis are poor “barley-bread eaters,” for whom rice from Gilān remains an enviable luxury. At a time when the daily culinary habits of the plateau people and the Raštis still formed two entirely distinct systems—although such differences have diminished considerably over the past thirty years—the consumption of bread represented, for the inhabitants of the Caspian plain, both an object of derision and a cause for alarm: “The Guilek,” reported Rabino and Lafont in 1910 (pp. 139-40), “does not eat bread but considers it as food unsuitable to his constitution, to such an extent that an angry man will tell his wife: ‘Eat bread and die!’” As quoted by Rabino and Lafont, Captain Arthur Conolly (1807-42?) remarked, around 1830, that Rašti parents, when scolding their children, would threaten, as a means of punishment for misbehavior, to send them to ʿArāq, where they would be bound to suffer the odious misfortune of having to eat bread. (For more on the traditional aversion to bread, see Fraser, p. 88; Chodźko, pp. 203-4; Guilliny, p. 84.)
Among the preferred diet of the Raštis, olives (prepared with pomegranate juice and ground walnut: zeytun parvarda), beef, and fish often arouse a deep sense of revulsion among the ʿArāqis for whom the Raštis are kalla-māhi-ḵvor (lit. “fish-head eaters), a nickname combining aversion with derision. In fact, the inhabitants of the Caspian plain only occasionally eat fried fish-head, and are generally well aware of the bemused scorn with which their neighbors view this fringe item on their menu. Even so, they praise the nutritious qualities of fish-heads, which are rich in phosphorus and are thought to stimulate the brain.
How can one be a Rašti? Connected to these culinary representations of cultural otherness is an entire set of ethnic stereotypes. At first sight, culinary representations and ethnic stereotypes form two independent, semantically unrelated textual categories. In fact, as we shall see, far from constituting independent paradigms, culinary nicknames and ethnic stereotypes form part of a macro-system of representations in which varieties of food and temperaments correspond and relate to each other.
Let us first examine the major features of the Rašti ethnic type as depicted by the man of the plateau through anecdotes and jokes. Such jokes are countless (Bromberger, 1986) and the Raštis are, in Persia, the favorite butt of these mischievous anecdotes: Jok? begu: Rašti (“For ‘joke,’ read ‘Rašti’”); the association between an ethnic type and a favorite target has gained acceptance to the point where it is expressed as a proverb. Even today, a jokestān exists on the Internet where Rašti jokes occupy a premier position.
These accounts make the Caspian area out to resemble the Boeotia of classical literature, a land of somewhat slow and dim-witted people. A substantial number of Rašti ethnic jokes (jokhā-ye Rašti) mock the naïveté and gullibility of the men from that province; for example, a Rašti may ask the driver of a shared taxi about the distance between Rašt and Tehran, then ask about the distance between Tehran and Rašt. Others riding in a double-decker bus may inquire as to whether the lower deck’s destination is the same as that of the upper deck. But the majority of Rašti jokes focus on the sexual lassitude of their men and the wantonness of their women. They portray an image of credulous cuckolds: a father rejoicing, for example, that his son looks like the local butcher rather than the butcher of a neighboring city or district. This reputation earned the Raštis their second nickname given by the people of the plateau: kamar-sost (impotent). A whole set of phrases stressing their lack of manliness is used to characterize them: they are said to be birag (lacking blood vessels, i.e. gutless or excessively phlegmatic), biboḵār (lacking in steam, i.e. dull and insipid), biḡeyrat (devoid of a sense of honor, and hence immune to sexual jealousy). Proverbs and anecdotes have given credence to these stereotypes, and diplomats and other nineteenth and early twentieth century visitors to Gilān have helped to spread such characterizations abroad (Abbott, fol. 23; MacKenzie, fol. 19; Rabino, 1915-16, p. 78).
This negative stereotype of Rašti virility is encouraged by both popular and recorded physiognomies. Rašti men are known for their thin and aquiline noses, a characteristic which was established as a specific feature of the “Gilaki race” by travelers, early ethnographers (see, in particular, Chodźko; p. 202; de Khanikof, p. 115) and, more generally, by the people of the plateau. Popular representations, undoubtedly influenced by ancient theories of physiognomy (qiāfa), associate a man’s nose with his sexual prowess. A large nose indicates strength, virility and energy. Judged by these popular notions, therefore, Gilān appears as an underprivileged zone whose inhabitants’ assets have little potential to arouse envy.
But what exactly is the significance of this reputation for a phlegmatic nature and lassitude? The mechanisms of this popular anthropology will be explored in two ways.
Cold and hot. To many ʿArāqis, the lethargy of the Raštis is due to the humidity of the Caspian plains. Again, according to the norms of popular geography, men’s physical and sexual capacities are directly related to the temperature and the degree of humidity in the climate. In arid regions, men are virile and women are sensual, though not easily approachable (hot and dry, like the climate); on the other hand, in cold and humid countries, the men are lazy and the women are easy. This popular theory echoes the scientific traditions of Arab-Persian geography—and prior to that of Hippocratic (see HIPPOCRATES) geography—giving the climate a determining role in molding personal virtues. The earth is divided according to a tradition which combines Greek and Mazdean contributions into seven countries (kešvars) or climes (q.v.) and, for example, as described by Masʿudi, organized into “a star-shaped layout” (Miquel, p. 70) around a pivotal point of reference formed by the land stretching from Babylonia to Khorasan. In this classification, Deylam (Gilān) belongs to the sixth clime and, according to Masʿudi (Moruj, tr. Pellat, II, p. 518, par. 1361), the men of these northern regions, which included the Turks and the Deylamites at the time, have a “cold temperament,” “wet principles,” and express “few sexual desires.”
This interpretation of ethnic behavior as dependant upon climate is only a small part of a much broader system of representations of the world and of human beings and their features, a system organized around two major categories, cold (sard) and hot (garm), as well as two minor categories, dry (ḵošk) and humid (marṭub). This hierarchical system is used to classify climates, foods, diseases, seasons and stages of life, and also people. According to principles inherited from Hippocrates and Galen regarding body humors (see HUMORALISM, individual and collective behavior is largely dependent on the type of food consumed. Hot foods regenerate the blood—a fundamental humor—and engender an expansive temperament that sustains one’s strength, vigor, and manliness. Cold foods, on the contrary, are associated with a phlegmatic temperament, and with weakness and sexual lethargy. According to the food classifications in Persia, the Gilānis are, in contrast to the ʿArāqis, eaters of cold food. They consume rice, eggs, fish, vegetables, and fresh fruits in abundance, and they like sour foods, all products and tastes considered to be “cold” (see Bromberger, 1985; idem, 1994; Nasr, 1976). The nicknames (kalla-māhi-ḵor and kamar-sost) are not, therefore, independent expressions of derision based on alterity, but part of the same system of representation in which varieties of foods and varieties of temperaments respond to, and correspond with, one another.
The world turned upside down. Gilān is a favorite subject of Tehrani jibes because it provides a combination of the two main stimuli that create intercommunity mockery: proximity in space (one easily scoffs at a neighbor), and a high degree of cultural variation (strangeness and otherness). To the ʿArāqi people, the neighboring Caspian area is a topsy-turvy world, the reverse of their own identity: it is wet not dry, it is green not ochre, it is white (Safid-rud) not red (Qezel-ozon), its people grow rice not corn, they eat fish not meat, they have cows not sheep, donkeys not dromedaries, and their houses are wide open, not enclosed by exterior walls; it is a society where the sense of honor (nāmus) and violence between individuals and groups is less marked than in the Persian interior; it is, in a way, a feminine as opposed to a masculine society (a greater participation of women, seldom veiled, in production activities, a greater flexibility in gender relations, though obviously not to the extent suggested by the jokes). So Gilān appears, in ʿArāqi representations, as a paragon of otherness, a situation that often invites a smile.
In the end, these jokes and anecdotes about the Raštis teach us as much about the specificities (blown out of proportion in these texts) of the Caspian population as they do about the dominant values of those in the Persian interior who make up these jokes and find them amusing.
Gilān as seen through literary tradition: Hell and Paradise, a land of refuge and rebellion. In addition to the representations of the Gilāni identity characterized by ethnic jokes, there are other images of the Caspian world recorded in the literary traditions (major mythological and literary texts, travelers’ stories, historical studies, etc.). Through these, the region appears at times as almost infernal, and at other times as an earthly paradise; in addition, it is described by many local writers (Faḵrāʾi, 1976; Jawādi, 1964; Kešāvarz, 1968) as a haven for Aryan culture, an academy of ancient and pre-Islamic customs, a marginal zone, protective of its independence, and a hotbed of insubordination.
Hell and paradise. The “infernal” image of the Caspian world is the result of two extremely disparate traditions: on the one hand, the tradition of Mazdean mythology, with its reverberations in the Šāh-nāma, and on the other hand the tradition carried on by Arab travelers and later by Europeans. In the Avesta, “the fourteenth place” created by Ahura Mazdā, “Varena and its four corners” (Vendidad 1.14) appears like a marginal and threatening space. According to the Great Bundahišn (q.v.), the people of Varena and Māzana (mythical countries located in the South Caspian region) are descendants from a different couple than the one who begot the Iranians. The populations in these marginal areas are known as an-ērān, an-Aryan, foreign to the Iranian race (Bundahišn 15.28). As James Darmesteter notes (II, p. 370), in the Avesta and the Šāh-nāma, the Caspian region was to Iran what Ceylon became to India in the Rāmāyana. It is a strange world, home to bad blood and populated by demons (daeva). The geographical name, Varena—considered by several authors, with somewhat arcane philological reasoning, as the radical of Gilān—also has a homonym: the word varena, which means “demon of evil desire and lust.” The Avesta, as Darmesteter notes, often exploits this similarity. Thus, the expression varenya drvant can mean “the malicious people of Varena,” as well as “the malicious people with evil passions.” The figures that embody such brutality and lust are, according to mythical traditions, the demons who haunt the northern forests of the Caspian region by the thousands, and who battle with Hušang and Rostam in memorable episodes of the Šāh-nāma. The former raises an army of lions, tigers and paris (fairies) to triumph over the black Div; the latter, Rostam, faces the white Div, shut up in his castle, “a place of fear, between two mountains above which no eagle would dare to fly,” which can only be reached after a “difficult and dangerous” journey; he kills him, then massacres the “thousands and thousands of divs devoted to black magic” (Šāh-nāma, ed. Mohl, I, p. 529). Local popular tradition preserved the memory of the legendary episode and of the site; they are located on the eastern border of Tonokābon (q.v.), on the heights of Dāniāl where a cave (ḡār) is said to be the remnants of the castle of Div-e safid (MacKenzie, fol. 44).
This image of the Caspian forests as the cradle of wild forces is associated with a more prosaic image of an area saturated with rain, a universe of foul vapors and fevers. This apocalyptic representation was spread by Arab travelers, accustomed to a dry environment, as an expression of their astonishment at the discovery of this world of moisture. In the early 10th century, Ebn Ḥawqal used these same terms to describe the climate of the area: “It rains frequently there, it may even rain without interruption for one whole year, with no sign of the sun” (Ebn Ḥawqal, p. 371). Between the 17th and 20th centuries, Europeans who passed through the area or stayed for a time disparaged its “hothouse atmosphere” of “mephitic vapors” (Chodźko, Dec. 1849, p. 261). MacKenzie (fol. 20), speaking ironically, writes, “The fact is that no one but a water-fowl, a frog or a Gilaki can feel at home in Gilān.” Lord Curzon (I, p. 361) goes further on the subject, calling the area a “malarial hell,” and concludes his description with the proverb marg miḵvāhi Gilān boro “If you wish to die, go to Gilān.” We understand why, with an avalanche of such images, the region was perceived by the populations of the Persian interior as the locus classicus for banishment and exile. Jean Chardin (ed. Lecointe, VI, p. 109) and Tavernier, p. 92) both recall the same anecdote: “When the king appoints a man of good reputation as the governor of Gilān, one must wonder: ‘Has he killed or stolen to warrant being governor of Gilān?’”
In contrast to the image of a malarial hell, Gilān is also, according to the same authors, an earthly paradise, with luxurious vegetation and a variety of delights. Thus Jonas Hanway (q.v.), after describing “the extreme moisture of the earth” and the moisture in the air “so productive of rust that even the work of a watch can with difficulty be preserved” (III, p. 190), compares Gilān to a sort of paradise: “The soil is exceedingly fertile, producing… every kind of fruit without culture; for besides oranges, lemons, peaches and pomegranates, here are abundance of grapes, the vines supporting themselves on the trees and growing wild in the mountains with great luxuriance; so that a considerable part of the province is quite a paradise” (Hanway, p. 191). Travelers frequently mention this image of a natural and lavish garden. It is true that the trees grown in the enclosed gardens are often the domesticated offshoots of indigenous wild species. Such is the case with walnut, hazel, plum, cherry, apricot, pear, apple, medlar, quince, fig and pomegranate trees, all of which probably originated in the Caspian area (Haudricourt and Hédin, pp. 107-20; Bazin, I, p. 73). This aura of luxuriance is reinforced by a profusion of wild vines (raz), “hanging like festoons between trees, as black and as big as the cables of a ship” (Chodźko, II, 1850, p. 64). Again, the Caspian area is where vine originated and here it was never domesticated.
A land of refuge and dissidence. Which episodes of Gilān’s complex history do popular memory and history prefer to retain? Which images make up the regional consciousness of the past?
Several intellectuals from the region (Kešāvarz, pp. 131-32; Faḵrāʾi, pp. 212-14) evoke a powerful image of Gilān as a land attached to its independence, inclined to rebellion and insubordination, and as a custodian of specific Iranian traditions. It is indeed worth noting that for two millennia, up to its annexation by Shah Abbas I (1588-1629), the province had been spared from the lasting influence of highly organized states that had extended their dominion to its very doorstep. This tradition of resistance to invaders is a leitmotif in the works of both regionalist and nationalist historians and writers (such as Sadegh Hedayat [q.v.], Aḥmad Kasravi, Moḥsen Azizi, Ḡolām-Ḥosayn Ṣadiqi), who describe Gilān through the ages as “a standard-bearer of Iranism,” to use Minorsky’s phrase (p. 1).
The people known in antiquity as the Mardi (Herodotus, I.84; Aeschylus, The Persians 5.294; Arrian Anabasis, 3.25), the Tapurians (Arrian, 3.25), the Cadusians (Plutarch, Artaxerxes 9.24; Xenophon, Cyropaedia 5.2), and apparently, more recently, the Gelae (“Gelae quos Graeci Cadusios appellavere,” Pliny, Natural History 6.16) appear as unmanageable nationalities refusing to yield to the yoke of empires. Arrian, a companion of Alexander, comments: “No one had invaded their country because of the difficulty of moving through the land and also because the Mardoi were not only poor but quarrelsome” (Anabasis 3.25). This tradition of insubordination and secessionism is confirmed by several episodes in the history of Iran under the Achaemenid, Parthian, and Sasanian dynasties (see, for example, Minorsky, p. 4; Ghirshman, pp. 195, 235; Rekaya, p. 123).
But, in the memory of the regional and national past, these events are of little consequence compared to “the fierce resistance” which, according to tradition, the populations of Gilān displayed against the Arab invaders. Local historians emphasize the point: “The Daylamites fueled a merciless hatred towards Arabs and used any and all occasions to attack them, which explains the existence of an important military base, established in the fortress of Qazvin called ‘door of paradise’” (Faḵrāʾi, p. 23). “Any Moslem who spent at least 24 hours in this city with the intention of taking part in the holy war against infidels was guaranteed a place in paradise” (idem, p. 222). To several historians of Persia, this resistance represents a part of a national epic: “The Moslems had already invaded France, all the way to the Loire river, and this handful of men still resisted!” (Kasravi, p. 6). The facts are undoubtedly more complex, as Rekaya (pp. 149-50) points out. However, the image of an irredentist Gilān, serving as a refuge for Iranism, was further reinforced through a series of major episodes, over the course of the 8th and 9th centuries, which highlighted the relentless singularity of the area: the rebellion of the ʿAlid Yaḥyā b. ʿAbdallāh, of Māzyār, the conversion to Zaydite Shiʿism of the populations of Deylam and Bia-piš (the region east of Safidrud), the introduction of a Zaydite state into the Caspian area, and the presence of local dynasties acting like the guardians of old Iranian traditions. One of the most outstanding figures asserting this continuity was that of Mardāvij b. Ziār, founder of the Ziarid dynasty, who controlled various areas in northern Persia in the 10th and 11th centuries. A native of the plain of Gilān, Mardāvij professed violently anti-Moslem ideas; to show the deep roots of his dynasty in the Iranian tradition, he “had a gold throne made and a miter decorated with invaluable stones to the same design as that of Sasanian King Chosroes Anurshivān” (Minorsky, p. 18). In this context, one should also mention the extraordinary exploits of the Buyids of Deylamite origin, who were Twelver Shiʿites and adopted the title of šāhanšāh, claiming a genealogy which made them descendants of the Sasanian kings.
The image of Gilān as a land of refuge, dissidence and Iranism has been enhanced by several episodes during the reign of the Turkish-Mongolian dynasties. The Ilkhanid ruler Ölejtü tried to annex the area, but, following a “Pyrrhic victory” (Boyle, p. 401), did not manage to control it. Under the Timurid dynasty, the province remained a frontier land (dār al-marz). The local dynasties then continued to claim a specific Iranian ascendancy: the Ešaqvand people, who controlled Bia-pas (the area located to the west of Safid-rud), claimed a Sasanian origin, the sayyed Amir Kiāʾi of Lāhijān, who ruled over Bia-piš, claimed descent from the fourth Shiʿite Imam (Rabino, 1949, p. 322). Gilān also served as a haven for the young Esmāʿil, the founder of the Safavid dynasty; he lived there as a recluse from 1493 to 1499 with “seven Sufis who remained in hiding in the forest for seven years, leaving behind their wives, children and belongings and knowing they were destined to martyrdom” (according to ʿĀlamārā-ye Šāh Esmāʿil, quoted by Aubin, p. 3). The establishment of the Safavid dynasty did not put an end to the insubordination of the province, and it was only under Shah Abbas that, in 1592, Gilān was conquered.
All these events, whether real or legendary, were the subject of a wide variety of differing commentaries and characterizations. Although intellectuals and historians agree on the image of Gilān as a hotbed of insubordination and as a “standard-bearer for Iranism,” the facts they describe point to opposing perceptions of “Iranity.”
To the majority, the resistance to Arabs, the Sasanian origins claimed by several local dynasties, and the preservation of pre-Islamic customs have made Gilān into a symbol of the national cause and long-run continuity. The underlying equation for this vision of history could be formulated as: Gilānity = Aryanity = Iranity. It should come as no surprise that this point of view, widespread among the regional literary elites, was fiercely defended by several professional historians, including Azizi and Minovi, who wrote between 1930 and 1940, at a time when the Pahlavi regime sought to anchor its legitimacy in the multi-millennial Aryan traditions of old Iran. At a time when fascism and Nazi propaganda were at their most pervasive, this Aryan image was also promoted by intellectuals who were not sympathetic to the Pahlavi regime. Also meaningful is the fact that, later on, in the 1960s, children’s magazines (Eṭṭelāʿāt-e kudakān, Keyhān baččahā) chose Mardāvij as the hero of stories and comic strips.
This vision of Gilān’s past is either associated with, or opposed to, another image of the historical role of the south-Caspian provinces often portrayed as the cradles of national Islam. This view is supported by the fact that several important episodes in the historical development of Shiʿism, such as the foundation of a Zaydi state under the impulse of Alid refugees, the Buyids’ “epic,” and young Esmāʿil seeking refuge in Lāhijān, all took place in Gilān.
The tradition of an insubordinate Gilān was reinforced by several episodes of modern and contemporary history. In 1804, at the beginning of the Russo-Persian war, the local population fiercely resisted the troops that had landed in Anzali on their way towards Rašt, forcing them to withdraw (Curzon, p. 388; Afary, 1991, p. 147). Above all, during the Constitutional period, protests and rebellions were exceptionally intense in the province. Many associations and societies (anjomans) were created in both cities and villages, fishermen went on strike, and peasants, demanding better conditions, refused to pay their land rents. This rebellion was supported and led by intellectuals and city craftsmen linked to Caucasian Social and Democratic movements. Two leaders particularly distinguished themselves in propagating revolutionary ideas in rural areas: Sayyed Jamāl Šahrāšub (“the urban rebel-rouser”) and Raḥim Šišabor (“the glass cutter”). An armed rebellion, directed against the principal landowner, broke out in Ṭāleš in 1906; government troops, dispatched in 1908, did not manage to overcome it. The following year, the revolutionaries seized Rašt and marched on Tehran where they joined Baḵtiāri rebels and contributed to the fall of Moḥammad-ʿAli Shah (Afary, 1991).
As deeply rooted as they are, these images of a rebellious and unruly Gilān are eclipsed by those of Mirzā Kuček Khan, leader of the Jangali movement (q.v.; 1915-21), who became the area’s emblematic hero. The symbolic space occupied today by the so-called “Commander of the Forest” (sardār-e jangal) is considerable. Boulevards, a natural park, cinemas, and a ferryboat (connecting Anzali to Baku) all bear his name or one of his epithets. Posters, a stamp, and murals commemorate his memory. A television series, broadcast on several occasions in the late 1980s and early 1990s, recounts the principal events of the Jangal. Songs, poems, articles in local magazines (particularly in Gilevā), paintings (Ḥājizāda’s, in particular) mention this charismatic character; his tomb, now restored, is topped by a mausoleum built in 1982. As a supreme dedication, his statue has been standing since 1999 on the square in front of the City Hall in Rašt (photo 1).
But this hero, his actions, the movement he led, the ephemeral republic he presided over in 1920-21, are all subject to contrasting interpretations, a “contentious historiography,” to use Janet Afary’s apt phrase (1995), even to those who claim to be his followers.
In popular representations, Mirzā Kuček Khan appears as a sort of Robin Hood, a symbol of regional identity in appearance and manner. Songs celebrate the purity of his light blue eyes. Mirzā spoke Gilaki and dressed in the manner of the Ṭāleš or Gāleš, wearing trousers and a jacket, both made of šāl, a coarse-looking fabric woven locally (see CLOTHING xxii), and wearing pātave (puttees) and čumuš (cowhide shoes) typical of regional dress. Popular memory also recalls his role as a redresser of wrongs, who solved even the most sensitive problems (disputes with landowners, irrigation-related conflicts, etc.) directly on the spot, or his role in the modernization of the region (construction of roads, schools, etc.). Mirzā Kuček and his movement are also closely associated with the forest, and with all it represents in the Caspian world. The forest is a place of refuge and freedom to which one withdraws to escape injustice; on several occasions, Mirzā Kuček withdrew to the forest from fights and conflicts, especially with the Bolsheviks. A common expression among the area’s intellectuals translates this melancholic and voluntary withdrawal into the forest-refuge as jangalzadagi, (the “forestoxication” or “forest sickness”). The character of Mirzā Kuček incarnates this local forest imagery associating freedom with rebellion. This association is particularly strong in Ḥājizāda’s paintings, two of which (pp. 58, 77) show Mirzā Kuček in the trunk of a tree.
However, beyond the standard image of a local hero, there are also polemical and contradictory representations of this uncommon character. He is a guerrilla hero, sporting wild hair and a beard (see Bromberger, 2010, pp. 31-35), a portrayer of socialist-oriented anti-imperialistic ideas such as those glorified by the revolutionary movements of the extreme left in the 1960s. Partially in memory of the Jangali movement and its leader, a Marxist group well established in northern Persia called the Fedāʾiyān-e ḵalq (“the people’s fighters”) chose a site in the Gilān forest to start a sporadic guerrilla war which lasted eight years. The attack on Siāhkal’s military police headquarters took place on 8 February 1971, and marked the beginning of an armed adventure which was to have important repercussions (Abrahamian, p. 159). Another movement of the revolutionary left, the Islamic movement of the Mojāhedin-e ḵalq, who named their newspaper Jangal (published between 1972 and 1975), arrogated Mirzā Kuček’s image as anti-imperialistic hero. The guerrilla and opposition movements in Gilān in the early 1980s likewise appropriated the symbol.
The Islamic regime emphasizes the combat carried out by Mirzā Kuček “for the sacred values of Islam and the independence of Iran.” On his tomb the following epitaph is engraved: “Commander of the Forest, Mirzā Kuček Khan the Jangali, rose up and responded to the call of Islam, and through the roar of his canon fire brought the voices of the poor and the oppressed of Iran to the ears of people worldwide.”
There is no shortage of arguments to support this representation: Mirzā Kuček studied Islamic theology, and he broke with the radicals and the Bolsheviks who, at the time of their arrival in 1920, damaged mosques, conducted a campaign against religion, and questioned the status of private property. In a letter to Lenin (Chaqueri, 1983, p. 155), the Jangali leader condemns the Bolshevik propagandists “who are ignorant of the manners and customs of the Iranian people.” His death, whose many different versions are transmitted by “oral tradition,” fits the mold of martyrdom and links him to the “saints” of Shiʿism. A recent textbook (Tāriḵ-e moʿāṣer-e Irān. Sāl-e sevvom-e āmuzeš-e motawasseṭa-ye ʿomumi, pp. 137-38) emphasizes that Mirzā Kuček sacrificed himself as a martyr (šahid) for sacred values (ārmānhā-ye moqaddas), and describes the last days of his life. Abandoned by all (many of his followers either betrayed him or returned to Russia), Mirzā Kuček bid farewell to his wife, an honest country woman, and offered to divorce her to give her the possibility of remarrying; a paragon of honor, she refused. Mirzā gave her the only valuable item he possessed, a gold alarm clock: “Each time it rings, you will think of me,” he said. Husband and wife parted, their eyes full of tears. Mirzā Kuček reached the mountains with his most faithful companion, a German officer known as Hušang (see Chaqueri, 1995, pp. 461-62). Surprised by a snowstorm, he died of cold; his head was cut off and brought to Tehran by Ḵālu Qorbān, one of his former lieutenants who had joined the government troops; in Tehran, Mirzā Kuček’s severed head was presented to Reżā Khan, who ordered that it be displayed on Parliament Square. Tradition has it that Mirzā Kuček’s head was surreptitiously unearthed, carried to Gilān, and reattached to his body. Mirzā Kuček was finally buried in the Solaymān Dārāb cemetery on the outskirts of Rašt, by the road that leads in the direction of the forest. These episodes are in many respects reminiscent of the great tradition of Shiʿite martyrdom: betrayal, a desperate struggle with the oppressor, and even the replacement of the head, sar-tan (lit. “head-body”), following the example of Imam Ḥosayn, the “prince of martyrs.”
Thus, the Islamic Republic portrays Mirzā Kuček as a defender of Islam, an enemy of foreign powers and Bolshevism, and an ancestor of sorts to the 1979 Revolution. Nevertheless, the image of the guerrilla, heralding that of Third World resistance fighters, with their socialist-oriented ideas, was perceived as a threat, especially since armed movements hostile to the regime (Fedaʾiyān, Mojāhedin; see above) tended to appropriate the legendary figure for their own purposes. To thwart this image, officials insisted on the religious dimensions of Mirzā Kuček’s battle, and often portrayed him as a mulla. A painting on display at the Rašt Museum in 1982, showing the hero in religious garb, was accompanied by the caption: “Mirzā Kuček Khan, a great revolutionary man, a victim of the complicity between East and West” (photo 2). But such a portrayal is too far from the tough and deeply rooted image of the disheveled guerrilla hero to be credible. In the end, Islamic authorities accommodated themselves to this disturbing image by emphasizing the deeply religious character of the Jangali movement. And so the caption on a poster published by the pāsdārān (Revolutionary Guards) recalls Mirzā Kuček’s words: “We will resist to the last ditch and will sacrifice ourselves for the defense of Islamic powers” (photo 3).
“The Forest General” thus expresses, in various proportions, a symbol of the regional identity, a champion of the fight for national freedom, a herald of the religious struggle. His mausoleum has become a place of pilgrimage (ziāratgāh), particularly on 11 Āḏar (2 December), the anniversary of his burial. Honored today by opposing currents of public opinion, the memory of Mirzā Kuček was obscured during the Pahlavi regime and degraded by the Iranian Communists, who criticized his “regionalism,” his “obscurantism,” his break with the Bolsheviks, and especially the killing of their leader, Ḥaydar Khan ʿAmu-oḡli (q.v.). The proliferation of material devoted to the Jangali movement and its charismatic leader (a partial assessment of references can be found in Afary, 1995; Chaqueri, 1995; Harris), is a testament to both the originality of this episode in the history of Persia, and to the diversity of the related images. These events have become a contested field of symbolic interpretation in Persia and Gilān today.
Thus, the image of Gilān is a mix of contradictory representations: that of a land of Beotians, a ransom for the originality of a singular way of life, that of hell and paradise, that of a standard-bearer of Iranism, and finally that of an endemic hotbed of rebellion where a modest people resist an overbearing stranger. In popular tales (see ʿEbādallāhi), the symbol of this rebellious and cunning resistance is bāqāle qātoq, a lima bean stew (so named after a typical dish of Gilān), who defeats ḡul, the giant who is parching the land.
Contemporary literature bears witness to the conflicting images associated with Gilān. For example, in Sāya-ye Moḡol, Sādeq Hedayat emphasizes the luxuriant and frightening nature of northern landscapes and depicts the Caspian world as a standard-bearer of Iranism. The main characters bear pre-Islamic names, and the dagger with which the Mongol arch-villain is killed has an inscription in Pahlavi on its blade. Some writers focus on specific features of local folklore. Thus, Moḥammad Ḥejāzi (q.v.), in his short story Širin-kolā, gives a vivid description of varzā jang, a traditional bullfight (see GĀVBĀZI). In the works of poets and writers of the left, including Afrāšta, Faḵrāʾi, Kasmāʾi, and Beh-āḏin, the tension between the landowners and the peasants often appears as a major theme. In Beh-āḏin’s Doḵtar-e raʿiyat, for example, the conflict is between Aḥmad-gol, a proud peasant, and Ḥāj Aḥmad, a landlord who colludes with the British during World War I, while the Jangali movement was gathering momentum. Finally, another image of Gilān appears throughout popular and literary discourse: that of an area which is often at the forefront of political and social changes, and hence one that anticipates historical movements.
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- Aleksander Borejko Chodźko, “Le Ghilan ou les marais caspiens,” Nouvelles annales des voyages et des sciences géographiques IV, 1849, pp. 257-71; I, 1850, pp. 193-215; II, 1850, pp. 61-76.
- G. N. Curzon, Persia and the Persian Question, 2 vols., London, 1892.
- James Darmesteter, ed. and tr., Le Zend-Avesta, Paris, 1960.
- D. ʿEbādallāhi, Bāqāle qātoq, Tabriz, n.d.
- Ebn Ḥawqal, tr. Kramers and Wiet.
- Ebrāhim Faḵrāʾi, Gilān dar gozargāh-e zamān, Tehran, 1976.
- Idem, Gozida-ye adabiyāt-e Gilaki, Rašt, 1979.
- James Baillie Fraser, Travels and Adventures in the Persian Provinces on the Southern banks of the Caspian Sea, London, 1826.
- Roman Ghirshman, L’Iran des origines à l’Islam, Paris, 1951.
- M.-E. Guilliny, “Essai sur le Ghilan,” Bulletin de la Société de Géographie, Feb-March 1866, pp. 81-104.
- Qāsem Ḥājizāda, Yād-e sabz. Majmuʿa-ye naqqāšihā-ye Mirzā Kuček Ḵān, Tehran, 1992.
- Jonas Hanway, An Historical Account of the British Trade over the Caspian Sea with a Journal of Travels from London through Russia into Persia and Back Again through Russia, Germany and Holland, London, 1762.
- George S. Harris, “The Gilân Soviet Revolution, 1920-1921,” in James Piscatori and G. S. Harris, eds., Law, Personalities and Politics of the Middle East, Essays in Honor of Majid Khadduri, Washington, 1987, pp. 205-37.
- André-Georges Haudricourt and Louis Hédin, L’homme et les plantes cultivées, Paris, 1943.
- Moḥammad-Ḥādi Jawādi, Banāhā-ye karāne-ye jonubi-e daryā-ye Ḵazar, Tehran, 1964.
- Aḥmad Kasravi, Šahriārān-e gomnām, Tehran, 1928.
- Karim Kešāvarz, Gilān, Tehran, 1968.
- Nicolas de Khanikof, Mémoire sur l’ethnographie de la Perse, Paris, 1866.
- Charles F. Mackenzie, Narrative of a Journey from Resht in Gilan through Mazandaran to Asterabad during the Winter and Spring of 1858/1859, ms., Foreign Office 60/245.
- Abu’l-Ḥasan ʿAli Masʿudi, Moruj al-ḏahab, ed. and tr. Charles Barbier de Meynard and Abel Pavet de Courteille as Les prairies d’or, 9 vols., Paris, 1861-1917.
- André Miquel, La géographie humaine du monde musulman jusqu’au milieu du 11ème siècle, II, Paris, 1975.
- Vladimir Minorsky, La domination des Daïlamites, Paris, 1932.
- S. H. Nasr, Islamic Science: An Illustrated Study, London, 1976.
- Mojtabā Minovi and Ṣādeq Hedāyat, Māzyār, Tehran, 1942.
- Hyacinth Louis Rabino, “Les provinces caspiennes de la Perse. Le Guîlân,” RMM 32, 1916-17.
- Idem, “Les dynasties locales du Gilân et du Daylam,” JA 237/2, 1949, pp. 301-50.
- H.-L. Rabino and D.-F. Lafont, “La culture du riz au Guîlân (Perse) et dans les autres provinces du sud de la Caspienne,” Annales de l’École nationale d’agriculture de Montpellier 10, 1910, pp. 130-63.
- Mohamed Rekaya, “La place des provinces sud-caspiennes dans l’histoire de l’Iran de la conquête arabe à l’avènement des Zaydites (16-250 H / 637-864 J.C.): particularisme régional ou rôle ‘national’?,” RSO 48, 1974, pp. 117-52.
- G. H. Sadighi (Ḡolām-Ḥosayn Ṣadiqi), Les mouvements religieux aux II° et III° siècles de l’Hégire, Paris, 1938.
- Jean-Baptiste Tavernier, Les six voyages en Turquie et en Perse, 2 vols. Paris, 1677-82; repr. Paris, 1981.
GILAN xvi. FOLKLORE
The folklore of Gilān is a striking example of the intricate ties between pre-Islamic practices and Islamic rituals.
TREE, OX, AND EGG IN REGIONAL FOLKLORE
This syncretism is particularly striking in the location of the sanctuaries (emāmzāda and boqʿa for the Shiʿites, and torba for the Sunnite minorities of Ṭāleš), and the significance of natural elements in the performance of devotions. In this vegetable world, trees can, by themselves, be objects of worship; they are sometimes identified as descendants of Imams and, more often, they flank sanctuaries. Such sacred trees, sometimes called bozorgvār “eminent”, or pir “spiritual master”, or āqā dār “lord tree” (see Rabino, 1915-1916, p. 37; Sotuda, I, p. vii; Bazin, 1978, p. 97), display remarkable characteristics: large trunks (older oaks, elms, maples), erect postures and smooth barks (Siberian elms, Zelkova crenata, Pers. deraḵt-e āzād), evergreen foliage (yews and especially boxwood, locally called kiš), and murmur-like sounds (the wind rustling through an ashes’ leaves; Bazin 1978, p. 96). Among these trees, boxwood and Siberian elm are the most prized; Aleksander Borejko Chodźko comments: “the bark of their trunks,” to which “mistletoe, lianas… and other parasites never attach, has the flawlessness, polish and color of a lead plate. That is probably why they are called āzād, free, independent” (pp. 65-66). The sap of these majestic trees is reddish in color, and thus Gilānis identify it with the blood of the Imams. Even today, old women believe that cutting down an āzād tree is an act of sacrilege. Whether they are themselves objects of worship or simply grow near the tombs of saints (see inventories and maps in Bazin, 1978, pp. 98-100; idem and Bromberger, p. 85 and map 40; Sotuda, II, pp. 54-59, 194-95, 202, 204, 212), near cemeteries or inside mosques (as in Bijārbastsar), these trees are places of devotion, each one dedicated to a specific type of wish (naẕr), such as the desire to have a child or to be cured of a disease. Pilgrims attach small pieces of fabric to the trees, place candles or small lamps around them, perform sacrifices near them (the sacred tree of Lowšān is significantly called qorbān-dār “tree of sacrifice”), or lie down in circles around them on Thursday evenings. These practices do not meet with the approval of Islamic authorities, especially when they depart from references to Imami Shiʿism. It is for this reason that the rites performed around the Jān-e ʿAli āzād in Ḡāziān, next to the tomb of two children, were publicly condemned in June 1999 during a television program, but to no avail. The faithful come here to give water to two snakes nested in the tree, snakes which they believe to be reincarnations of the dead boys (Ḥasanzāda, pp. 524-25).
Forest vegetation is also associated with important Shiʿite ceremonies or rites of passage. During the ʿāšurāʾ processions, large metal banners called ʿalams (see ʿALAM VA ʿALĀMAT), traditionally carried by penitent groups, are decorated with boxwood branches. Boxwood is also used to cover tombs during mourning ceremonies. The importance of trees and plants in worship, beliefs and the collective imagination is undoubtedly a major characteristic of Gilāni folklore, an area known for retaining pre-Islamic myths and rites. According to a long-lived legend, the White Div’s cave (ḡār), accessible only through a deep woodland, is located in the heart of a forest, above Dāniāl, at the border of Māzandarān. The forest thus appears as a place at once hospitable and threatening; its sacred trees are revered, and the persecuted may find refuge there. (Today the lure of the forest is called jangalzadagi “forestoxication”; it is unlikely that this is an old expression.) At the same time, these dark wooded areas are reputedly populated by evil jenn (spirits) and pari (fairies), who are viewed as a source of danger. The forests also shelter wildlife, in particular bears (ḵers), with significant status in local folklore.
High or distinctly shaped mountains are also places of worship (Bazin, 1978, pp. 100-103; idem and Bromberger, p. 85). Among the high mountain tops are the peaks located on the crest-line separating Ṭāleš from Azerbaijan. Shah Moʿallam, above Māsula, Pir Baqrow to the west of Lisār, Barz-kuh between Asālem and Ṭāleš Dulāb, and Bābā Bolandi (“father height”) in the district of Āstārā are a few of the distinctly shaped mountains. Here, sanctuaries, where people may go during the summer, take the form of buildings or simple stone circles and are dedicated to the memory of saints, like Shah Moʿallam, or the mountains themselves are revered as patron saints.
This wild world of forests and mountains is also where supernatural protectors appear and intervene, such as Siāh Gāleš (“the black herdsman”), who punishes ill-behaved animals, rewards deserving herdsmen, and achieves miracles (Hedāyat, p. 165; Massé, pp. 365-66; Ḥasanzāda, p. 27; Arakelova; Asatrian). This stockbreeders’ guardian (ḥāfeẓ) is a supernatural character common to all pastoral populations in the area, and may have roots in Indo-Iranian mythology. Theriomorphic figures on Amlash and Marlik ceramics (1000-800 BCE; see Negahban 1964; idem, 1965; Biscione) testify to the importance of oxen in ancient representations, while today the range of folk practices that include bovines remains a characteristic element of the Caspian populations’ culture (see Bromberger, 1997, p. 123; see below). While cattle are essential in Gilāni culture (beef is a traditional food, oxen are familiar as draft animals and, as mentioned above, they have a specific status in local folklore), eggs are also important and, in fact, even more central to Gilāni culture, if only for their extensive use in cooking (q.v.), games and propitiatory practices. Together with the popular Gilāni combat sports (košti gilamardi), it is bullfights (varzā jang) and “egg wars” (morḡāna jang) (see below) that are, symptomatically, the two most widespread performances and games in the area. Other characteristics of the regional folklore are the rites surrounding rice, and to a lesser extent, sericulture.
Such are the most remarkable features of folk traditions in Gilān; they will be considered in more detail in the following references to the rites of passage, seasonal ceremonies, propitiatory practices, premonitory dreams, supernatural beings, and finally, games and performances. These practices also reveal recurring elements of Iranian folklore, including fear of the “evil eye” and of other people’s envy, of threats associated with “quarantine” (čella; q.v.), the importance of wishes (naḏr), the use of metal objects (needles in particular), and talismans written by exorcists (doʿā-gar) to ward off ill fortune, and the divination (q.v.) of signs and portents.
RITES OF PASSAGE
Pregnancy, childbirth and early childhood. Inability to bear children is a curse for which women are held responsible. They are said to be “extinct hearths” (ojāq-e kur) or “washers of the dead” (morda-šur; Pāyanda, pp. 19-20). To relieve the shame, it is necessary to find its cause. The misfortune may be the result of a spell cast by evil-intentioned acquaintances who, by closing a safety pin (sanjāq qofli), “locked the couple” (qofl zadand), i.e., have prevented them from having sexual intercourse. In order to “loosen the pin,” one must go to the doʿāgar (“exorcist”) who summons (eḥżār mikonad) the spirits to identify the source or sources of the spell, and attempts to break the lock by tying the enemies’ tongues (ʿaqd al-lesān, zabānband). A woman’s sterility may also be the revenge of a spectral twin (hamzād), a spirit (jenn) upon whom she may inadvertently have thrown boiling water. The doʿāgar then appeals to the jenns (eḥżār-e jenn), apologizes to the victim for the inconvenience, recites and writes appropriate prayers on a piece of paper which the woman then drinks with a glass of water. A woman’s sterility may also arise from the fact that the “quarantine” which followed her wedding or a previous childbirth, “fell upon her” (čella be u oftāda, čella dakata), which is why she is surrounded with a great deal of care during this period and above all, not left alone, especially at night. The threats hanging over her can be contagious. If two new brides or two new mothers cross paths, they must at once exchange the needles and pins that protect them, for fear that one’s quarantine will “fall upon” the other, as if happiness were a limited good and prey to the jealousy and rivalry of others. If, in spite of all these measures, the woman does not become pregnant, they turn to other traditional remedies that make use of the symbolism of fertilizing water and fruit trees, of the number forty “to cut off the quarantine” (čella-bori). The most frequent ritual is that of čella ṭās, “the cup with forty (keys),” a brass container, with a bulging bottom, covered with Koranic verses and prayers, to which forty keys are attached and which dervishes, soothsayers, beggars, midwives, and employees of public baths use. An old woman fills the cup with water, blows above it while reciting prayers and praising the prophets, hands it to the young woman who, after having spoken pious words, drinks a small quantity and pours the remainder at the foot of a fruit tree. Maḥmud Pāyanda (p. 21) describes similar traditions of aspersion to ward off the quarantine. The sterile woman sits under a fruit tree and pours on her head the contents of a small pot filled with water mixed with coins hammered by a blacksmith, or the juice of forty plants that she has collected.
Other methods based on principles of analogy (the law of similarity in Frazer’s terminology [p. 41] according to which “like attracts like”), or on the principle of contagion (“objects that have been in contact continue to act upon one another”), are used to cure sterility. Traditionally, during the wedding ceremony, a child is placed next to the bride, either on the horse that carries her to the residence of her parents-in-law, or at her side when she receives the guests’ congratulations. Women who wish to bear children can make a wish while hanging a small cradle to the branch of a sacred tree, or place two stones or two pieces of wood in the shape of a cradle in the courtyard of a sanctuary, or blow into a bottle as she would during childbirth (see below). She may also be asked to drink water used to soak her husband’s belt (see Miršokrāʾi, p. 440; Pāyanda, p. 291). Other customs are combined with Shiʿite rituals, such as the practice of the “seven” or “forty plates” (haft or če[he]l kāsa). The day before ʿāšurāʾ, the woman must take food out of seven or forty dishes offered in mosques and sanctuaries, while she expresses the purpose (niyat) of her wish. Whatever the context, she may add to her wish a promise to take her child to Imam ʿAli al-Reżā’s sanctuary in Mašhad, or to give him the name “servant of Imam so-and-so” (Ḡolām-ʿAli, Ḡolām-Ḥosayn, etc.,) or to give him the duty of a saqqā (water distributor) during the month of Moḥarram.
A pregnant woman has cravings (iša-kuni) and with her family tries to predict the sex and physical characteristics of the expected child. In particular, she craves sour tasting foods and so her mother prepares soups of wild pomegranate or green plum. She eats clay willingly (the practice of geophagy among pregnant women is frequently mentioned, for instance by Schlimmer, pp. 45, 299). Positive and harmonious signs are interpreted as omens of a baby boy. Those who look upon a pregnant woman, as well as those the pregnant women looks upon, can influence a child’s distinguishing features. If the expectant mother stares at a solar or lunar eclipse and scratches herself, the child will have dark spots on his or her body and a hairy mole, called māh bagite (“lunar eclipse”). If she stares at a rose, her child will have a pimple on his or her forehead. If she stares at a dead body, her child will bring an evil eye. By the same principle of analogy, her acts can have an influence on the fetus or the newborn baby.
In the seventh month of her pregnancy, a pregnant woman’s mother and her neighbors prepare the cradle’s (gahvāra) accessories (Plate I) and the newborn baby’s clothing: the cover (rukaš), the mattress (gil gili), with a hole in the middle for the pot (ḵala) intended to receive the excrements, the first dress (ḵešt-a sari pirhan “the childbirth shirt”), the headband (lačak), the protective strip for the navel (nāf dabud), etc. In the ninth month, the accessories are taken on large trays to the son-in-law’s house.
Plate I 1. Cradle in a house in Sarāvān, January 1991 (courtesy of the author).View full image in a new tab
Childbirth (zākčin, lit. “gathering of the child”) is traditionally supervised by a midwife (mumā, mum-e zanāk). The parturient woman sits astride the spread knees of an experienced woman, who herself sits on a low stool. To make pushing easier, she blows in a bottle. A large round copper tray is placed underneath her on the ground to receive the newborn baby. If the woman who supports her becomes tired, the parturient woman can go through labor by herself, leaning on superimposed bricks. Some say that girls (lāku, kor in Gilaki, kila in Ṭāleši) are born facing their mothers; boys (rikā in Gilaki,, za, zoa in Ṭāleši) turn their back to them, out of decency. The birth of girls is hardly celebrated (a fifth daughter is named Kefāyat “sufficiency”, the sixth girl Vassa “enough”), while the birth of a boy is cause for rejoicing. To help restore her strength, a new mother is given plenty of “hot” dishes (garm) (about the opposition between garmi and sardi, “hot” and “cold,” see Bromberger, 1994): sweets, cumin, roast meat, and clarified butter, but she is not allowed to drink water for ten days. The reason for this proscription is the potential threat, during that period, of the Āl (q.v.), an evil female spirit and enemy of new mothers and newborns (Massé, p. 44), who lives in springs (see Pāyanda, pp. 26-27; Miršokrāʾi, p. 426; for an equivalent female liver-eating monster in the Turkish world, see Gökalp, pp. 102-3).
The role of the midwife does not end with delivery. She cares for the child and supervises the mother’s hygiene, performs a ritual bath on the mother and child on the tenth day following the birth, and then purifies the new mother following recovery (this “fortieth day wash” is called čehella šuri). On such occasions, the midwife uses the ritual čell-e ṭās (“cup with the forty [keys]”) to rinse the mother and the infant. A small celebration is organized to thank her for the midwife’s services; she receives gifts (ḵalʿati) of money, henna, soap, and fabric. By the attribution of special powers, midwives ensure the transition from nature to culture, from the biological to the social and religious. Significantly, it is they who put the child in his cradle and hand him back to the mother at the time of the gāradanāʾi (or gavāradanāʾi “placing in the cradle”) ceremony, or on the eve of the seventh day following birth. It is revealing that this primarily female celebration should be traditionally reserved for boys. It is punctuated by dance, song and ritual gestures performed to protect the child against the fear of thunder or arguments between his parents. On this occasion, delicacies and bread made with rice by the new mother’s own mother are served. It is traditionally the day when the child is given a name and officially enters into society. He is then laid down in his cradle, a position which causes the back of his head to flatten, thus creating what could be named the “Gilāni flathead shape.”
The time-honored tradition of gāz fašān (or dandun forušun) celebrates the emergence of the infant’s first tooth with specially prepared foods. A tablecloth is spread out and various objects (a mirror, scissors, the Koran, a comb, gold coins, a book, a pen, a needle, etc.) are placed upon it. The baby’s future vocation is predicted according to the type of object he or she picks up first: if he chooses the Koran, he will be a cleric, if he picks up the scissors, he will be a hairdresser (or a tailor), if he first touches the gold coins, he will be a goldsmith (if the baby is a boy) or spendthrift (if the baby is a girl), etc.
Now performed at hospitals after birth, circumcision (sonnat sari, ḵatna) was once practiced by the salmāni (hairdresser/barber, and, more generally, the man in charge of body care) when a child was only a few years old (three, five, or seven). The operation was performed, along with a small celebration “during the medlar (kunus) season” in autumn, after agricultural labor had been completed and the weather turned cooler (which helped heal the scar). On this occasion, a collection (dorān) was taken for the young boy. When several circumcisions took place at the same time, the number of children submitting to the rite had to be odd (here, as in many cultures, odd numbers are considered auspicious, a criterion which also exists with regard to the boy’s age at time of circumcision; see Massé, p. 52). When it was impossible to gather together an odd number of children, a rooster (tella) whose crest had been shorn was sacrificed to create a symbolic balance (Miršokrāʾi, p. 440). The foreskin, like teeth, is often buried in the hen house, in a safe place out of the fox's reach. This custom reflects the good-luck status of the rooster (Chodźko, March 1850, p. 293), whereas a fox’s reputation is inauspicious (Massé, p. 193), but it also expresses the need to protect the child against evil curses and to preserve intact, through burial, all parts of the body for resurrection. Except for the gāz fašān, coming-out ceremonies and celebrations are the exclusive domain of boys and emphasize their superior status. Significantly enough, the young girls’ ear piercing ceremony, during their first year of life, is not regarded as an occasion for a celebration.
In the past, birthdays were not celebrated. Today, however, they are major occasions for celebration, gift giving and ostentatious receptions, at least in well-off circles. The importance of these festivities reflect a “Westernization” of traditions and a focus in Iranian society on children, who have become the essential component of family life, often to the detriment of elders.
Choice of spouse, engagement, marriage. See GILĀN xiii. KINSHIP AND MARRIAGE.
Death. Analogical premonitory signs may foretell the death of a relative. Dreaming about losing a tooth or one’s shoes is thus interpreted as a bad omen. Dreaming about cutting a Siberian elm (āzād) means that one of the village chiefs will soon die (Pāyanda, p. 281). To prevent doom, it is necessary to be protected against the evil eye—a cause for endless worry—but possibly also against the malevolent intentions of those who would harm you through magic (jādu) by, for instance, throwing a mixture of camphor (kāfur, a substance diluted in water to wash the dead) and soap (ṣābun-e morda, used to clean the dead) on your threshold.
Funeral rituals are similar, with a few variants, to those practiced elsewhere in Iran (see BURIAL iv). Women are buried in pits slightly deeper than those for men, another sign of their inferior status. The cemetery (Plate II) is usually located next to the mosque, equidistant from the various hamlets; young children are sometimes buried in a special cemetery, close to an emāmzāda. Graves vary somewhat: paupers and the less fortunate have no tombstones, the wealthier have tombstones topped by small chapels built to look like regular houses (perched on four stakes and covered with roofs of two or four slopes), where keepsakes of the deceased are placed. Tombs of the Prophet’s descendants, the sayyeds, are covered with green fabric. Today, the tombs of the šohadā (martyrs of the Revolution of 1978-79 and of the Iran-Iraq War of 1980-88) are the most ornate as they are decorated with commemorative writings and tulips depicted as shedding tears of blood and topped with chapels containing objects and photographs testifying to the martyrs’ sacrifices (Plate III). The cemeteries in Ṭāleš have specific characteristics: on the one hand, it was customary to plant trees next to the tombs (preferably Siberian elms, āzād, boxwood, kiš, and pomegranate trees, anār; Miršokrāʾi, p. 442), but on the other hand some of these cemeteries are likened to a sacred wood, enclosed by stone walls, where tombs covered with monoliths are sheltered by huge, venerable trees.
Plate II. Cemetery located in front of the mosque and equidistant from the two main hamlets, Laskukālaye, Safidrud delta, April 1996 (courtesy of the author).View full image in a new tab
Plate III. Tomb of a šahid (martyr) of the Iran-Iraq War, Laskukālaye, Safidrud delta, April 1996 (courtesy of the author).View full image in a new tab
During the funeral ceremony at the cemetery, sweets are served (usually dates and ḥalwā (q.v.) or tarak, a pastry made of rice starch, sugar, saffron and rosewater); close relatives then gather for a meal of qeyma polo (rice with split peas). Death is an occasion for the display of grief and several religious gatherings, such as funeral processions and the reciting of the Koran, on several specific days after the demise (Plate IV).
Plate IV. Mourning ceremony on the haftom (seventh day after death), Amiranda, Āstāna area, March 2000 (courtesy of the author).View full image in a new tab
Dreams and spiritualism are the means by which one communicates with the dead. The disaffected dead may disturb one’s sleep, and to ease the resentment ḥalwā is distributed to the poor of the neighborhood in the deceased’s name (Pāyanda, p. 281; see also below). For news of the dead, one must interrogate the deceased’s soul (eḥżār-e ruḥ); to identify and locate it (in hell or in heaven), one places a tea glass upside down, a saucer or a gold coin on a sheet of paper where the words “Yes,” “No,” or some other conventional initials have been written with a big enough space between the two. Under pressure from the fingers, the glass or the coin is supposed to move, guided by the soul, towards the appropriate word or letter, thus providing answers to the questions. These spiritualistic practices are recent and are borrowed from Western cultures: the doʿā-gars (exorcists) of the younger generation control them, whereas their elders are unaware of them.
Depending on how close a relative the deceased was, the period of mourning ranges from one week to forty days for men, and forty days to one year (or longer if the deceased was young) for women. During this period, the men keep their collars open and grow a beard, while the women abstain from using henna or plucking their facial or body hair (Miršokrāʾi, p. 448). The women wear black until an elder, male or female, or a close relative of the deceased gives them a colored piece of clothing or fabric: a shirt (for men), a scarf or a piece of fabric (for women). This gesture officially marks the end of mourning.
PERIODIC CELEBRATIONS
As elsewhere in Iran, two calendars govern the annual cycle: a solar calendar marks the dates of the main holiday activities and celebrations, and a lunar calendar regulates the religious year.
Celebrations of the solar calendar. The thirteenth day of the year (the sizdah bedar) marks the beginning of most agricultural tasks, of irrigation, and, in the Ṭāleš and Gāleš areas, the departure of the herds to pastures located at intermediate altitudes (miān-kuh); on the contrary, the autumnal equinox heralds the end of harvests, the progressive return of the herds, a peaceful period, a time to slow down and take advantage of earned income (spring is, on the contrary, a difficult period of making ends meet, which peasants significantly call gedā bahār “spring begging”). This equinoctial rhythm is underscored by the density of the festive rites that precede, accompany, and follow the beginning of the New Year. These are similar to European folk traditions celebrating spring renewal; this cultural proximity is more obvious in Gilān than in the more southern areas of Iran. To a lesser degree, the solstices also regulate the year. The winter solstice is celebrated with the šab-e čella bozorg (“night of ‘the big’ quarantine”), pil-a čella in Ṭāleši, pil-a berār (“big brother”) in Gilāki; this period precedes the small quarantine (of 20 days; ruk-a čella in Ṭāleši or kuji berār “the younger brother” in Gilāki; see ČELLA i). The time of year when seasons change is especially favorable for divination.
In the weeks preceding Nowruz the mood is for games, tricks, and jokes. In the past, traveling jugglers and actors put on shows in rural areas. Bear tamers (ḵers-a bān) made their animals climb up trees or climb to the top floors of houses; the tenants would give them rice as a reward and would then give the leftovers to a sickly child to give him strength. Here and elsewhere, the bear, a hibernating animal, symbolizes spring revival and earthly fertility. Songs accompanied the bear tamers’ show and evoked “the old woman” (the “old woman’s chill,” sarmā-ye pirezan, referring to the last days of winter, usually ice-cold, reminiscent of the “days of the old woman” in European and Mediterranean folklores). Fire-eaters, called ʿayyār or ḡul-e ātešbāz, “ogres or ghouls playing with fire,” their faces blackened and their heads covered with pointed hats, displayed their skills. The lafanbāz (“funambulist”) also performed in village squares—the yālānji (an originally Turkish term, meaning “liar or smooth talker”), chanting his jokes to the rhythm of the pahlavān’s acrobatics. Today, in markets or on narrow streets, youngsters and peasants still play morḡāna jang (egg-knocking; lit. “egg-war”), a game played by banging two eggs, sometimes colored, while placing bets (on variants of this popular game, see below). This practice and the symbolism of spring revival associated with eggs are very much alive in the alpine world, the Balkans, and the Russian plains. The ḡul and eggs are also a favorite theme in the jokes and mimes performed by itinerant actors. In the ʿarusgule(y), a ḡul, wearing a rice straw hat and holding a stick and small bells, challenges a pirbābu, a beardless young man disguised as an old man, to win the nāz ḵānom’s heart, a girl dressed as a bride interpreted by a boy in disguise (see additional accounts in Enjavi, pp. 169-71). The triumph of the ḡul over the pirbābu symbolizes the victory of youth over old age, and of the New Year over the old one. In the āhu čāra, practiced in eastern Gilān until the 1970s, a juggler wrapped in a bag wears a fake doe’s head; a singer begs for eggs to feed the doe (mi āhu morḡāne ḵore, sad tā be kamtar naḵore “My doe eats eggs, it eats no less than one hundred”). The doe has fainting fits as long as it has not been given eggs, as well as cakes and rice (Miršokrāʾi, pp. 427-28). In the āʾina takam, introduced to northern and eastern Gilān by traveling entertainers from Ardabil (q.v.), a kind of puppet representing a goat with movable limbs was shown in many various positions; its dance steps were accompanied by songs announcing Nowruz (Miršokrāʾi, p. 429). But before these jugglers came to liven up rural areas, traveling singers (nowruziḵᵛānān or nowsālḵᵛānān) went from house to house, interpreting songs and poems about spring, love, and social problems, from the very beginning of the month of Esfand (Pāyanda, p. 119; Miršokrāʾi, p. 454; Rafie Jirdehi, p. 70).
Some practices traditionally signal a new beginning and a new (taḥwil—change of) year: a spring cleaning (ḵāna tekāni), the purchase of new clothes, the most typical gifts (ʿaydis) exchanged on Nowruz day, or bowls (gamaj), emblems of kitchens and female culture, which bring good luck when acquired at this time of year.
Ceremonies on the eve of the last Wednesday of the month of Esfand open the New Year’s festivities (see ČAHĀRŠANBA SURI). In the evening, one or more bonfires are started, the number of which must be odd in order to attract good luck. Depending on the area of Gilān, rice straw (kuluš), or bushes (gavan) are piled up, as well as old brooms, symbols of the outgoing year. In order of age, the members of the household jump over the blazing fire (kul-kule or gul-gule čāršanbe in Gilāki, kilikili čāršamma in Ṭāleši), and pronounce propitiatory ritualistic formulas: Čam bedar, ḡoṣṣe bedar, gule-gule čāršanbe, be ḥaqq-e panjšanbe, nekbat beše, dawlat bāqe (“Sorrow out, anguish out, embers’ Wednesday, upon the sanctity of Thursday may misery leave, may happiness remain!”; Rabino, 1915-16, p. 36) or mi zardi beše tiro, ti suri bāyi miro (“Take away my paleness, give me your radiant redness”). The ceremony takes place in an atmosphere of jubilation, with firecrackers exploding. Other rites traditionally performed to bring good fortune were practiced on Wednesday eve. Women who wished for better fortune (a child, their husband’s affection, etc.) asked a young boy to untie the belt of their pants and thus to release their problems (see Rabino, 1915-16, p. 37). In pastoral areas, shepherds brought well-fed lambs to houses after coating their backs with henna, and wrapping their necks with bright colored scarves. These visits were considered as good omens. Several customs resemble carnival runs. The qāšoq-zani (“banging of spoons”) consists in hiding near a house and making noise by banging a spoon on a bowl. The house owners fill the bowls with sweets, in particular ājil-e čāršanba (“Wednesday’s dry fruits and nuts”), which are supposed to chase away difficulties. Young people may seize the occasion to seek out a girl or a boy in the house. The šāl-andāzi (“throwing of the scarf”) may also be used to declare one’s love and find out if the sentiments are mutual. The young man slips a piece of fabric to which he ties a flower under the door, or lets down a basket from the roof; it is returned with a little food, a silver coin or perhaps an object belonging to the girl. Ritual thefts in stores, performed while making a wish, may occur during this period of merrymaking. If the wish comes true, the young thieves refund the storeowner. The evening of the last Wednesday is also a privileged moment for divination: at crossroads, for example, it was common practice to eavesdrop on passers-by and predict, depending on what one hears from snatches of their conversation a good or bad future (this practice, common to most parts of Iran, is called gušāmanda “prediction through the ears” in Ṭāleši).
Whereas fire is prevalent as a symbol of passage from one year to the next, the symbol of water as a source of fertility is also widespread. In eastern Gilān, young people used to fill a jug with water, spray their faces with it for good health and then pour some of the water on the fields to ensure a good harvest. It was also a tradition to jump over streams to ward off misfortune and disease. In Ṭâleš, food was left for the čāršamma-ḵātun (“the Wednesday fairy”), a supernatural creature living in water and seen only at night, at the bottom of the oldest well in the area. Satisfied with the received attentions, the čāršamma-ḵātun brought prosperity and made wishes come true (see Miršokrāʾi, p. 456; Rafie Jirdehi, p. 71).
The kul-kule čāršanba festivities end with a meal that suggests the arrival of spring: rice with herbs (sabzi-polow), stew made with chives (tara) and fish. The day before the equinox, a tablecloth (sofra) is set and on it are placed the haft sin (q.v.). Next to the seven or more haft sin, are placed foods symbolizing spring renewal (watercress, painted eggs, etc.), sweets (nun-e berenji, “rice bread” which are consumed in large quantities during this period, a gold fish in a jar, which is supposed to make sudden revolving move at the turn of the equinox, signifying the advent of the New Year, a mirror, a Koran and two candlesticks. The arrangement displayed on the tablecloth reveals the combination of Iranian national traditions, regional habits, and the influence of Islam in local folklore (Plate V).
Plate V. A sofra with the haft sin and local specialties (nun-e berenji, etc.) in Lelevejesar, Caspsian shore, close to Kiāšahr, March 1997 (courtesy of the author).View full image in a new tab
New Year’s day is celebrated with a family meal, which may include zaytun parvarda (olives aromatized with nuts and pomegranate), fresh spring herbs, polow zerešk (rice cooked with barberries), and māhi-fefij (stuffed fish). The advent of the New Year has a prophetic value, as does the first day of each month. A close relative known to be light footed (sabok pā, ḵᵛoš qadam, pāhdamuj), is invited to walk over the house floor, to bring good luck. He traditionally comes with a container filled with water that he throws on the front entrance, boxwood or other evergreen branches that he hangs on the front door, flowers that he places in an alcove, and a Koran and mirror that he places on the tablecloth (Pāyanda, pp. 168-70; Miršokrāʾi, p. 456). To attract good fortune, the parents place bills in sabza after cutting their extremities with scissors. The weather on the first four days of the year is supposed to forecast that of the four seasons to come. Visit upon visit of close relatives are punctuated by the words šimi ʿid mobārak! Karbalāʾi bāšid!” (“Happy holidays to you! May you make the pilgrimage to Karbalāʾ!”), etc., until sizdah bedar (see above), which marks the end of the period of New Year celebrations. It is a time for courteousness, reconciliation and gift giving (in eastern Gilān, the children, each carrying a stick with a bag at the end, make collective rounds of the village for the occasion). These holidays are also the most popular time for weddings and pilgrimages to the emāmzāda (q.v.). But for all that, the dead are not forgotten and plates with wheat grass grown from sprouts are placed on tombs. The arrival of swallows also heralds the New Year; they are called ḥāji-ḥāji locally, like pilgrims who might have wintered in Mecca before migrating to colder climates at the beginning of the mild season.
To ward off the ill fortune associated with the number 13, families leave their houses on the sizdah bedar and go picnicking outdoors. This joyful alfresco meal includes rice, roasted meat, and, as a sign of spring, salad powdered with sugar, soaked in vinegar and aromatized with delār (a salted mixture of grass and several varieties of mint; it also includes a dish made with wild cornelian cherries [aḵte], morello cherries and dried plums cooked with salt, known for its energizing properties). This day, spent outdoors, is also a time for games and a privileged moment to declare one’s love. Young people may take an oath by tying blades of grass together. This ritual gesture may also accompany an individual wish to untie personal difficulties, acquire a house or find a husband. “Sizdah bedar, sāl-e digar, bačča be-baqal ḵuna-ye šowhar” (“Out with the thirteenth, next year, a child in [your] arms, in [your] husband’s house”) is said to girls who take a long time to find a husband. To signal the end of a cycle, the wheat grass is thrown in the sea or in a river and the tablecloth where the haft sin were placed is put away. The following day, the painful work begins of cleaning the irrigation canals and preparing the seedbeds that are usually fertilized with ashes from the fire set on the eve of the last Wednesday (Bromberger, 2008, pp. 51-54).
More than the summer solstice, the winter solstice sets off the great quarantine (čella-ye bozorg) and is a time for ritual gatherings. On the evening preceding the solstice (the night when the quarantine begins: šab-e čella) the family gets together and shares a meal; they eat "cold" food: watermelons, to remember the summer, medlars (kunus) previously soaked in water to remove their bitterness, oranges, etc. The consumption of cold food is meant to protect them against the excessive heat that they are likely to endure during the summer to come. This night is also a privileged moment for divination, in particular for fāl-e Ḥāfeẓ (a poem by Ḥāfeẓ is picked at random and considered as an omen). The tirmāsinza, the 13th day of the month of Tir, in the Gāleši calendar, corresponding in the Iranian calendar to 27 Ābān, and in Gregorian calendar to 18 November, is also a traditional time for the practice of fortunetelling in eastern Gilān. Each participant drops a personal object (a ring, a pearl, a barrette, a button, etc.) in a container filled with water while making a wish. The Master (ostād) picks up the objects successively, while singing a quatrain that provides a positive or negative answer to the wish that was formulated (on this rite of divining fate widely performed in Mediterranean societies, see Cirese). During the tirmāsinza the lālšušzani (“hitting with sticks in silence”) was also practiced. A member of the family gently strikes people, animals and buildings to invite prosperity.
Ceremonies of the lunar calendar. The first day of the lunar month has a premonitory significance, just like the first day of the solar month. As soon as one sees the crescent moon, one should turn one’s eyes to a person known to bring good luck or to an object or to natural elements that represent light and purity such as a mirror, a Koran, running water, vegetation, etc. On this occasion, ṣalawāt (invoking of blessings on the Prophet and his House) are voiced, prayers said, and wishes made. Arrangements are made for a privileged relative (ḵᵛoš-qadam) to walk the floor of the house, though sometimes he is asked not to return at the beginning of the next month if luck was not good (another good-luck charm must then be performed; Pāyanda, pp. 168-70; Miršokrāʾi, p. 449). But the lunar calendar is above all a calendar of religious rites, with the traditional high points on tāsuʿāʾ and ʿāšurāʾ (9 and 10 Moḥarram), the pain inflicting celebrations of the martyrdom of the third Imam, Ḥosayn, and his family; arbāʿin, the commemoration of ʿāšurāʾ, forty days after (20 Ṣafar); the anniversary of the death of the Prophet and of Ḥasan, the second Imam (28 Ṣafar); ʿOmar-košun, the carnivalesque account of the murder of the usurping caliph according to Shiʿites (9 Rabiʿ I); the anniversary of the birth of ʿAli, the first Imam (13 Rajab); the anniversary of the sending of the Prophet on a mission (27 Rajab); the anniversary of the birth of the Twelfth Imam (15 Šaʿbān); the fast during the month of Ramadan, which includes the anniversary of ʿAli’s death (21 Ramadan) and ends with the ʿId-e feṭr; the ʿId-e qorbān, the celebration of sacrifice (10 Ḏu’l-ḥejja); and the ʿId-e qadir, the commemoration of the Prophet’s appointment of ʿAli as his successor (18 of the same month). Obviously, the rites honoring Imams are not celebrated by the many Sunnites in Ṭāleš (Bazin, II, pp. 196-201; idem and Bromberger, map 40), but these differences do not cause serious disagreements in the villages where two mosques often coexist, one for the Sunnites, the other for the Shiʿites: during the celebrations of tāsuʿāʾ and ʿāšurāʾ, the Sunnites usually stop working in consideration of their Shiʿite neighbors (Bromberger, 2009). On the other hand, relations with the Ahl-e Ḥaqq (q.v.), stigmatized under the name ʿAli-elāhi, who perform their rites in a specific room, the jām-ḵāna, are much more tense. However, in villages where they live together with Shiʿites, the Ahl-e Ḥaqq make up a specific group of penitents and join the mourning procession in the month of Moḥarram.
Each locality has its own mosque—where a preacher comes for the most important ceremonies—and most of them have a sanctuary containing the remains of an emāmzāda or, in Sunnite areas, a torba, the tomb of a hallowed religious figure. The typical landscape selected to erect these small sanctuaries was mentioned above. At the height of ritual celebrations, and according to the season, crowds of the faithful flock to the great centers of devotion. A centers’ prestige is due to one or several factors: their situation in large cities (Dānā ʿAli’s tomb in Rašt, Čahār pādšāh “the four kings’ tomb” in Lāhijān): their location on main roads: Emāmzāda Qāsem on the road to Āstārā, Emāmzāda Ḥamza in Lowšān, and especially Emāmzāda Hāšem on the road between Rašt and Tehran, where most of the gifts from the faithful are collected, after Āstāna; their location as a wooded mountainside site, combining devotions with a pleasant stay in the country: Shah Milarzān, Emāmzāda Esḥāq, and especially, Emāmzāda Ebrāhim, whose administrator (motawalli) built a small commercial city and “hotels” out of wood to accommodate tens of thousands of pilgrims each summer (Bazin, 1977, p. 209); the prestige of the deceased: the Gilaki poet Pir Šarafšāh who is buried in the Haft Daqanān forest near Reżwānšahr, or Shaikh Ebrāhim Zāhed Gilāni, the spiritual master of Shaikh Ṣafi-al-Din Ardabili, the founder of the Ṣafawiya Sufi order, whose body was taken from Ardabil in 1457 to the Shaikh Ḵānbār mausoleum, near Lāhijān, thanks to Solṭān Ḥaydar the Safavid, and especially, Solṭān Sayyed Jalāl-al-Din Ašraf, a descendant of the seventh Shiʿite Imam Musā b. Jaʿfar, whose coffin, it is said, was set adrift on the current of the Safidrud river and buried where it landed, in keeping with the deceased’s will. The Solṭān Sayyed Jalāl-al-Din Ašraf mausoleum, Āstāna Ašrafiya, gave its name to the town of Āstāna, which, thanks to its central location in the province, appears as the religious capital of Gilān. It is where the greatest number of the faithful gathers during the ritual periods of mourning in the month of Ramadan, etc. During the tāsuʿāʾ-ʿāšurāʾ ceremonies, peasants from Qāsemābād, the easternmost part of the province, mingle with townspeople from Langarud, Lāhijān, or Rašt.
Islamic ceremonies organized by specific institutions, and subjected to elaborate sets of laws are, for the most part, outside the field of folklore even when they blend with popular traditions more or less severely condemned by clerics. We shall therefore only present the main characteristics of these rituals and the regional variants that make them unique.
During the first ten days of Moḥarram, pain inflicting rituals take place here as elsewhere in Iran, and reach a climax on the eve and the day of ʿāšurāʾ. In the mosques, in the ḥosayniyas (q.v.; places devoted to the memory of the third Imam), in the courtyards of the emāmzāda, preachers commemorate mourning (rawẓa-ḵᵛāni) while relating the tragic events of Karbalāʾ. Taʿzia (“mourning demonstrations”), stage performances of the drama (Plate VI), are organized.
Plate VI. A band of strolling players of taʿzia, Fuman area, June 2003 (courtesy of the author).View full image in a new tab
Their tie to Ḥosayn, the “prince of martyrs,” is fervently expressed during processions of groups of penitents (dastagardāni; Plate VII). Each group generally brings together men from the same hamlet (maḥalla), the basic space and social unit in Gilān. In the cities, groups can be made up of men of the same profession or affinities.
Plate VII. Processions of groups of penitents in Āstāna during ʿašurā, 1974 (courtesy of the author).View full image in a new tab
At the end of the celebration, during the šām-e ḡaribān (the “suppertime of the strangers”), young people dig up a hole with spades (čelāru) to offer Ḥosayn a grave. The following day, 72 loaves of bread are traditionally distributed to the poor as a way to symbolically feed the famished captives.
These rites of affliction, just like those of the fortieth day (arbāʿin) and of 28 Ṣafar, create a singular emotional and relational atmosphere that contrasts with the hardness of everyday interaction. They also make it possible to state periodically where one belongs: those who emigrated continue to join their original dasta; preachers are often “local people” who return to the village, with a prestige acquired in the city; during tāsuʿāʾ (the ninth day of Moḥarram) and ʿāšurāʾ (the tenth), the dasta visit sanctuaries in neighboring villages and small towns, and emphasize, through ostentatious demonstrations, the ambiguous character of neighborhood relations. On the one hand, these visits show a common belonging to a territory, on the other hand they reveal the competition between local groups: fighting with chains between young people of different dasta is not uncommon. The ceremonies also give boys an opportunity to handle heavy chains and practice qama-zani, a practice which has been prohibited in 1994 by the clerics. Let us note, as mentioned earlier, that the large ʿalāmats are decorated with boxwood branches (kiš). It is a revealing example of the intricate mix of "orthodox" rituals and regional traditions.
The atmosphere of the traditional ʿOmar-košun festival is very different. The usurping caliph comes to life as a burlesque rice straw (kulaš) mannequin with a hideous mask on his face, and an eggplant between his legs. He is placed in lavatories, while ʿOmar ṣawṭ-ḵᵛān (ʿOmar singers) fustigate the despised character with crude gestures and words (see examples of these songs in Pāyanda, pp. 196-97).
In the lunar months of Rajab and Šaʿbān, the celebrations commemorating the birth of ʿAli b. Abi Ṭāleb, his marriage, and the birth of the Twelfth Imam, the Mahdi (on this occasion the village streets are decorated) are followed by the Ramadan fasting. In the villages, a horn (šeypur) is blown to announce the time for saḥari (meal taken before dawn) and efṭār (the breaking of the fast shortly after sunset). Two heavy meals are served before and after daylight during the fast, and the day ends with long lively evenings spent eating sweets. The month of Ramadan is punctuated by ceremonies that commemorate the death of ʿAli. The third day following his birthday, the angels are supposed to come to earth to make wishes come true for the supplicants, and to relay back to heaven information on people’s behavior. The traditional dish on this occasion is a propitiatory soup (āš-e Fāṭema-ye Zahrā) made with chickpeas and lentils.
At the time of ʿId-e qorbān, which commemorates the sacrifice of Abraham, those who can afford it slaughter a sheep, or sometimes a cow, by cutting its throat or they have it slaughtered by someone else and share the meat with their neighbors and with the poor. The less fortunate get together and buy an animal or kill a rooster. The sacrificed animal must be healthy and whole. If a sheep is bought several days ahead, it is entrusted to the care of children who cover its fleece with henna and look after his food. An animal whose horns have been decorated with flowers is a favorite gift from the fiancé’s family to the future bride’s family at the time of ʿId-e qorbān (Miršokrāʾi, p. 454). During the ritual killing, the animal’s head must be turned towards Mecca; before its throat is slashed, the animal’s mouth is coated with sugar to make death sweeter (on the obligation to treat victims with dignity, see Brisebarre, p. 108). The blood shed by the animals must not be soiled (that is why it is buried) because it is considered as pure and known to have beneficial virtues (as a cure for nail and foot disease, for example; Pāyanda, p. 178). On the Day of Judgment, the sacrificed animal is believed to carry his owner on his back across the pol-e ṣerāṭ, which leads to heaven (Plate VIII).
Plate VIII. Crossing the pol-e ṣerāṭ on the back of a goat, Lāhijān area, April 2000 (courtesy of the author).View full image in a new tab
The ʿId-e qadir, the last celebration in the lunar year shows some similarities with Nowruz. It is a day of gift giving (given particularly by the sayyeds, descendants of the Prophet and the Imams), and of visits to important members of the family. Soon after the celebration, the mourning and tears of the month of Moḥarram will start the new annual cycle of ceremonies.
WARDING OFF ILL FORTUNE, ATTRACTING GOOD FORTUNE, READING THE FUTURE
Religious celebrations, ceremonies, and pilgrimages to the emāmzāda are privileged moments to make wishes (naḍr) for happiness (ḵošbaḵti) and to offer propitiatory prayers to ward off bad luck. Watchfulness against the dangers of evil, however, is not limited to certain periods of the year. It is an everyday business as the omnipresent čašm-e šur (“the salty eye,” “the evil eye”) threatens human beings, animals, plants, etc. Watchfulness is at its highest point in the presence of individuals known to bring bad luck, of a man or a woman suspected of failing to purify themselves after sexual intercourse, of foreigners, or of whoever praises the beauty of a child, a particularly fragile creature, because such comments imply desire and jealousy (ḥasudi) which bring an evil eye. To avoid it, ritual formulas are said, some religious (Māšāʾ Allāh, “What God wills!”), some not (čašm-e ḥasud kur beše! “May the jealous eye be blinded”). Here, like elsewhere in Iran, a current practice to ward off the evil eye is to burn wild rue (esfand) seeds and spread the fumes around the head of the one who needs protection or to burn a thread discreetly pulled out of the suspicious person’s clothes. These gestures are accompanied by a phrase such as čašm-e došman/ḥasud betarake “May the eye of the enemy/the envious burst” or by a ṣalawāt, naming all those suspected of guilt. The egg is very often used to avert these dangers and bring in happiness. It is heated in a pot without water until it bursts, thus destroying the evil eye. To determine the culprit, one black line is traced on the shell for each suspect; each part of the egg is pressed above a bowl or a tray until the first breaking point reveals the culprit; the bubbles in the egg white are then isolated and burst, thus blinding the evil eye. To complete the process of warding off the curse, the victim must bind the eggshell to his arm and wear it for three days. Eggs are broken when new cycles begin, to guard against misfortune and to bring good luck: they are crushed under the wheels of a newly acquired car or a car that has just been repaired; as well as on the ox’s forehead before plowing and, in the old days, on the bull’s forehead before the bull fight, varzā jang (Bromberger 1997, pp. 123, 127). Eggshells are placed on branches in the gardens (Plate IX) and in the nurseries. Other methods are used to blind or chase away the evil eye: cow horns are planted in the rice plantations after transplanting (nešā); a horse or a boar’s skull may be hung in the fields or near beehives; a medallion, a good-luck charm holding a Koran verse may be attached to a child’s cradle or around his neck, or even a shiny blue pearl whose color attracts the “salty eye” (čašm-e šur) and keeps it off the small child. If the effect of the magic spell persists, a visit to the village or nearest town’s “exorcist” (doʿā-gar in Gilaki, neveštasas in Ṭāleši) may be necessary. He, too, resorts to the virtues of eggs to fight off the curse. He writes a Koran verse or draws a talismanic drawing on the shell before breaking it or bursting it.
Plate IX. To chase away the evil eye, eggshells are placed on branches in the garden, Laskukālaye, Safidrud delta, April 2002 (courtesy of the author).View full image in a new tab
Another nuisance threatening everyone is the evil spirits (jenn, pās in Gilaki) who inhabit the dark, roam the forests, live under houses or in gloomy, rundown buildings. These creatures of the night appear in various forms; sometimes they are strangers who cross one’s path and disappear at once; they may be wrapped in large veils (čādor; q.v.), or have characteristic features (large rounded toeless feet, receding chins) or let their hair hang down or display their hair-covered bodies; sometimes they appear as animals, such as snakes, black cats, ants, chicks, or horses. To see a jenn and—worse—to treat him badly, especially if he is your twin—hamzād—(each individual has a jenn since birth), will get you into serious trouble. Countless precautions not to inconvenience them must therefore be taken. In the evening, one must not throw boiling water in the courtyard for fear of harming them; should it happen accidentally, the besmellāh phrase must be uttered at once (In the name of God, the merciful and forgiving) to dispel their anger. Objects made of iron, a metal feared by jenn, are placed around the house. These evil spirits’ revenge can cause small marks on one’s body (such as spots on thighs) and can go as far as possession (jennzadagi “jenn-struck”), which results in a change of appearance and behavior (a tendency to laugh, a widening mouth, epileptic fits, madness sometimes associated with psychic powers). The jenns may also get their revenge by substituting one of their children with his human twin. To stop these aggressions, various objects are used: pins, whose protective power was mentioned earlier, shells from the Persian Gulf called šomuqā, which are filled with water for the possessed victim to drink. But it is often necessary to turn to the Saints (by going on a pilgrimage to an emāmzāda) or to the exorcists. In the latter case, the doʿā-gar appeals to all jenn (eḥżār-e jenn) and begins by praising their king; the jenn who harassed the victim then appears in the reflection of water or in a mirror; he gives the reasons for his anger and reveals the cure. The doʿā-gar places a seed of tare (māš) on the jennzada’s head, wets his face with rosewater and gives him the texts of the prayers that he will soak in water and drink or whose smoke he will breathe when burning them.
Several methods—general or more specific—are used to influence fate, to protect loved ones, to neutralize enemies (see Massé, pp. 291-328). Here are some examples. To protect a traveler, facilitate healing, or guard against the harmful effects of a premonitory dream, one must make three or seven circles around the head of the person in need of protection or help with a cup filled with rice. The content of the cup is then given as a gift (sar ṣadaqa: “gift of the head”) to the poor. Wishes (naḍr) often made during meals (sofra) in sanctuaries also come with promises of recurrent gifts or engagements. Rites performed under the guidance of a doʿā-gar have more specific goals such as finding a missing person by asking a pre-pubescent child placed in front of a mirror (the doʿā-gar appeals to the mirror beforehand; eḥżār-e āʾina) to describe the images appearing to him; or recover one’s memory by reading from the Koran, the 36th chapter (Yā-Sin), five times a day and by consuming five dates a day before meals; or drive away troublesome people by throwing, in their path or on the thresholds of their houses, the text of an invocation soaked in water; or put an end to malicious gossip (bad-guʾï) by tying, with an invocation known as zabān-bandi (“tying of the tongue”), the tongue of the slanderer; or cure the excessive sensuality of those who overindulge in sexual activities (šahwatrān) by making them drink from a bowl on the rim of which the invocation was written.
Original propitiatory practices are used to help make agricultural work trouble-free. These rites are particularly intense at the beginning of farming cycles and at the most sensitive times of year, when failure to achieve difficult tasks could endanger the whole process. At the beginning of the New Year, when the peasants started plowing, they used to throw sugar, coins or nuts on their ox and, as mentioned earlier, they crushed an egg on its forehead or under its leg. Nuts were the symbolic representation of large rice grains that everyone wished to harvest. To ensure success, varzā muš (“the ox’s handful”), the last handful from the preceding harvest set aside and hung from the ceiling of the house, was also given to the animal. But ritual watchfulness is most intense in the nurseries (tumbijār), where the young seedlings are likely to yellow. After sowing, the women usually plant a rush, or the branch of a flowering or evergreen tree in the center of the nursery: a branch of alder (tusa; Alnus barbuta) in the area of Langarud, or quince tree (beh) which bears one of the fruits of paradise, in the southern plain of Rašt, or boxwood (kiš) in the northern area. This auspicious plant, which helps foliage growing green, is regarded, here and there, as the young wife of the nursery (ʿarus-e tumbijār). As an additional protective measure, it is sometimes covered with an eggshell. To ensure favorable conditions during transplanting, a new bride, a sayyeda, or a sayyed’s wife is asked to launch the operation. After the second weeding (dobara), the women traditionally plant a green branch of tuska (Alnus subcordata) on one of the small flood-banks in the rice plantation and wish the ears (ḡuša) good life.
Silkworm breeding was also the object of propitiatory rites and specific precautions. An egg was placed near the containers where the newly hatched (toḵm-e noqān) caterpillars (vor) were stored. Women were prohibited from coming close to the silkworm nurseries during their menstrual periods. The presence of a grass snake (Coluber aquaticus) in the building, or in the house, is always interpreted as a sign of a good harvest to come (on the beneficial role of the snake, see Abbott, fol. 27; Lafont and Rabino, p. 79; Massé, pp. 201-2).
In order to perform agricultural work or ceremonies, or to travel, weather conditions must be favorable. Popular weather forecasting is based on several types of indicators. Animal behavior is closely watched: a flight of winged ants (pardār pitār) or flies flying around a lamp, or green tree frogs (dār-e qurbāḡa) croaking, or fretful ducks (bili) flapping their wings in the pond, etc., are signs of imminent rain. On the contrary, a howling jackal echoed by a barking dog is a sign of a sunny day ahead. A short heavy shower under clear skies is viewed as the result of the marriage of a jackal or its mother (šoqāl mār-e ʿarusi). The order of animals leaving their stable is supposed to indicate the weather of the season to come: if black animals come out first, winter will be harsh; if black and white or light colored animals are first, winter will be mild. The opposite is true when the cattle return to the stable: if the black ones are ahead of the lighter ones, winter will be mild. Plant conditions also provide a myriad of clues: if the tree buds come out early in the spring, if their leaves fall prematurely in the summer and fall, winter will be harsh. Body feelings are also the basis for predicting the following day’s weather: if the right ear itches, the weather will be nice, if the left one does, it will rain, etc. More weather clues come from observing dishes while they cook: a strong steam coming out of polow announces rainy weather (see Pāyanda, pp. 344-49).
To counter erratic or extreme weather conditions, various methods based on the law of similarity are used. When rain was long in coming, the village ceremonial ʿalam (flag) was dumped in a well or the menbar (the pulpit) from the mosque or a sanctuary was dropped in a river. If, on the contrary, rain would not stop—a frequent condition in Gilān—the very popular local rite of haft kačal or kal (seven bald people) was performed. The names of seven bald people from the village were written on a piece of paper or a string tied into seven knots, one for each of the seven bald people. The object was then tied to a tree or to a house post and struck with a stick. The ordeal could go so far as to reveal which one, among the bald people, was responsible for the unending rain: each blow was aimed at a bald person and, at any time, a participant could ask to stop the beating in the name of one of the bald people, if he knew for sure who the guilty one was. If the rain had not ceased the following day, the author of the erroneous verdict was penalized. The resentment against bald people, an incessant object of derision, is due to their image in the local culture and, more generally, in Iran. They are reputedly malicious and lazy; when it rains, they are ready to work, even as there is nothing to do; when the weather is nice, they refuse to make any effort, for fear that the sun may burn their heads: havā ḵoš-e, kal naḵoš-e (“beautiful weather, unhappy bald man”), havā āftāb-e, kal bitāb-e (“sunny weather, nervous bald man”), the proverbs say. But bald people are not the only remedy to unfavorable skies. To stop a pouring rain, which may be catastrophic during the preparation of the seedbeds, a spoon is tapped against a container, while a song accompanies the beat with the following words: fardā āfto betabey / tumbijār-e tum bepise / gāleš-e čamuš bepise “May the sun shine tomorrow / the paddy is rotting in the seedbed / the shepherd’s shoes have rotted”. Apotropaic gestures are used, such as striking the ground with an axe to stop thunder and holding up a knife to stop a violent wind. As for solar eclipses (āftāb begifte, “the abduction of the sun,” credited to jenns), they cause terror; to put an end to them, a tray is pounded (see also Massé, p. 172).
In a world where destiny (qesmat) has a key role, the interpretation of signs that could shed light on the intricacy of fate is a common exercise practiced specially during the critical times of year (Nowruz, šab-e čella, Moḥarram, etc.). In everyday life, greater attention is given to the contents of dreams, the quivering of bodies or the position of objects. The imminence of death or requests from a displeased late relative, for instance, are revealed through the codified language of dreams. Beside the science of premonitory dreams (taʿbir), the science of body feelings is largely based on the universally widespread (see Hertz) opposition between a right side (good omen) and a left side (doomed). It is a favorable sign to find yourself lying on your right side when you wake up, whereas scratching your right hand in the evening means money is coming; on the contrary, lying on your left side when you wake up and scratching your left hand in the evening mean trouble ahead. The positions of containers on a tablecloth, or bits of tea in a glass also have prophetic meaning. Three containers unintentionally placed in a straight line announce the arrival of a guest, as does a bit of tea going up to the surface in a glass. Divination is not as common a practice and is usually left to specialists (doʿā-gar, fortuneteller at the weekly market). They practice bibliomancy, such as esteḵāra, based on verses from the Koran picked at random, or fāl, using the same method with poetic works, in particular poems by Ḥāfeẓ; they also consult books of oracles, use dice (raml) to reach powers of divination or read in the palms of hands (kafšenāsi). “Popular” divination uses unusual animal bones, familiar objects such as needles (two are dropped in a bowl filled with water: if they touch, the boy and the girl whom they represent will be united) or a snake vertebra (mār mohra); the process and the intention are the same but two vertebrae are placed in a bowl filled with vinegar (see Payanda, pp. 325-27).
All these beliefs are unequally shared by the local population, and vary in kind and intensity according to sex, age, and proximity to the world of cities. They are most strongly anchored in Ṭāleš and in the mountains east of the Safidrud. Most of the believers are women. Urban elites and younger generations consider them as superstitions (ḵorāfāt). Others keep them at a distance but do not deny them. But very few are those who deny the concept of a destiny outside of the individuals’ control, which these practices try, in their own way, to interpret and have a bearing on.
GAMES
Four games, more or less spectacular, are predominant in Gilān and emblematic of the regional identity: morḡāna jang (“egg wars”), lafen-bāzi (tightrope walking), košti gila-mardi (“Gilāni wrestling”) and varzā jang. The first, as we have seen, is associated with the cycle of Nowruz, and features two individuals who fight discreetly, even if it is sometimes practiced in public (on market days, in the village square). The other three are displays that bring together large audiences in specific places (such as the sabze meydān “the green place,” or local commons) or in the courtyard of a house on the occasion of a marriage, a circumcision or the visit of a distinguished guest.
Morḡāna jang consists in knocking together two eggs—hen, duck, or goose, raw or cooked, depending on the players’ choice. The player whose egg breaks the opponent’s egg wins. Meticulous preparation is necessary for a “battle” in which sight, touch, and hearing are important factors. To make sure that the egg selected has a firm shell, it is examined, hand-felt and possibly spun on the ground like a top (a good rotation is a sign of firmness); it is helpful to be able to tell by its shape an egg containing two yellows because its shell is thicker. But the most common way to test the hardness of the shell is through the sound made by knocking the egg several times against one’s teeth, unless the game is announced as bi-gāz (“no knocking on teeth”). The type of game played must also be decided: sara bā sara (“head against head”—egg’s—“small end against small end”), tāh bā tāh (or kuna bā kuna) (“base against base,” “bottom against bottom,” “large end against large end”) or tāk bā tāk (“side against side”). One must also decide which of the two players will strike and which will be struck. The opponent will try to minimize the blow by holding his egg tight between his thumb and his index finger, as high as possible. The winner wins the broken egg or the total amount of eggs played in the game, which can include several dozen sets. Morḡāna jang can also be an occasion for money bets (šarṭbandi), a frequent element in local popular games such as morḡāna jang or varzā jang or aštak, a game played by throwing nuts into holes dug in the ground (Plate X). In order to win, the least scrupulous competitors cheat, for example by making a hole in the shell of their egg and pouring resin (vinja) in it and by steaming it in a slow-cooking polow. After the hole is sealed and the shell decorated (shells are traditionally painted during the cycle of Nowruz), the egg can resist the opponent’s attack. These practices, and also the small tricks used by most, generate debates and disputes.
Plate X. Aštak, Gilān central plain, April 2000 (courtesy of the author).View full image in a new tab
Tightrope walking is not a specialty of Gilān, but it is remarkably popular in this area where men are used to climbing trees and where the world of heights is treasured (Bromberger, 1989, p. 14). In spring and summer as during weddings of old, the pahlavān (athlete) and his assistants (a buffoon and two musicians, one playing the dohol—a double-side drum—the other the sorna—a type of oboe), give performances. While the buffoon (yālānji) amuses the public with his jokes, the pahlavān engages in perilous exercises, while holding a pole (langar) horizontally for balance (Plate XI). He walks and moves on the tightrope far above the ground, places a chair on a tray and sits on it, walks while balancing saucers and tea-glasses on his head, rides a bicycle without tire on the rope. To reward his performance, the yālānji takes a collection from the audience.
Plate XI. Lafenbāzi, Damašk, Gilān mountains, June 2008 (courtesy of the author).View full image in a new tab
While the lafenbāz were traveling and anonymous jugglers, wrestling champions are well-known characters and a source of pride for their village. Some are even thought to have fought bears and won. The košti gila-mardi is a popular, ritualized performance following a rigorous protocol (Rabino, 1914, pp. 104-7) and dominated by the spirit of chivalry (javānmardi). It traditionally gives place to great combats held at the end of the summer, once the agricultural work is completed, or during the visit of public figures or at the end of religious ceremonies (such as in the court of an emāmzāda, during the ʿalam vā čini, “the removal of the flags,” raised at the beginning of Moḥarram). Wrestling performances between a few athletes were also, until recently, a quasi-permanent feature of village weddings.
A wrestling performance begins with a ritual parade of fighters who greet the audience and their opponents, one foot forward and their hand touching their knee, mouth and forehead successively. In big tournaments, each village team is subject to a strict hierarchy between pahlavāns (experienced athletes) and tongules (beginners), and each one stands in a corner of the square. Each fighter dressed in embroidered shorts, shows off his strength and flexibility while marching in music before the show. Then the competitions start, first between beginners, then between the pahlavāns (Plate XII). There is no weight category and no time limit for the fight, but the wrestlers may request a pause from the referee (dāvar) if the fight is long. The purpose of the game is to force the opponent to touch the ground using one’s hands, fists, and feet (but kicking is prohibited). For that, one needs both strength and strategy. When the game is over, the winner hugs the loser, jumps in the center of the arena, and receives a branch (baram) decorated with fabric, clothes, and money given by the audience during a victory lap. For big tournaments, village notables may reward a champion who eliminated all of his competitors with a cow, a horse, or a silk shawl embroidered with flowers (Rabino, 1914, p. 106).
Plate XII. Košti gila-mardi, Āstāna area, July 2007 (courtesy of the author).View full image in a new tab
Gilānis also enjoy games involving animals. While minor groups may have a passion for pigeon flying contests (kaftarbāzi), or cockfights (ḵorusbāzi), the main regional show involving animals is the varzā jang (q.v. GĀVBĀZI, including photographs), a fight between bulls. It is symptomatic that this game, once widespread in Iran, is now practiced only in the Caspian plains, where livestock remains predominantly bovine and where the ox has remained, until recently, man’s animal companion par excellence.
Through the diversity of values that come together in its practice, varzā jang appears as “a deep game,” to use an expression by Clifford Geertz (1972). It promotes a feeling of identity: the audience supports with enthusiasm, even with violence (Rabino, 1914, p. 104), the champion who symbolizes the honor of their village. Above all, a good bull symbolizes two complementary dimensions of complete manliness: it must be both strong (qawi) and smart (zerang). Clumsy animals are ridiculed as much as those expressing unnecessarily aggressive behavior, and rejected like show-offs in real life. There is a saying about agitated individuals: ti šāḵe sir vāseʾ idi, tarā be maydān tāvedaʾ idi (“Your horns were rubbed with garlic and you were thrown in the arena,” in other words, “You’ve been had: someone got you excited and used you”).
The modernization of agriculture, the evolution of the ways of life, along with a massive propagation of Western and Far Eastern sports (football, volleyball, judo, karate, etc.) have prompted a fast decline of traditional games during the last thirty years. The regression was accelerated by measures taken by the authorities of the Islamic Republic who prohibited the betting associated with several of these practices (varzā jang and morḡāna jang, in particular) or the games themselves when deemed cruel (see Bromberger, 1997, pp. 133-35).
Traditional games and other aspects of the local folklore are not necessarily destined to disappear. The quick process of destruction of old ways is ending and a regionally based movement promoting the preservation and revival of local traditions is taking shape in Gilān. Evidence of this interest is shown in the increasing popularity of publications dealing with ethnographic issues (Gilevā, Gilān-nāma, Farhang-e Gilān, Gilān-e mā, etc.), of cultural organizations and the warm support given to this author’s initiative to create an open-air museum of the rural heritage of Gilān.
Bibliography
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- (The contributor would like to express his thanks to Āzitā Hempartiān for her assistance in compiling this entry).
GILAN xvii. Gender Relations
The division of activities and spaces between the sexes is quite distinct in the province of Gilan. On the Iranian plateau, and in the Middle East in general, feminine is opposed to masculine as the inside is to the outside, as private is to public, as gardening is to field work, as domestic tasks are to the craft industry. Not so in the Caspian world: here roles and tasks are distributed according to a more flexible pattern: to a large extent, women take an important part in agricultural work; in their homes, the line between male and female spaces is blurred; craftwork, industrial, and commercial activities are not the exclusive prerogative of men in this region.
The principles that govern the division of labor between the sexes can be illustrated by the respective tasks carried out by men and women in the rice fields. Operations which require physical strength and the use of hand-swung chopping tools (billhooks, axes, and spades) or those which require operating complex machinery (plows and harrows drawn by animals, mechanical cultivators, and threshing machines) are left to the men. Tasks that generally do not require tools, but for which the laborer has to stoop or bend down (transplanting, weeding), or incidental and ancillary activities (for example, passing the sheaves to their husbands so they can be put into the threshing machine) are reserved for women. But there are several highly significant exceptions to this general rule, as when, for example, women flail the rice.
In the 1950s, before farming was mechanized, the number of working days per hectare of paddy field was estimated at 105 for men and 160 for women (Sahami, p. 52). According to Toshio Suzuki’s (p. 296) calculations while carrying out research in the plain of Gilan in 1977-78, a time when mechanical cultivators (tiler “tiller”) had already been introduced, males spent 70 and females 88 working days in the paddy fields, excluding threshing. Other studies (Sarhadi and Motia) estimate the female share of labor in rice farming at 76 percent, which shows how predominant female labor is in this cycle of activities.
The men cut down trees and clear the land to be farmed; they clean the irrigation canals with spades (č el ā ru), repair the small flood banks separating plots (kalla) in the rice plantations with special spades (ḵā lik, garb ā z) fitted with wooden footrests, and they are responsible for the three phases in the plowing process and for harrowing before transplanting (ne šā). Transplanting is done by the women in the family, joined by friends and neighbors, working in groups (this form of co-operative work is called y ā var) or, more frequently today, by paid day-laborers, called kar āč i, local women of low income or women coming from Kurdish villages in the plain or from mountain villages. Transplanting is done in April and May and is followed in June by two periods of weeding (vijin, dobara; see Plate I); it is a particularly arduous and backbreaking work. At the time of vijin and dobara, the women work barefoot in the mud, bending down under a blazing sun. While several male tasks have become mechanized (the introduction of cultivators and, a few years ago, of tractors for grubbing and first plowing, for instance, and even, rarely, for harrowing), female work remains manual: mechanical planters, considered by the men to be expensive and inefficient, were not taken up, and chemical weeding, also expensive, is seldom used. Once again, the tasks completed by men and women together emphasize the gap between male and female techniques. Men plow the ground in the nurseries (tumbij ā r) while women use their hands to level it (Plate II). Harrowing, traditionally done by the men with curved boards drawn by oxen or horses, is followed in certain areas of the plain by the work of women using dam ā rda, a harrow with an arm (Bazin and Bromberger, pp. 22-23). Harvesting (berenjbini) with a small-toothed sickle (d ā ra) is performed by both sexes, but mainly by men, as the women gather the cut bundles (mo š ta) in sheaves (darz; with twelve mo š tas to a darz). For threshing (ḵ ermankubi), men in the central plain traditionally use a hand-swung tool called a “flail” (j ā ku), but the work is also carried out by females (Rabino and Lafont, pp. 19-20; Research Group, p. 113; Okazaki, p. 69). To the east and northwest of the province, men use animals to tread sheaves underfoot. Women finish the threshing process by rubbing the ears with a piece of split reed to recover the very last grains. Threshing and winnowing (b ā d d ā dan), now mechanized, are exclusively male tasks, while women only complete incidental chores (such as the passing of sheaves to their husbands, or [formerly] the cleaning of grains in winnowing baskets, ṭ abaq). Finally, rice husking and bleaching, now done mechanically in mills (k ā r ḵā na-ye ḵ ermankubi), but formerly performed with a foot-activated pestle (p ā -dang) or a hydraulic pestle (ā b-dang), are men’s tasks. Nevertheless, Rabino and Lafont (p. 21) mention women using a p ā -dang in central Gilan early in the twentieth century. But we can say that generally the bent-over bodies of women working with their hands contrast with the men’s bodies standing erect, as they use more or less complex tools.
Plate I. Dobara, Gilan plain, 1996 (courtesy of the author).View full image in a new tab
Plate II. Man and woman preparing the ground of the nursery, Gilan plain, 1993 (courtesy of the author).View full image in a new tab
The same pattern (a broad participation of women in production labor, exceeding in time that of the men, with an attendant lack of technical equipment) applies to agricultural, pastoral, and craft activities, with a few significant differences. For instance, from spring to autumn the women bend over to gather the tea leaves; from the end of winter to the beginning of spring, the men plow the tea fields with spades (bils) and trim the shrubs. The meticulous work of gardening is generally a female prerogative, except for the first plowing. To weed herbs (sabzi) and vegetables, women use short-handle grubbing-hoes (bulu), which they receive upon marriage from their husband or mother-in-law and which are the emblematic tools of Gilani countrywomen.
Contrary to the majority of sericultural areas throughout the world, men in Gilan are in charge of feeding silkworms in nurseries (telemb ā r) with mulberry leaves (see Plate III). To do so, they must crawl on an openwork floor (a “bridge,” pord) located above the “bed” (ket) where the worms are located. But the tasks preceding and following silkworm breeding are mostly handled by women: the hatching of seeds and the first feeding of caterpillars in a heated room in their homes; the unreeling of the filaments from the cocoons (pile č ini); the reeling of silk and the spinning of filoselle silk; and the home weaving on a two-heddle loom (p āčā l) of čā dor- š ab, a fabric with geometrical designs which women tie around their belts when transplanting or weeding, and below their shoulders when carrying a child.
Plate III. Feeding silkworms with mulberry leaves, Gilan plain, 1996 (courtesy of the author).View full image in a new tab
How can one explain the important participation of men in sericulture, an activity based on a feeding and breeding pattern, and generally restricted to women? Several reasons—technical, economic, and symbolic—can account for this peculiar configuration. Breeding in the silkworm nurseries coincides with the period of transplanting and weeding of rice, tasks which keep the women occupied between April and June. Furthermore, one should bear in mind that silk was for a long time the main commercial export product of Gilan (Bromberger, 1989a) and, as such, a particularly well-developed sector in the agricultural economy. Finally, it is hard to imagine, in Gilani society, women crawling on the upper part of the nursery, whereas men would have been climbing trees or to the elevated parts of houses from a young age (Bromberger, 1989b, p. 14).
While women are busy with the poultry and domesticated fowls (particularly diversified in Gilan) and the cows are kept close by, the oxen, the men’s “fellow workers and friends” (Bromberger, 1997, pp. 123-24) and horses, “animals too valuable to be entrusted to women” (de Morgan, p. 251), are under male dominion. In pastoral zones (Gāleš and Ṭāleš) men are in charge of leading, guarding, and tending the herds. The division of labor is also unusual among stockbreeders in Persia when it comes to milk production, which again exhibits the idiosyncrasies of the Caspian region, where men milk the goats and the ewes (Plate IV), an activity elsewhere reserved for women.
Plate IV. Men milking goats in Gerdesāya, Ṭāleš mountains, 1972 (courtesy of the author).View full image in a new tab
The division of labor in the manufacturing sphere is generally in keeping with the pattern of traditional societies (Tabet, Testart); men work with hard materials and complex tools (joinery and carpentry), and they handle the ‘arts of fire’ (ironwork, firing pottery), whereas women work at home with more flexible material (wool-spinning with wheels, rush mat and fabric weaving, crocheting). Men work with textiles only professionally—in a workshop or as itinerant craftsmen, producing, for example, felt (namad; Bazin and Bromberger, p. 64). But in the craft industry, the originality of the Gilani society is evident as well. In Ṭāleš and to the east of Safidrud in general, women use foot-powered, two-heddle looms that are often exclusively used by men in the Middle East (idem, pp. 71-72). Here and elsewhere, pottery made with a wheel is a male activity, while women only handle the fashioning of the products, including bowls (gamaj) and churns (ner ḵ a), using a simple wooden rotating support. However (and this is a rare occurrence anywhere in the world), women, in some pottery centers, use the wheel to fashion mortars (nimk ā r; Achouri, 1977).
The unique status of Gilani women also appears in their early participation in industrial work. In the late 19th century, one hundred industrial cocoon-processing plants and, later, silk mills, which employed mainly women, operated in the area (Lafont and Rabino, p. 96, n. 1, p. 47; Bromberger, 1989a, pp. 83-85). The tea factories which were built in the area in the reign of Reza Shah also resort, to a lesser extent, to seasonal female labor; on the other hand, women are the main labor force in the clothing industry and food-conditioning plants. Trading is not totally foreign to women, as it is in other areas of Persia: they sell their herb crop directly in the country bazaars. Those extra-domestic activities, often done during seasonal migrations, have contributed to shape a consciousness and behavior that stand apart from the dominant pattern of women confined to a private sphere.
There is no room, like the andarun (q.v.), as is the case in some Persian houses, specifically reserved for women, and this is highly significant. Women and men share the same space, and women unreservedly talk to guests, even if they are not close relatives. Only invisible limits—that is, not actual walls or doors—separate the male from the female space: men sit in the back (b ā l ā) of the room, while women stay close to the door and the stove where the food is heated. When guests come in the spring, the men gather in the back of the portico (see ayvān) and the women near the entrance, thus forming two close but separate micro-societies (Bromberger, 1989b, pp. 81-82).
On the whole, an asymmetrical complementarity emerges in the division of labor and space between men and women. Gilaks often say that husband and wife are essential to one another “like two fingers of one hand.” Men are well aware of it and, at the end of the labor season in the rice fields, they give their wives a small gift as a token of their gratitude, generically called tam ā n ā kun(a) (“it is complete!” or “the job is done!”). Considering the important female participation in the tasks of production outside the house and the parity of wages between men and women in the agricultural sector, the egalitarian trends in Gilaki society must be underscored. At the same time, however, considering the difficulty and the time devoted to their activities, the overexploitation of female labor is a constant threat. This paradoxical situation is reflected in everyday behavior. Gilaki men are less inclined to show their manliness (mard ā nagi) than men of the Iranian plateau. Women can be forthright and participate in men’s conversations. Men, however, are the ones who give orders. Finally, the inequality of posture, stooped versus erect, and upper versus lower in the execution of technical activities is also found in death: the burial pits for women are dug slightly deeper (by approximately 15 cm) than those for men.
Children’s games contribute to the distinction between male and female roles. Boys’ games develop dexterity and, incidentally, strength: the āḡ uz-b ā zi, a game of marbles played with walnuts, the albili-b ā zi, throwing a wood stick as far as possible by striking it with a larger stick, the gandom-kuna, throwing a stone onto a piece of wood buried in the ground, the varvare-b ā zi (top spinning) and the many versions of leapfrog (ḵ ar-e po š t av ā z). Teenagers are initiated in hunting and gathering activities that are exclusively male domains: hunting with slings (sang and ā z pust), snares (varzul), or folding nets to catch sparrows (gonje š k) or wildfowl; catching fish with sparrowhawks (m āš k) or practicing angling. With adolescence comes the time of adult games that call for cunning, skill, strength, and good luck to win the bets. The men of Gilan particularly like fights (ko š ti gila-mardi), bullfights (varz ā jang; see Gāvbāzi), and tight-rope walking (l ā fan-b ā zi), yet another expression of the male esteem for high spaces; the “egg war” (mor ḡā ne jang; French toquette), where two players try to shatter each other’s egg, the winner being the one whose egg remains unbroken; and the ha š tak, a game played by throwing nuts into holes dug in the ground, an activity that gives rise to a considerable amount of betting (Plate V).
Plate V. Men gathering around a haštak game, Gilan plain, 2000 (courtesy of the author).View full image in a new tab
With the end of childhood comes the age of religious duties and another cycle in the male life begins, one of pain-inflicting piety, expressed in the ritual of mo ḥ arram when young people strike their chests with the palms of their hands (sinazani) and their elders whip themselves with chains (zanjirzani; see DASTA), a sign of devotion and virility (sometimes children anticipate those rituals by practicing with small chains given to them by their fathers).
The girls’ path is traditionally confined to the space in the house and the garden. Their games, hopscotch (ḵ a ṭ b ā zi), and jacks (ye-qol), etc., exclude the use of strength, violent moves, or the killing of animals—only men may kill and butcher. They learn domestic tasks, housekeeping, cooking (except for roasting meat, reserved for the men of the household) and are gradually associated with the garden and fieldwork. Unlike the publicly displayed piety of men, women’s devotions are discreet, as they meet in small sanctuaries to partake in propitiatory meals (sofra) to make their wishes (na ḏ r) come true. Nevertheless, since the 1990s feminine habits in mourning ceremonies have changed: women have gotten used to striking their chests with the palms of their hands as the men do.
If, in social life, responsibilities and authority are men’s prerogatives, women’s participation is not negligible and emphasizes, once again, the uniqueness of the situation in Gilan. During the Constitutional Revolution (q.v.), women’s societies (anjomans) were formed in the province (Afary). After World War I, Peyk-e sa ʿā dat-e nesw ā n (“The harbinger of women’s happiness”), an association of educated women, worked at improving women’s conditions through various projects, as well as publishing a review once every two months (Faḵrāʾi, pp. 359-60; see PEYK-E SAʿĀDAT-E NESWĀN). More recently, the percentage, though still very small, of women candidates (2.69 percent) and elected women (1.22 percent) in the local elections of 1999 was higher than in other rural zones and higher than the country’s average (2.1 percent candidates, 0.72 percent elected). In villages, co-operatives run by women (š erkat-e ta ʿā woni-ye zan ā n), created in 1994, have been very active and prosperous. When the village population disagrees with State representatives, groups of fervent women march to support their claims. This strong social consciousness goes hand in hand with the high rate of female education (Hourcade et al., p. 74) and patterns of behavior not common elsewhere at the time but which later become the norm in the country as a whole at the demographic level: according to 1991 and 1996 data, the average age (23) of women getting married is higher than anywhere else in Persia (idem, p. 43; Ladier-Fouladi, p. 52), the age difference between newlyweds is minimal (less than 2.5 years; Ladier-Fouladi, p. 59), and fertility is particularly low compared to the rest of the country (a little more than two children per woman in 2003).
The unusual status of women in the district comes at the cost of a reputation for frivolousness (Rabino, p. 78). This reputation of frivolousness is fueled by a great number of jokes on Raštis (see GILAN xv. Popular and literary perceptions of Identity) that are widespread in Persian society. Such mischievous stories stigmatize, in a disproportionate and fantastical manner, the unique dynamics of male-female relations in the Caspian region of Iran (Bromberger, 1986).
Bibliography
- T. Achouri, “La poterie artisanale au Gilân,” unpubl. dissertation, University of Aix-en-Provence, 1977.
- Janet Afary, “On the Origins of Feminism in Early Twentieth Century Iran,” Journal of Women ’ s Studies 1/2, 1989, pp. 65-87.1977.
- Marcel Bazin and Christian Bromberger, Gil â n et à zarb â yj â n oriental. Cartes et documents ethnographiques, Paris, 1982.1977.
- C. Bromberger, “Les blagues ethniques dans le nord de l’Iran. Sens et fonction d’un corpus de récits facétieux,” Cahiers de litt é rature orale 20, 1986, pp. 73-101.1977.
- Idem, “Changements techniques et transformation des rapports sociaux. La sériciculture au Gilân dans la seconde moitié du XIXè me siècle,” in Yann Richard, ed., Entre l ’ Iran et l ’ Occident, Paris, 1989a.1977.
- Idem, Habitat, Architecture and Rural Society in the Gil ā n Plain (Northern Iran), Bonn, 1989b.1977.
- Idem, “La guerre des taureaux n’aura pas lieu. Note sur les infortunes d’un divertissement populaire dans le nord de l’Iran,” in J. Hainard and R. Kaehr, eds., Dire les autres. R é flexions et pratiques ethnologiques. Textes offerts à Pierre Centlivres, Lausanne, 1997.1977.
- E. Faḵrāʾi, Gil ā n dar gozarg ā h-e zam ā n, Tehran, 1976.1977.
- Bernard Hourcade, H. Mazurek et al., Atlas d ’ Iran, Paris, 1998.1977.
- M. Ladier-Fouladi, Population et politique en Iran. De la monarchie à la R é publique islamique, Paris, 2003.1977.
- J. de Morgan, Mission scientifique en Perse I. É tudes g é ographiques, Paris, 1894.1977.
- S. Okazaki, Iran. Caspi-kai Chiho Beisaku Noson no Keizai Kozo : Gilan-shu Hassanabad-mura no Jirei, Tokyo, 1968 (unpublished monograph).1977.
- H. L. Rabino, Les provinces caspiennes de la Perse. Le Gu î l â n (RMM 32), 1915-16.1977.
- H. L. Rabino and D. F. Lafont, L ’ industrie s é ricicole en Perse, Montpellier, 1910a.1977.
- Idem, “La culture du riz au Guîlân (Perse) et dans les autres provinces du sud de la Caspienne,” Annales de l ’É cole nationale d ’ agriculture de Montpellier 10, 1910b, pp. 130-63; 11, 1911, pp. 5-51.1977.
- Research Group, “A Study of Rural Economic Problems of Gilân and Mâzandarân,” Ta ḥ qiq ā t-e eqte ṣā di 4/11-12, pp. 135-204.1977.
- Cyrus Sahami, Le Guil â n, Paris, 1965.1977.
- F. Sarhadi and N. Motia, A study of the socio-economic role of rural women in agricultural activities in Ahandan (Gil â n), Tehran, 1990.1977.
- T. Suzuki, Land Reform, Technology, and Small-Scale Farming: The Ecology and Economy of Gilaki-Rashti Rice Cultivators, Northern Iran, Ann Arbor, 1985.1977.
- P. Tabet “Les mains, les outils, les armes,” L ’ Homme 19/3-4, 1979, pp. 5-61.1977.
- A. Testart, Essai sur les fondements de la division sexuelle du travail chez les chasseurs-cueilleurs, Paris, 1986.1977.
GILAN xviii. Rural Production Techniques
In general, a considerable range of techniques is used to produce such diversified commodities as rice, silk, tea, tobacco, vegetables, olives, and wheat. One can, however, speak of a distinctly Gilāni technical system. On the one hand, several tools and other original means of acting upon matter are common to various types of activities; onthe other hand, techniques used in the various sectors of production are closely interrelated, either because some have served as a model for others (as for example, the shape of a sickle used for harvesting), or because they depend on one another (such as a particular technique for drying rice which is related to a singular shape of rooftop).
Basic tools and singular means of acting upon matter. The Gilāni peasant’s basic set of tools for various farming activities includes the spade (ḵelik, gerbāz, čelāru, bil) (Figure 1), the billhook (dās, dāz) (Figure 2), and the toothed sickle with a short blade (dāre) (Figure 3). The spade, sometimes fitted with a wooden footrest (pā-ču), is used for curing irrigation canals, for repairing flood banks (marz) on the rice plantations, for plowing tea fields or for deep-plowing gardens. The billhook, flanked with two heels, is the basic tool used by stockbreeders in the forested piedmont to cut leleki (Gleditschia caspica) branches to feed their sheep, or āsundār (Parrotia persica) branches to build the framework of their huts (pargā, pori). The peasants on the plain use the same tool to cut branches off mulberry trees whose leaves are fed to silkworms, to prune fruit trees and tea shrubs (butte), or to make the hoops with which they cover with plastic sheets to protect rice-plant nurseries (tumbijār), and so forth. The toothed sickle is used to harvest rice, possibly wheat (in this case the curved part of the blade is longer) but also to cut rush, sedge, and reed. Besides these three emblematic male tools, the grubbing-hoe, bulu(k), a small hoe with a short handle, used mostly by women for the preparation and upkeep of the vegetable garden as well as for weeding tea fields, is also worth mentioning.
Figure 1. Spade. a: ḵelik, celā(b)ru: (1) dasta, (2) tiqa. b: ḵelik, cela(b)ru: (1) dasta, (2) tiqa. c: gerbāz: (1) dasta, (2) pācu, (3) tiqa. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
Figure 2. Billhook. a: dās. b: dās of Gāleš shepherds: (1) dasta, (2) tiqa. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
Figure 3. Sickle: dāra. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
Among the various means of acting upon matter (hammering with a tool, water, air, fire; see Leroi-Gourhan, pp. 47-113), smoke holds, in this humid area, a privileged and original place in the Iranian world. It is traditionally used for drying rice (see below), tea, or tobacco leaves, to stifle silkworm cocoons and to preserve fish and to protect houses from mosquitoes by setting rice chaff on fire in the courtyard; chaff produces a great amount of smoke and was once used to punish miscreants (Rabino and Lafont, 1911, p. 35) or disobedient children who were locked up in the dud otāḡ (literally “smoke room,” where sheaves of rice were dried and cocoons stifled). This punishment was called fal-a dud (“the smoke from the rice chaff”).
Techniques in symbiosis. Rice growing and sericulture engendered the development of local rural techniques and provided models for other sectors of activities. For example, when tea culture was new in the Caspian region, following its introduction in 1902 by Kāšef-al-Salṭana, the Persian consul in India, the first structures used as tea processing plants were telembār or silkworm nurseries. Similarly, the telembār was the location for the first step in curing tobacco, a culture introduced in Gilān in 1875. The foot-activated pestle (pā-dang) employed for husking and polishing rice was used at one time, in the area of Rudbār, to crush the olive pomace from which pomace oil was extracted. Potters using that same pā-dang to crush the glass contained in the green glazing (laʿāb) of bowls (gamaj) is yet another example of how this tool is used. Whereas rice-growing techniques were used elsewhere in local production, they were themselves influenced, at the provincial limits, by the traditions of peasants from the neighboring mountains and plateau. Thus, in the area of Rostamābād as well as in the northern part of the province, the first plowing of the rice fields was traditionally done with an ard (ḵiš) generally used to plow wheat and rye fields. This ard is made of a suitably trimmed tree fork, the main branch forming the long beam and the hook forming the sole (Figure 10). Rice is harvested with a long-bladed sickle (urāḡ), a tool also used for wheat, which cuts a larger number of stems than the short-bladed sickle. The mošte (handfuls), assembled in sheaves (darz), are no longer the basic measuring units, as they are on the plain of Gilān; instead they are gathered by the armful into ricks (kuh), as in wheat fields. Farming by the armful replaces farming by the handful. Furthermore, sheaves of rice are not flailed here as they are in the lowlands; instead, rice farmers of the Gilāni borders use their cattle to tread sheaves, as cereal farmers do on the neighboring plateau (see Bazin and Bromberger, map 13). Whereas agricultural techniques using the same tools and methods make up a system, they are related to other sectors of technical activities. Thus, types of rooftops are often determined by the method used for drying rice. On the plain, they either place the sheaves of rice, before threshing them, over the beams which connect the sides of the roof (Figure 4) (the most common method in the Safidrud delta); or they dry the paddy, after threshing it, in containers placed on trays or racks (a process generally used in the interior plain).In both cases, rice is heated by a smoke-producing mixture of wood and rice chaff. In the first instance however, it is necessary to keep the fire at a distance from the sheaves, partly because of fire risks but also to avoid excessive desiccation, which would cause the grains to crack during husking and polishing. Where the technique of drying the sheaves before threshing is used, houses generally have high rooftops with four equal sides (Figure 5). The second process of drying the paddy grains in containers placed on racks or trays halfway up the walls takes less space, so houses have lower hip roofs. The “choice” between one drying method or the other affects the use of straw and has to be linked to the rooftop covering techniques. When drying after threshing, the stems (kulaš) are left intact to be used as roof covering. The two techniques coincide (see Bazin and Bromberger, maps 14, 23). On the other hand, straw dried before threshing is unsuitable for roof covering; in the Safidrud delta area, where this process is used, houses are covered with rush (gāli), growing in abundance in the marshes and more resistant than straw; straw, once blackened and broken up, is used to smoke the nurseries and as tree mulch in the winter. These techniques for drying rice and covering roofs are also connected to the stockbreeding practices. In the interior plain, oxen are used to plow and harrow the rice fields (Bromberger, 1997, pp. 122-24) and rice straw is used as fodder. In the delta area, where the ground is deeper and wetter, horses perform those tasks; they are fed barley, low quality paddy, and a smaller proportion of rice straw. Thus, the differing techniques for drying rice, the roofs shapes and the stockbreeding are connected functionally and form a coherent system of differences.
Figure 10. A Tāleši ard ḵiš: ): (1) oskolan, (2) pišāzan čub, (3) gāvāhan, (4) rāštdār, lat. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
Figure 4. Drying paddy by suspending the sheaves over beams: (1) ḵārek, (2) ḵārekču, (3) darz (sheaf). (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
Figure 5. Structure of a pointed roof with four equal sides. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
Technical style and differentiations. If it is necessary to highlight the interrelation of the systems, it is also necessary to insist on the singular style of Caspian region agricultural and pastoral production techniques. Growing rice in small paddy fields, a practice related to horticulture, the cultivation of herbs and vegetables in enclosures, the feeding of silkworms in nurseries, the raising of one or two oxen or of a horse in sheds locatedunder or behind the houses, these are delicate, meticulous activities which contrast with the more impersonal cultivation of wheat and rye, and even more with the large sheep droves characteristic of the Iranian plateau.In thisminiaturized world, working postures and the use of tools differentiate the masculine from the feminine techniques. Women perform the majority of their tasks (such as transplanting and weeding rice or picking tea leaves) with bare hands, bending over. Men generally work in upright positions with more or less complex tools (such as spades, swing-plows, harrows). There are, however, exceptions to this general rule: in order to feed the silkworms with branches of mulberry trees, men must crawl on the floor of the nursery (Plate I); in Ṭāleš, women sometimes handle axes. Finally, some activities can also be shared between men and women (such as garden weeding using grubbing-hoes, the preparation of paddy seedlings and, to a certain extent, the harvest; see Gilān: Gender relations).
Plate I. Keeping one’s balance when feeding the silkworms with branches of mulberry trees, Langarud area, 1996. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
If one can speak of Gilāni technical culture, one must also note spatial differences in regional practices. Some differences arise from geographical constraints: the wet rice-growing zone of Gilān contrasts with the ʿAmmārlu, Deylamān, and Rudbār highlands, where the agricultural and pastoral techniques are, with few exceptions, similar to those used in the Iranian plateau. Other, less obvious differences are the result of history. A cultural boundary running through the rural districts of Kučeṣfahān and Leštenešā west of Safidrud, divides the plain of Gilān into two nearly symmetrical areas, Biapas and Biapiš, each dominated by a city, Rašt and Lāhijān respectively (Rabino, p. 453). The division, both linguistic and cultural–(Bromberger, 1979, p. 169), is evidence of the old historical division of the province before its unification in the 16th century (though Biapas and Biapiš have continued to be ruled by separate governors). It left its mark on cultural traditions, including technical practices and vocabulary, as we shall see later. Finally, the ability to adopt innovative techniques was not the same in all areas of the province;mechanized techniques spread quickly through the central plain, while the Gāleši mountains (to the south of Lāhijān) and the southernmost part ofṬāleš, less prosperous and more mountainous, have remained repositories of more archaic methods.
A particular techno-economic context. Considering the many production and transformation techniques which have developed since the 19th century, another singular characteristic becomes obvious: rudimentary domestic methods still exist next to industrial facilities equipped with mostly imported, high quality machinery, often in the same rural areas and serving the same purpose. The contrast is particularly obvious in the fields of sericulture and tea production, two commercial crops that are largely controlled by the State.
Since the middle of the 19th century, raw silk threads have been produced in two distinct but neighboring areas: (1) small farms where tasks associated with the stifling of cocoons in a smoke room (dud otāq), the degumming, sorting, and reeling (abrišam-keši) on large wheels were carried out by the peasants themselves; (2) facilities specializing in the processing of cocoons, equipped with machines imported from France and Italy and employing an important labor force (about a hundred such facilities existed on the plain of Gilān at the beginning of the 20th century). At the same time, European-style silk mills were set up (Rabino and Lafont, 1910b, pp. 145-46, 1911, p. 48; Marollo, p. 7; Bromberger, 1989a, pp. 80-86, provides a synthesis). The large state-controlled silk mill in Rašt, under the authority of the Edāra-ye nowḡān o kerm-e abrišam (Sericulture Administration) was created in 1937 to replace the foreign-built industrial facilities, but the practice of domestic reeling remained, even longer in the eastern part than in the western part of the province.
Tea is also processed using two different techniques, one industrial, the other domestic, which frequently coexist within the same community. For local consumption, or when farms are too far removed from processing plants, tea growers pluck and process the tea leaves themselves. First they let them dry and wither (palāsidan), then they roll them and cut them in wooden trays (lāk); they then let them evaporate (tabḵir) and ferment (taḵmir) in a cool and airy place before drying them either by heating on metal plates or by placing them in the wire mesh drawers of a special purpose chest of drawers (Plate II) heated at its base by a brazier (kura) filled with hot ashes. The name of this piece of furniture (form) indicates that it is borrowed, undoubtedly a vestige of the pre-industrialtechniques imported at the time of the introduction of tea by Kāšef-al-Salṭana.
Plate II. An old form lying on a kura (brazier) used to dry tealeaves, Lāhijān area, 1996. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
The bulk of the tealeaves is, however, processed industrially in the many factories (the first one was created in 1932) spread here and there in the areas of production (Lāhijān,Langarud, Fuman). A large number of these settlements (60 to 65 out of 127 in the 1970s, see Van Puymbroeck, p. 17) were controlled until recently by the Iran Tea Company, a government organization that rented them yearly. Since the year 2000, the state has initiated a policy of liberalization, which has brought about a serious crisis (Allaverdian). In these factories, the various processing operations are mechanized—the machines are originally from England or were built after English models—and the categories of teas are thoroughly selected. The leaves are first placed on stacked shelves made of long strips of fabric (palās), and dehydrated at room temperature or with hot air; they are then rolled and cut in electric machines (an operation called māleš), and put through sieves (ḡarbāl).The sifting allows for selection of the best grades—those resulting from the first rolling (māleš yek)—that include the fine point of the golden (zarrin) bud (ḡonče) at the tip of the plant. This top quality tea is itself graded into three categories according to the size of the tips, in descending order of value: the ḡālam “the excellent one” (the equivalent of Golden Flavoury Orange Pekoe, according to international classifications), the šekaste “the broken one” (Golden Flavoury Broken Orange Pekoe) and the baruti “the dusty one” (Golden Flavoury Broken Orange Pekoe Fanning). The remaining leaves are rolled and sifted twice again (māleš do, māleš se), and sorted into three categories after each sifting. Fermentation then takes place in a special room where the temperature must be warm and humid. Finally, the tea is dried in a high temperature oven. The bulk of the production processed in these factories was, until recently, shipped to Tehran where it was tested, sorted and mixed under the control of the Iran Tea Company.
Thus, the technical system of Gilān is a striking example of the coexistence in Iran of archaic methods and modern industrial technology. The contrast is due to the singular economic history of the area where, along with food crops providing daily needs, commercial or speculative crops were initiated and developed by the Stateor byentrepreneurs to meet extra-regional or international needs.
In the rest of this entry, we will not return to the sericulture or tea production techniques mentioned above which are the subject of specific articles (see ABRIŠAM; ČĀY). Rather, we shall study in greater detail the techniques of rice production (for a brief outline of these, see BERENJ), as well as wheat and barley culture and oil processing, all of which illustrate, each in its own way, the various facets of the above-mentioned technical parallelism.
Rice-growing techniques. Because of the winter cold (here the climatic conditions for rice growing are extreme; see Gourou, p. 51) and because of insufficient water resources, the work cycle is concentrated over a short period of time between spring and fall. Within six months, the irrigation canals are cleaned, the fields are plowed and harrowed, the small flood banks between the paddies are repaired, the seedbeds are prepared and supervised, the crop is transplanted, weeded, harvested and threshed. Growing rice, more than other cereals, requires a great number of technical operations and a significant investment in labor. In 1963, before agriculture became mechanized, the number of days necessary to cultivate one hectare was estimated at 244 (ʿAṭāʾi, p. 113). In 2004, it was estimated at 119 (Allaverdian, p. 39)
The varieties cultivated in Gilān belong to the Oryza Sativa L. type. At the beginning of the 20th century, Rabino and Lafont (1910b, pp. 145-54) identified five major varieties classified according to the shape and the size of the grain: čampā (short and thick), rasmi (longer and wider) and, by ascending order of length, thinness and quality, ʿanbar-bu, mawlāʾi, ṣadri. The čampā variety, high yield and resistant but of poor quality, has almost entirely disappeared though it was at one time the basic food of rural families. Several intermediate varieties were introduced since the beginning of the 20th century: ḥasansarāʾi, ḡariba, āqāʾi, binām and the number of varieties has continued to increase for the past thirty years with the introduction of higher yield, poorer quality varieties (such as 1033) or, on the contrary, varieties close to the ṣadri (ṭārom, hāšemi, kāẓemi, qanbari), which is a more fragile and less productive variety which commands a higher price because of an increasingly hard-to-please market demand. Farmers have identified sub-varieties of these types of rice using three main criteria: colorof the chaff (black, white, red, or yellow); the presence or the absence and color of the tassel on the spikelet and, finally, the time of maturation which varies between 110 and 150 days after transplanting. Therefore early (zudras) or warm (garm) rice varieties are opposed to late (dirras) or cold (sard) rice varieties. The former require watering four or five times during the farming cycle, the latter, more productive, seven or eight times. Using these criteria it is possible to single out each sub-variety; therefore, for example, the sorḵ mawlāʾi domdār “the red mawlāʾi with tassel,” is opposed to the mawlāʾi sard bidom “the cold mawlāʾi without tassel” (on these classifications, see Rabino and Lafont, 1910b, pp. 145-54; Bromberger, 1979, p. 162).Farmers grow between three and six sub-varieties chosen according to several factors: water resources, the need for new investment, proportions of the crop intended for sale and for family consumption, harvest timing, all elements which lead them to combine, in variable proportions, cold and warm rice varieties, and higher, lower or intermediate qualities. In the delta, where irrigation is better, production is oriented towards rice monoculture of higher quality, while the piedmont farmers grow warmer and more rustic rice varieties.
Plowing is done at the end of winter and the beginning of spring. Before the introduction of tillers in the 1960s, and later, at the turn of the century, of tractors, the only tool used on the plain was an ard (i.e. a short, light swivel plow with a symmetrical plowshare, called kāvol to the west of Safidrud and gājeme to the east) with a short beam, drawn by an ox or a horse. Although its general shape is the same everywhere, the ard has several variants depending on the area and the nature of the work (see Bazin and Bromberger, pp. 18-23 and maps 6, 7). In Ṭāleš, it is made by peasants of a single piece of wood (Figure 6) shaped with an adze, to which is added a stilt (šuna) fitted with a handle (moštak), a small plank acting as a swingletree (pišāzan), and a plowshare (āfen) with a sleeve tightly fitted inside a ring.In the Rašt area, ards are similar though more complex because carpenters make them: the stilt (šāne) is set into the beam (rāstadār) and sole (kulusa), the plowshare (āhansar) is nailed and the swingletree is a movable rod that passes through the beam (Figure 7). There is yet another variant used in the central and eastern plain areas with or in lieu of this model: the ard has a double stilt set into the beam and sole and the overall size is noticeably larger (Figure 8). It is more resistant and allows good penetration through the deep soils of the delta.When both variants are used, the latter, a heavier model, is used for the first plowing (aškel [stubble], in Ṭāleš, porkani in the central plain) to turn over the soil at a depth of 20-25 centimeters, while the former is used for the second plowing (dobāre, dokār, dokule, vākār, depending on the place), which is more superficial (to a depth of 10-12 centimeters). Three plowings areusually necessary (the third one is called sekār, urān or kār-a kun). The first plowing is often done along the edges and from the outside of the field towardsthe center, the second and the third plowings dig furrows lengthwise or widthwise on the rice paddy (Figure 9). In spite of the widespread modern use of tillers, ards have not disappeared; some farmers still use them for the third plowing (Bazin, I, p. 132) and some find it easier to use them for the delicate plowing of edges, called dorkāri, which cannot be done properly with large size tillers. Most of the manure is added during the third plowing: artificial fertilizers are spread to supplement natural manures (such as silkworm litters, oxen dung, chicken droppings, rice chaff ashes)
Figure 6. An ard from Tāleš (kāvol): (l) moštak, (2) šuna, (3) āfandār, (4) āfan, (5) razdār, (6) pišāzan. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
Figure 7. An ard from the Rašt area (kāvol): (l) moštaka, (2) šāna, (3) kulusa, galšu, (4) āhansa, āhansar, (5) rāstadār, (6) pišāzan. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
Figure 8. An ard from the delta area (gājema): (1) mušta, moštak, (2) šāna, (3) kunusa, galvāč, (4) āhansat, āhinsar, (5) rāstadār, sartawl, tāval, (6) lāfansar, katāvsar. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
Figure 9. Types of plowing in the rice fields. a1: aškel, porkani, šoḵm. a2: dobāra, dokula, vākār. a3: urān, sekār, kār-a-kun. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
In border areas where rain fed crops and rice are grown side by side, for the first plowing of the rice fields, farmers use, as mentioned earlier, a so-called Ṭāleši ard, with a long beam (ḵiš) (Figure 10), drawn by two oxen on a yoke generally used to plow corn fields. In the northernmost part of the province, in Āstārā šahrestān, such an ard is the only known tool used for all three plowings.
The short beam ard is drawn by an ox fitted with a single yoke (lap in the west of the province, jet in the east) tied with traces to the swingletree. Such a single ox yoke (Figure 11) is fixed against the bump (kul) found on the withers of oxen in Gilān (on the morphological characteristics of such bovine, see Bromberger, 1997, p. 124). When horses are used as draft animals, as is the case in northern Āstāna, the yoke is made of a simple fabric collar (gereke; Figure 11). Lastly, in the border areas where ards with long beams are used, they are drawn by a pair of oxen fitted with a double-bow yoke (Figure 12), similar to that used in the dry areas of Iran.
Figure 11. Yokes from the Gilan plain. a: single-ox, wooden yoke (lap, jat). b: single-horse, fabric yoke. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
Figure 12. Double-bow yoke (Deylamān): (1) jet, (2) samaču. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
The second plowing is immediately followed by the repair of the dikes which separate the paddies (kale). This operation, called marzbandi (lit. “demarcation”), is accomplished with long spades (gerbāz, ḵelik, čelāru). Harrowing takes place immediately after the third plowing to homogenize the mud and level the paddy. An ox (or a horse in the delta area) is harnessed, with the kind of yoke described above, to a curved board (piškavol in the west of the province, lat in the east) fitted with a handle (Figure 13). Various instruments are used to complete the leveling operation and to better distribute water overthe surface of rice field (bijār): either harrows with a stilt (tanda in Ṭāleš, damārda in eastern Gilān) (Figure 14) used by women, and possibly by men, to go over fields before transplanting, or straight boards (taxta) drawn by oxen or men. Metal harrows are now adapted to the tillers but a considerable number of peasants continue to perform these tasks manually (Plate III).
Figure 13. Harrow (piškāvol, lot): (1) maštaka, mošteka, moštaka, (2) šuna, šāna, (3) piškāvol. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
Figure 14. Hand harow (tanda, darmārda) used to complete the leveling operation. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
Plate III. Harrowing the rice field with a (piškāvol), Safidrud delta area, 2000. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
While the plowing and harrowing take place, rice seeds are allowed to germinate and sown in nurseries. These operations generally begin in the plain on sizdah bedar (13 Farvardin, or 3 April) and a little later (around 15 Ordibehešt = 5 May) in the border areas.Germination can be done in a number of ways: in the old days the seed grain, presoaked in lukewarm water over three days, was placed in bags (guni) or baskets (čipi) hung from the beams of the house veranda. Nowadays, in the farms of the plain, the presoaked seed grain (jo) is placed on a sheet of fabric or plastic which is itself placed on a layer of straw; then it is covered with branches of the heat producing elder tree (Sambuccus ebulus, locally called šund, pulḵom; Plate IV), and then with fabric, manure, or a sheet of plastic. In other instances seed grain is placed in a bag covered by a rug and frequently sprinkled with hot water.
Plate IV. Covering the seed grain with branches of elder tree, Safidrud delta area, 2000. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
Once germinated, the seed grain is sown in nurseries (tumbijār) which are meticulously prepared and carefully watched, in order to avoid excessive cold, poorly controlled irrigation, or lack of manure, all likely to compromise the growth of seedlings and cause them to yellow. The task is carried out with much care and is accompanied by propitiatory rites (see GILĀN xvi. FOLKLORE) to ensure good performance. The men use spades to plow, and women complete the task with small hoes, embankments are heaped to demarcate the nurseries, animal and vegetable fertilizers are carefully spread, and, a few days before sowing, the soil of the tumbijār is trampled and leveled manually by women. They also sow seed grain on water-covered mud; after the water has filtered in and evaporated, the seedlings are covered with charcoal and ash (suḵte, sute) and watered again in three days’ time. After three weeks, in good weather, the seedlings are ten centimeters high and ready to be transplanted. During that time, scarecrows with cow heads or the din of metal utensils hung above the nurseries keep the sparrows away. That particular risk disappeared, in the 1980s, with the use of plastic sheets placed over hoops to cover the nurseries. Less time is needed to grow seedlings (about fifteen days) but constant and careful supervision of nurseries is always necessary and includes, for example, checking twice a day the waterlevel and airing the seedlings.
After they have been delicately removed from the tumbijār, the seedlings are transferred in large trays (tabāg) to the bijār where women replant them (Plate V). This arduous task reserved to the women, is generally accomplished between the end of April and the beginning of June, depending on location. The seedlings are planted in rows set apart 25 centimeters and in clumps of two or three in good soil (where suckers grow stronger), or seven or eight in poorer soil. In newly cleared fields, where suckers grow exceptionally well, the seedlings can be set up to 50 centimeters apart (Rabino and Lafont, 1910b p. 162); this is also the case for new, very high yield varieties such as 1033. In poor soil, on the contrary, the space between plants can be reduced to as little as 15 centimeters.Women work walking backwards, “leveling with their footsteps any unevenness left by previous leveling operations” (ibid.). This task is done by groups of female relatives or neighbors or, more often today, by paid female labor (kereči) coming from poor areas. Solidarity in work was once expressed by songs and gestures (for example the planting of two tumb side by side as a sign of partnership: joft).
Plate V. Transplanting (nešā) the seedlings, Amlaš area, 1993. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
About ten days after transplanting (nešā), the weeding operations begin (first vijin, and two weeks later, dobare), in the temporarily drained rice plantations. Under a blazing sun, women then bend over to tear off with bare hands the suruf, a kind of Panicum, the čikevāš (Asperula humifosa), the qāšoq-ḡāš (Sagittaria sagittifolia), which are harmful to the growth of rice. To avoid burns and to soothe the wounds on their fingers, they cover them with elder tree (pulḵom) sap. The only thing left for men to do afterwards is to clean the dikes which separate the paddies with billhooks (dās).
Those are the last major technical operations before harvest but it is still necessary to irrigate the bijār two or three times depending on the rice varieties cultivated, to repair or rebuild the hedges (čapar, parčin) which protect from animal intruders (particularly wild boars). In the areas close to forests, a watchman is hired to stay on a covered platform (kutam) in the middle of the fields and drive away visiting wild boars.
A lengthy operation requiring significant labor, the harvest (berenjbini) takes place between the end of July and the beginning of November depending on the microclimate and the cultivated rice varieties. The harvest is done by men, occasionally by women, using sickles (dāre) with short (20-25 cm), serrated, and slightly curved blades. The harvesters grab handfuls (mošte, qabze in Gilān, čanga in southernmost Ṭāleš) of stems with their left hands and cut them by rubbing them with sickles held in their right hands. In the border areas, rice is harvested using sickles with curved, smooth and long blades, called urāg, ordinarily used to cut wheat.The latter operation is done in three steps rather than two: the harvesters gather a great number of stems with the blades and seize them with their hands before cutting them. Intermediate formulae are used in Ṭāleš where sickles have medium-size serrated blades (ca. 30 cm) for the harvest of rice and corn (on the typology of sickles, see Sigaut, pp. 34-39). The stems are cut at various heights depending on the needs for straw. In central Gilān where straw is used to make ropes, brooms, to cover roofs, to feed cattle… the haulm is cut short. Elsewhere the haulm may be cut longer (for cattle fodder as well as fertilizer once tilled).
The harvested rice is carefully sheaved and stacked following strict rules specific to each locality; usually 12 handfuls make a sheaf (darz) and 50 sheaves a stack (kuva); sometimes a stack is the size of a load (bār) carried by a horse as, for instance, when it is made of 25 sheaves of 12 handfuls each or 30 sheaves of 10 handfuls each. Such precise accountingonce facilitated crop sharing between tenants and landlords. After those tasks are completed, rice is carried to the farms either on horseback or by men using shoulder sticks (čānču).
The sheaves are stored in various structures (for more on the morphology and the distribution of such structures, see Bromberger, 1979, pp. 165-67; idem, 1989b, pp. 87-94). The form most generally found in the north of the province and in the central plain to the west of the Sefidrud is a long, low barn built directly on the ground (called kuruj or telembār) (Figure 15). The other main type is a storehouse built on pilings (kanduj, kuti) with several variants. West of the Anzali lagoon, roofs are rounded and elongated; in central Gilān, storehouses are pyramid-like (Figure 16); and in eastern Gilān, they are shaped like houses, cubical buildings covered by roofs with four equal sections (Figure 17). In areas where rice farming is a marginal or a relatively recent activity, for example in northern Ṭāleš, in the Rostamābād area in the Safidrud valley below Rudbār, the sheaves are stored in homes, in a room called darz-a ka in Ṭāleši.
Figure 15. Storehouse (kuruj, telembār, Rašt area): (1) kulasakat, (2) sarsakat, (3) ajār, lattice of branches placed in front of the entry, (4) sar, roof. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
Figure 16. Storehouse (kanduj, delta area): (1) ḵāk and cine, foundation of daub and stone, (2) rit, small beams, (3) tāḵte, board, (4) linga, post, (5) par, rat guard made from a wooden dish, (6) lār, (7) vāšan, (8) paracub. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
Figure 17. Raised storehouse (kanduj, eastern plain): (1) ḵāk and cine, foundation of daub and stone, (2) lang, post, (3) kula, (4) sutun, (5) zigāl, (6) sar, roof. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
Of all of these structures found side by side in the central plain, only the storehouses on pilings, hence raised above the damp ground and protected from pests, are an efficient means of storage. A central flue (havākeš) is left in the middle of the mow to ventilate and dry the sheaves; thus the crop can be stored as inventory for several months or even years in anticipation of favorable market conditions, usually in the spring. In many areas of central Gilān only the wealthier farmers, who work more than two hectares of paddy field, own raised storehouses, which is thus a sign of social differentiation.
A practice peculiar to the Caspian provinces is to complete the drying process by smoking (dud dādan) the rice; this, it is said, facilitates storage, gives the rice an unmistakable aroma, and keeps the grains from sticking together during cooking. As previously mentioned, there are two methods of rice smoking: (1) Sheaves may be hung in a place heated by the slow combustion of a mixture of wood and rice chaff; they may be either placed over the poles or beams which connect the different sides of the roof or of a room (a method frequently used in the area of the Safidrud delta), or placed horizontally on trays covered with cob, located halfway between the ground and the roof (a preferred formula in the north of the province); (2) The paddy (jo), once separated from the stalks, is spread out on racks covered with daub or placed in vessels (kālevi) made from cow manure and then smoked. Smoking is usually done in the main room of the house though a specific structure (called garm-a ḵāne, bojḵāne) is sometimes built for that purpose.
Once out of the shed or drying room, the sheaves are threshed to separate the rice seed from the panicles (ḡuša). The most common method consists in threshing rice with flails (jāku, gučin, lasku) (Figure 18), a task performed by men or women on the gallery of the house, under the kanduj or in the telembār; trampling by cattle (horses, bovines) on a surface (sometimes covered) is a method practiced only in the northern and eastern parts of the province (see Bazin and Bromberger, map 13), in areas close to the territories where the prevailing crop is wheat.At the end of the threshing or trampling operation, some grains still remain on the panicles; the women of the house complete the grain removal by pushing the panicles between the tips of a split reed. Lastly, the women winnow rice in order to get rid of sterile and empty grains.
Figure 18. Flails. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
To husk (pust kandan) and polish (sefid kardan) rice, various more or less complex processes were used in the old days. The simplest method, used for small quantities, consisted in striking the paddy in a mortar (hāvan) or a hollow trunk (nāv) with a handheld pestle (jānse, jangasar) resembling a small dumbbell. Rice intended for family consumption was processed with a foot-activated pestle (pā-dang) made of a beam acting as a seesaw lever and tipped with iron points. A man, sometimes a woman, perched on the beam, would use his feet to alternatively lower and lift the pestle which came down into a mortar crushing the rice paddy mixed with a little meerschaum as a polishing agent. A third, more productive method, using hydraulic pestles (āb-dang) and practiced by commercial millers, made it possible to process larger quantities intended for both owner and for sale. A vertical wheel with pallets fitted with metal blades was activated from below by water from a mill race;it drove a shaft (tir) mounted with cams (kutinā) each lifting a pestle (for further description and diagrams of pā-dang and āb-dang, see Rabino and Lafont, 1911, pp. 20-23; Wulff, pp. 290-91; Mohebbi, pp. 177-82, who noted that there is no confirmed evidence of the use of āb-dang until the 17th century). Whatever the method used (or combination of methods, such as āb-dang followed by pā-dang; see Faḵrāʾi, p. 127), husking and polishing were divided into three phases, each one ending with a winnowing; the first two poundings produced rice types called gāče and dobare, clear of outer glumella but still containing bran (sup, puf, kapak). At the end of the third pounding, rice, now polished, was said to be vataš and passed three times through a sieve (alak); the first sifting produced whole grains (berenj), the second grains split in two (miāndāne), the third, fragments (čekār).
For half a century, technical innovations have gradually transformed rice cultivation. Husking and polishing in small factories (kārḵāna-ye berenjkubi) were the first mechanized operations (as of the end of the 1940s in the central plain). Mechanical threshing machines (ḵarmankub-e motori) were brought in later, at the end of the 1960s. Tillers were introduced during the same decade and were widely used in the 1970s; tractors have only been used since the beginning of the 21st century in some areas (Rostamābād, Leštenešā, and elsewhere) where fields were consolidated and leveled, and the landscape completely transformed. Several operations continue to be done manually (transplanting, weeding, harvesting) because of the small size of the fields, and the lack of capital (mechanical planters and chemical weed killers are expensive) but also,depending on who does the work, in as much as the mechanization of male tasks was given priority (see GILĀN xvii. GENDER RELATIONS).
Wheat and barley growing. Wheat (gandom) was grown at one time in the plain and on the Piedmont of Gilān (older inhabitants remember; see also Melgunof, pp. 257, 260; Bazin, I, p. 148), but it was replaced, during the 20th century, by rice and other cultures. Today it is confined to the humid mountains of Ṭāleš, from the Manjil pass all the way to Rostamābād and the arid slopes of Alborz east of Safidrud. With the few exceptions of the areas close to the southernmost borders of the province, wheat is a rain fed crop (deymi). From the Caspian slopes to the plateau the systems of crop rotation varies in some ways. On the lower levels of the humid mountain of Ṭāleš, crop rotation is not customary. Winter wheat and barley (pāʾize “fall” is the word used) alternate from one year to the next with maize sown in the spring (Bazin, II, p. 11). At higher altitudes, and generally, on the arid slopes, a biennial crop rotation between winter wheat or barley and fallowing is the rule. Either neighboring fields are alternatively cultivated, or the grounds are divided into two plateaus, one cultivated, the other fallowed (known as āyeš or nābar) and either left unseeded or planted with chick-peas, lentils, or other late summer crops.
The work cycle for wheat and barley, much less trying than the work required for rice, begins in the spring with a first plowing followed by harrowing; in the fall, a second plowing is done before sowing, followed again by harrowing, and the harvest takes place between the end of June and the end of July. The tools used for the preparation of the fields vary from the west to the east of the province (see Bazin and Bromberger, map 6 and p. 24). In Ṭāleš and all the way to Rostamābād, the ard (generally named ḵiš) is made of a single piece of wood, fitted with a plowshare and sleeve, and does not include any device to adjust the angle of ground penetration (Figure 10); in simplicity and shape, if not in size, it is similar to that of the kāvol, and is used in border areas, as mentioned before, for the first plowing of the rice plantations. In the east of Safidrud, the ard (gādār) is made of two pieces of wood, the beam is tightly fitted inside the sole, the plowshare is held by two nails and a metal sheath is used to adjust the angle of ground penetration (Figure 19). Again, this technical contrast confirms the division of the province into two distinct cultural areas. Whatever the type of ard, the yoke (giv in the west of Safidrud, jet, jit, joft in the east) is a collar yoke joining two oxen, each harnessed with two flexible wood rods (samaču) whose ends are attached to one another. The yoke is tied to the ard by a loop (lāfen, lāhi) which is attached to a peg (pišazen, kilit), passing through the top of the beam. The harrow (māle) is a wooden pole, with a hole in its center, tightly fitted inside the sole of the ard and pulled by the oxen. In some cases—as in the area of Deylamān—the pole is not used, only the ard without a plowshare, whose very broad sole is big enough to break the mounds, level the ground and cover the seeds. On dry soil, here and there, farmers prefer to use the more efficient strength of their arms and break the mounds with hoes (tarašt).
Figure 19. Ard (gādār) used in the Deylamān and Rudbār areas: (1) mošte, (2) culat, lat, (3) lat, latu, (4) gājemedār, gādār, (5) pišazen, (6) pilak kili, (7) kucekili. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
Harvesting is done primarily by men using a sickle with a curved, smooth, and long blade (urāg) (cf. supra). Before they are threshed, the sheaves are left to dry, away from the cattle, either in the yard of the house (in northern Ṭāleš), or in the middle of the fields under the watchful eye of a guard, or inside a stone enclosure, or in trees (in the eastern mountains of the province). Simple trampling by the cattle is the method used for threshing (Plate VI). A traditional tool of central Iran called jangal (the Roman plaustellum), a threshing wheel made of two axes fitted with points or blades, is used only in the southernmost border area of the province, near Manjil. The tribulum (vāl), a board with flint or metal points, is a popular tool in western Iran, but is not found in the province; in fact, its popularity decreases at the border of neighboring Azerbaijan. Once it is winnowed with a pitchfork (belang), the grain is sifted, then washed and ground traditionally in mills activated by a horizontal wheel. Since 1970s-1980s such technical devices for the preparation of the fields and processing of the harvest have been replaced by machines: tractors with disk-plows for plowing and hulling or, for the latter, mechanical threshing-machines and motorized grinding mills. The modern techniques spread faster in the wheat growing regions than in the smaller rice growing areas. Moreover, these two crops are representative of two distinct conceptual worlds. Wheat growing is meant for large spaces, surfaces are evaluated by the weight of the seeds, the process is spread over a long period with only a few operations, harvest is counted by armfuls; rice growing is confined to small spaces, surfaces are evaluated by units of both surface and mass (the darz is the sheaf made of 10 or 12 handfuls and equals one thousandth of the jarib, or approximately 10 square meters), the farming calendar is short and fast, harvest is counted by handfuls. Although this tendency is more obvious in rice growing areas, in both cases individual forms of land development prevail: there is, for example, no periodic reapportionment of the land as in the boneh of the Ṭāleqān or Qazvin regions (Sternberg-Sarel, pp. 211-13), wheat is not threshed in a collective area (the operation is done on the spot or, as in Ṭāleš, in the family enclosure), mills are not owned jointly.
Plate VI. Two oxen, joined by a collar yoke, threshing the harvest, Deylamān area, 1972. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
Olive-growing. Olive culture is said to have been introduced to Gilān by a colony sent from Syria by Timur (Rabino, p. 210).Concentrated around Rudbār-e zeytun (Rudbār of olives), a site made famous by ʿAbbās Kiārostami’s movies, it covers a small territory with some Mediterranean characteristics. The dry climate, however, requires irrigation: “the water allowance varies between seven or ten to thirty days depending on the soil and seasons” (Bazin, II, p. 113). In spring, farming methods include tilling with a hoe (tarašt), fertilizing with animal manure into trenches (čāle) around the base of the trees. Olive-trees are not pruned and olive picking is done with long thin poles (kater); the fruits are gathered and carried in baskets woven out of willow (bid) branches. Picking goes from the end of October to Decemberdepending on the varieties picked and on their destination (table olives, ḵorāki, used to prepare zeytun parvarde [see GILĀN XXI. COOKING] are eaten green whereas olives intended for oil are picked black at the end of maturation). Olive growers distinguish ten varieties of zi (local name of olive) according to their shape, shades of coloration, even according to the aspect of the tree. For home consumption, the best kind is mārizi (“in the shape of a snake”), long and narrow, and, just below, the shorter šangizi or šankizi; to make oil, as its name indicates, the roḡāni or roḡānzi variety has a high yield (one liter of oil for each five kg of olives).Other varieties, used as table olives or for oil, are less valued: the sefid (white), large olives with a russet shade and whitish tree trunk; the zard (yellow), a little darker than the sefid; the saḵtezi, of the same color as the zard but with tough skins; the siāh (black); the gerde (round).
To make table olives edible, various traditional processes are used: olives may be allowed to macerate in ashes, to remove their bitterness, then soaked in fresh water during one week, washed carefully, pitted and preserved in brine (Chodźko, p. 77). Another technique consists in sprinkling olives with salt after crushing them. Whatever the technique used, the olives are preserved in earthenware jars (ḵomre) or, more frequently nowadays, in large plastic containers (boške).
Compared to those used in the Mediterranean world (Casanova), the techniques of oil processing in the area of Rudbār have very specific characteristics which have not been mentioned in historical analyses such as Mohebbi’s (pp. 167-68) for example, based only on the study of texts. In Gilān, presses for a long time did not use a screw, a system missing from the repertory of traditional rural techniques. They were usually made of two beams, forming a kind of vice, between which a bag filled with olives was placed and on which pressure was applied by manpower only.
But, before the pressing operation, several steps were taken to soften the olives and remove their vegetation water. Generally, the olives were first boiled in a container (tiān) to become softer (Churchill, p. 3; these data are confirmed by contemporary local accounts). Then they were dried and allowed to settle on the flat roofs of the houses, in attics, in bags, in a stone pit covered with cob fitted with an opening to drain the vegetation water (āb-e zard). After those steps were completed, olives were placed in a hollow trunk (nāv) or in a large tray (ṭašt), to be treaded underfoot or crushed with a wooden pestle.
Pressing could be reduced to the simple treading or crushing of olives, possibly placed in a bag (kise) made of sheep wool or goat hair. To avoid falling while treading, people could hold on to a cord tied to the ceiling. The oil obtained flowed into a tray or was directed to a barrel filled with water; because of its lighter weight, it stayed at the surface, while the water including that which still came out of the olives, was evacuated by an opening at the base of the barrel.
Another basic technique (see Parain, pp. 270-71) consisted in pressing olives between two stones: Chodźko (p. 76) speaks of two grinding stones, Townley (p. 2) of two “flat stones”, which seems more probable and was again recently found to be used for domestic production.
But the most frequent method identified is that of pressing between two horizontal beams, one fixed, and the other mobile; such a process was mentioned as early as in the 16th century (according to a manuscript [Persan 727] in the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris, quoted by Mohebbi, pp. 221-22). This generic technique of pressing with a lever has had several variants and modifications in the area of Keleštār, Rudbār, and Rostamābād. The simplest method consisted in placing a bag filled with olives on a board and to lower a large horizontal beam (alvār) with one end driven into a wall. Men would sit on the high beam to exert the necessary pressure. The oil flowed into a container (lāk) placed under the bag. A more elaborate variant, combining the principles of leverage and of tightening, consisted in dropping a vertical beam (čāneču, taram), tightly fitted inside a thick wooden bench (pil-a ču, lit. “large wood”), on the mobile board of the vice which in turn pressed the bag of olives wedged against the fixed board, itself fixed inside the bench. An individual, perched on a block of wood where the bench was secured, pulled the vertical beam with a cord (lāfen); he was held fast by a wooden bolster (kun-a taḵta, lit. “root board”), acting as a strap.
Once the first cold-press oil was extracted, the process was generally repeated: the pomace was heated and pressed again. Sometimes another process was used after the second pressing, or even directly after the first: residues (perz) were placed in a trench (čāle) set up as a mortar and crushed with the foot-activated pestle (pā-dang) normally used to husk and polish rice. The resulting paste was then cooked in boiling water and the rising oil skimmed off with a spoon. Whatever the process used, oil was frequently boiled to eliminate the remaining water.
These various, clever, and rudimentary techniques were used at home or in small oil mills owned by notables. Great changes took place during the 20th century, depending on the type of operation. In small oil mills, screws or capstans were introduced as early as 1940, resulting in increased productivity. The pressure exerted by a metal screw passing through both the fixed and mobile boards replaced the pressure created by the weight of bodies. The first board was held by two vertical beams leaning against the wall (thus the name of the device: divārku) and anchored in the ground and the ceiling. The second board was secured, at one end, to the first board by means of a large peg, which also passed through the vertical beam. At the other end, the boards had screw holes for tightening (Figure 20). A capstan was added to the press (Figure 21) where sheer muscle power had previously gripped the vertical beam to let it fall on the mobile board. A system of relay, secured by pieces of wood (katreki), allowed the multiplication and redirection of the force transmitted to the cord by the rotation of the crank. Another improvement was the joining of the two boards (dastelat) with an iron hinge at one of the extremities, the only metal element in the device.
Figure 20. Pressing crushed olives between two planks(divarku). (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
Figure 21. Oil-pressing machine (dastgāh-e roḡan keši): (1) balagerd, (2) bālak, (3) lafan, (4) taram, (5) dastelat, (6) angoštak, iron hinge joining the two dastelats, (7) dastelat, (8) žāmen, (9) katreki, (10) pilaču, (11) kisa, containing the crushed olives. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
Well before the latest improvements to the local presses, more efficient mechanisms had been installed in the large oil mills of the valley. In 1890, a monopoly of olive buying and processing was granted to Messrs. Kousis and Theophilactos, two Greek traders from Baku, under Russian protection (Churchill, p. 1), who established a factory in Rudbār and installed presses imported from Marseilles (Townley, p. 2). Although the project was directed at exporting oil to Russia, it failed due to high customs duties (Rabino, p. 51).Beginning in the 1930s, crushing with a revolving vertical millstone (dastgāh-e piči) (Figure 22) activated by men and pressing the girdle-cake form bags (guni, kise) full of crushed olives in a central screw press were the techniques used in the most important oil mills. There were two successive pressings, the first, a cold press, followed by a second pressing after pouring boiling water over the pile of bags. In the 1970s, “two large entirely mechanized factories, one state-run in Ganja, the other, a private undertaking in the village of Safidrud” (Bazin, II, p. 115) combined and processed most of the olive production. Ten mills now equipped with mechanical crushing machines (the first wasintroduced in 1975) and central screw presses, remain. While the techniques of oil making were modernized with machines from Italy, the process of preservation of table olives improved with the introduction, in 1971, of a new brine formula, inspired by the Spanish.
Figure 22. Crushing the olives with a revolving vertical millstone (dastgāh-e piči): (1) čub, (2) sang-e piči, (3) jāl. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
If four-fifths of the production of olives is destined to oil extraction, and the remainder reserved for table use, a considerable part of second quality oil is reserved for the production of soap, a specialty of Keleštār. In addition to olive oil (12 parts), the ingredients are: alkali (qalyāb), found in saline plants, lime (āhak) and salt, 10, 4, and 1 parts, respectively. The mixture is heated to a boil three times in succession, resulting in an emulsion where the ether contained in the fat is broken up by the alkali. A salted detergent is added to purify the soap, which is then poured into cases where it becomes solid.
The example of olive oil making illustrates once again the paradoxical complexity of the technical system of Gilān, characterized as it is by the coexistence of local rustic techniques and imported machinery. Since the 1850s, the province hasbeen the setting for experimentation and industrial innovation in rural areas, while at the same time simple forms for acquiring and processing goods for home consumption or small-scale marketing were maintained. Studied over a longer period of time, a study of the history of the local production techniques in Gilān is by and large informative. Material and farming limitations require comparable solutions everywhere throughout the world: ards harnessed to oxen with single yokes, shoulder sticks to carry sheaves, foot-activated and hydraulic pestles are all part of the equipment used by rice traditional farmers almost everywhere. The leveraging and tightening technique used to press olives is acknowledged in most Mediterranean societies. But, against a backdrop of technical similarities, specific techniques emerge: rice in Gilān is traditionally smoked, an exceptional technique throughout the world; the combination of tightening, and use of a lever and capstan to process olives is unique. Finally, it is important to note that cultivated resources are not always naturally occurring local resources. The majority of crops (tobacco, tea, peanuts, citrus fruits and among them the newly introduced kiwi) have been imported from other areas over the course of history—including rice, silk, olives a long time ago—whereas plants originating in the area, like the grape vine, have never been cultivated.
PLATES
Plate I. Keeping one’s balance when feeding the silkworms with branches of mulberry trees, Langarud area, 1996. (Courtesy of the author).
Plate II. An old form lying on a kura (brazier) used to dry tealeaves, Lāhijān area, 1996. (Courtesy of the author).
Plate III. Harrowing the rice field with a piškāvol, Safidrud delta area, 2000. (Courtesy of the author).
Plate IV. Covering the seed grain with branches of elder tree, Safidrud delta area, 2000. (Courtesy of the author).
Plate V. Transplanting (nešā) the seedlings, Amlaš area, 1993. (Courtesy of the author).
Plate VI. Two oxen, joined by a collar yoke, thrashing the harvest, Deylamān area, 1972. (Courtesy of the author).
Bibliography
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- R. V. Van Puymbroeck, Production and marketing of tea in Iran, Centre for Agricultural Marketing Development, Tehran, 1972.
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GILĀN xix. Landholding and Social Stratification
Prior to the Land Reform of 1962 that began the process of land redistribution, the dominant production system in Gilān, as in the majority of Persianprovinces, was of a feudal nature. The often absentee landowner (arbāb), large or small, owned most of the arable land that was in turn cultivated by the peasantry (Gil. raʾyat, Pers. raʿiyat) bound by contract and enforced through a system of bailiffs (mobāšers).
However, the situation of the peasants in Gilān was less difficult than that of others in the rest of the interior of Persia. The contracts were less onerous, and they could profit from advantages seldom conceded in other areas of the country: “The worker,” wrote Rabino (p. 25) at the beginning of the 20th century, “pays no rent for his cottage. His cows and sheep graze freely on any land that is not under cultivation. He cuts wood in the non-cultivated area of his owner’s land, and sells it for his own profit. He burns charcoal without anyone preventing him. He grows vegetables around his house and sells them or uses them as he sees fit, and disposes at will the fruit that grows in abundance and the poultry that he raises.” This relatively privileged position of the peasant in Gilān (especially in the plain) is the outcome of a twofold process. First, the amount of work invested in rice-growing (the staple activity of the region) is much greater than that required, for example, in cultivating wheat or barley, so it is not surprising that the exploitation system was more favorable to the peasants in this rice-growing fringe of Persia. Second, the Gilāni landowners could not justify substantial levies on the production because of what might be called their functional weakness (Kazemi and Abrahamian, pp. 289-90): their role in the organization of production was minimal, as they were not required to finance major irrigation projects in this area of abundant rivers, as was the case in central Persia for the construction of qanāts (see KĀRIZ), nor did they provide protection against attack by, for example, nomadic populations.
Gilān thus showed a paradoxical profile. In the province, large properties owned outside of the local community prevailed. Along with Azerbaijan, Kordestān, and Lorestān, Gilān was among the areas characterized by large estates (see a 1947-48 document quoted by Lambton, p. 270) of over 200 hectares, mostly concentrated in the district of Rašt (Sahami, p. 43). In 1960, of the 281,875 hectares cultivated in Gilān, 56,316 were farmed by owners (approximately 20 percent of the total), 176,532 were tenant farmed, and 49,027 were jointly farmed by owners and tenants (Ehlers, p. 290). Absentee ownership was particularly evident in the delta area, although less in Ṭāleš (Bazin, I, p. 121). According to the 1960 agricultural survey, only 19 out of 356 large and average-size landholders resided in villages (Sahami, p. 47). Yet, despite the predominance of large private holdings (the quantity of land owned by the Crown, known as ḵāleṣa [see ḴĀṢṢA], and likewise of property owned by religious foundations, known as mawqufa, was negligible), the condition of the peasants was, for the reasons stated above, less drastic than elsewhere: the distribution of the harvest was not determined by the share contribution (labor, livestock, seeds, manure, land, water) of the owner and tenant, as it was in the rest of Persia. A tenant farming system (ejāradāri) based on fixed rents, which permitted the peasant to keep approximately two-thirds of the harvest, was the dominant system (74 percent of the rice acreage in 1960) throughout the region with some variation for sub-regional plantings.
Tenant leases, contracted for one, two, or three years, provided that the peasants supply the seeds, the plow, and livestock, and that they give the owner’s representative, at the end of the rice harvest, a fixed number of quṭi (a measuring unit equal to a weight of between 24 and 37.5 kg, depending on local custom; see Bazin and Bromberger, p. 54 and maps 27 and 29). The quantity of quṭi required per jarib (a unit of surface equal to 10,400 m² in the plain) varied according to the productivity: from six (equal to 222 kg in Asālem, Ṭāleš) to thirty (960 kg in the most fertile zones of the plain). In the central region, it was fixed at about twenty quṭi (from 32 to 37.5 kg according to place) of hulled rice. When contracts were let for the development of new farmland, farmers were generally exempt from paying annual rentals for at least three years (Rabino and Lafont, p. 135). Less widespread was the use of sharecropping (monāṣefa; tivakāri, lit. “you, farm,” in Ṭāleši), whereby the owner and the peasant shared equally in the harvest (practiced in 14 percent of the rice plantations in 1960); the process of division consisted in creating heaps (kuhs) each including the same number of sheaves (dasta or darz) after the harvest and dividing the harvest equally under the watchful eye of the mobāšer. Depending on local arrangements, operating costs (e.g., plow, livestock, seeds) were—in most cases—shared between the tenant and the owner, or else, were the exclusive responsibility of one or the other (in Ṭāleš particularly, for which see Bazin, I, p. 123).
The contracts for tenant farming and sharecropping also stated the proportion of different varieties of rice that had to be supplied by the peasant; a quarter of the owner’s share generally consisted of first-quality rice (of the ṣadri type). In addition, peasants were to supply their masters with farmyard and garden produce: chickens (sometimes cooked, such as morḡ lāku “young chick”; lāku literally means “young girl chick” in the Gilāki dialect of Lāhijān and is cooked in fesanjān; q.v.), eggs, green grape juice (āb-ḡura, q.v.), broad beans, sour pomegranates, watermelons, melons, and nuts. They also had to bring them jukul (green rice grains, announcing the next harvest, used to make sweets; see Gilān. Cooking) dry leaves (saračina) of rice stems to feed horses, and straw brooms. Finally, the peasant was required to perform community service (bigāri) such as clearing the irrigation canals and repairing roads and houses. If a peasant did not fulfill his obligations, he could be punished by the mobāšer, who could lock him up in a cattle shed or a smoke-filled rice drying shed (dud-ḵāna) or whip him with a pomegranate tree branch. The owner’s representative—who sometimes was also the kadḵodā (chief of the village)—was exempt from paying rent for the land he farmed or else received a percentage (generally 10 percent) of the rents paid by the peasants. But, in order to increase the value of his tithe, he adjusted quantities and weights to his advantage, thus “exceeding the legal weight stated in the lease” (Nikitine, fol. 125). This practice was known to the owners and even had a name which sanctioned the practice, the towfir-e sang “difference in weight.”
It was also the mobāšer who, in the old days, collected the tax due to the governor, a source of incremental demands, which further burdened the peasants’ budgets (Nikitine, fol. 124-25). Regional poetry (see, among others, Faḵrāʾi, ed., Gozida-ye adabiyāt-e gilaki) strikingly echoes the tension between the arbāb and his representative on the one hand, and the raʾyat, his subject, on the other. Moḥammad-ʿAli Afrāšta (q.v.) thus recounts a dialogue between a peasant and his son (Fakrāʾi, pp. 150): Arbāb-e ḵāne mi amrā āï šeyṭāni nokon / Ḵun kone ḵānom agar das bebari hoż-e darun / Ti pišāni ʿaraqā āstin āmrā pākā kun/ šišḵārā jur agar arbāb torā jandar dagāne / ḵāme bo rastā bo ti dastā ti sine sar bene “If you come with me to the lord’s house, do not play tricks / If you touch the pond in the courtyard, the lord’s wife’s heart will miss a beat / wipe the sweat off your face with your shirt sleeve / If the lord sees you from the top of the balcony / bow at first then stand up and put your hands on your chest.”
Tenant farming dominated rice culture, but the production of cash crops (silk, tea, hemp, jute, citrus fruits, etc.) was governed by other types of contracts. Sharecropping was most widespread in sericulture, the cocoons also being divided between owners and breeders (see Abbott, fol. 27; Bromberger, 1989b, p. 79). By the end of the 19th century however, when, following the outbreak of the silkworm disease pebrine, local producers were forced to import seeds, a tripartite system (known as mosalasa, Pers. moṯallaṯa ) temporarily replaced the produce-sharing lease system. The harvest was then split three ways between the seed supplier, the owner, and the peasant (Lafont and Rabino, p. 21). More recently, the cultivation of hemp, jute, and especially of tea—which requires an initial major investment (tea becomes profitable only at the end of the sixth year)—was developed in large fields using paid labor (Issawi, p. 210; Bazin, I, p. 159; Suzuki, p. 125). The large orange plantations in eastern Gilān were exploited in the same way (Vieille, p. 49). So, even before agrarian reform, feudal and capitalist systems of production coexisted, depending on the nature of the cultures.
Agricultural activities having recourse to paid labor, especially in tea and citrus bāḡs (gardens), were exempted from reform (article 3.1 of the law of 1962) and further developed. These industrial properties form large enclaves in the patchwork landscape of rice fields, most of which had been acquired by peasants by the end of the third phase of the Land Reform, completed in 1971. Today, parcels not farmed by the owners are not held by tenant farmers but sharecropped. This system is undoubtedly less favorable to the peasants, except that now the owners provide seed, fertilizers, and herbicides. In addition, the demand for land is high—the plain, which is now entirely cleared, has doubled in population over the past 40 years (1956-96)—and the farming population, although declining sharply, still accounts for 40 percent of the active population. In the absence of owners, the sericulture or silkworm breeding, whose production has dramatically diminished, remains in the sharecropping system, with the owners supplying seed and other factors of production.
As was already the case before the agrarian reform, the farming community is comprised of social levels or strata organized according to the size of the rice holdings. A distinction can be made between three categories of holdings: (1) Micro-holdings are farms less than one hectare, where production volume is just enough to feed the family who works the land; in the plain, one hectare of rice plantation yields two tons of rice on average, which is to say a little more than the consumption of a country family. (Rice was until very recently the basic food for all three meals, and an adult ate about a kilo per day.) In 1956 these micro-farms accounted for 29 percent of the total number of holdings, and in 1974 36 percent (Research Group, p. 139; Markaz, pp. 124-25). (2) Average-sized farms are of one to three hectares (54 percent of the total in 1956, and approximately 50 percent in 1974). Farms of this size are able to accumulate a production surplus and market part of the harvest. Holdings are generally family farms, although it is not uncommon to hire for the season a helper (mozdur), a landless peasant (ḵošknešin), or temporary migrants from the mountain region. (3) Three and four hectare farms represent a small minority (7 percent of the total in 1956 and in 1974) and resemble small companies employing permanent, paid labor. Such farms are often owned by the descendants of the kadḵodā and mobāšer, whose landholdings were greater than the average peasant’s holdings before the land reform.
On the scale of the maḥalla (hamlet), the principal unit of space and social affiliation, a family’s status depends on the size of their holdings and on other factors that magnify or reduce differences. Among the average owners, those who own plow animals (oxen, horses), or later cultivators and mechanical threshers, constitute a relatively affluent category, since other peasants are required to rent livestock or farm tools from them. Between 1960 and 1970, when mechanization was at an embryonic stage, over a third of the owners had no plow animals (Research Group, p. 143; Suzuki, pp. 281-82). In addition, the majority of the peasants have multiple occupations (čand šoḡl), to supplement their incomes with more or less lucrative side jobs. The poorest get seasonal work in the construction business, in factories, in small trade operations, or as farm laborers. The wealthiest have acquired plantations (especially poplar groves, or senovars), rice mills (kārḵāna-ye berenjkubi), farm equipment and supply stores, or they market the agricultural production. Affluent peasants generally will leave the village and settle in a nearby town or in a regional metropolis; their lands being given over in tenancy, thus pursuing in the tradition of Iranian agriculture, albeit under less onerous terms, the practice of rentenkapitalismus, to use HansBobek’s expression. Such affluent owners, once they have become tradesmen, often practice usury, lending money to peasants against the guarantee of a low price for their harvest. Debt remains one of the endemic evils of small farming communities (as an example, the proportion of owners who negotiated loans in 1960 was estimated at 58 percent; Research Group, p. 144).
Another differentiating factor among farming families arises in their demographic structures. Under the old landowning system, the custom was for the holding to remain within the same peasant family without being divided, one son taking over his father’s tenancy contract while his brothers and sisters were forced to emigrate, to occupy subordinate positions in the village society, or, with the approval of the landowner, to clear an uncultivated area. As Eckart Ehlers clearly pointed out (p. 299), this custom favored a degree of stability in the size of farms and of the agricultural population. The peasants’ access to ownership has been accompanied by a return to Islamic Law regarding the sharing of property, the land now being split among the children, resulting in the fragmentation or even the atomization of holdings (see Gilān xiii. Kinship and Marriage). Whatever the arrangements made by the families to reduce fragmentation, the dilution effect is most evident in large families and has contributed to widening gaps within the farming community.
The stratification of pastoral society, made up of Gāleši and Ṭāleši stockbreeders who migrate seasonally from the wooded foothills to mountaintop pastures, has tangible similarities with that of the agricultural world. Large stockbreeders hire shepherds (čupāns) who are usually paid year-round (sometimes seasonally) and whose remuneration is supplemented by payment in-kind (Bazin and Pour-Fickoui, pp. 71-72). As community structures are fragile in this area, small stockbreeders do not entrust their animals to a common shepherd, as they do in the interior of Persia and in rare instances in the mountains of Gilān (in Raḥmatābād and Rostamābād districts), but contract for work in a system similar in some respects to the tenant farming and sharecropping systems. Terāz arrangements are made throughout the year or during the summer season (the latter prevailing in eastern Safidrud) to match a stockbreeder with a shepherd, who himself may own a herd. The owner and shepherd agree on payment in wool, cheese, and lambs. The association between stockbreeders can also take the form of a šerākat (“partnership”) in which both owners bring in the same number of animals and divide the lambs equally. The one who husbands the herd receives, as compensation, a larger share of the cheese, milk, and wool (Bazin and Pour-Fickoui, pp. 72-76); such contractual relations based on a “per half” division are called monāṣafa in the southern Gilān district of ‘Ammārlu, a term which means sharecropping in agriculture. Finally, the last instance is that of the small stockbreeder who cares for his herd directly and individually.
Encapsulating socio-economic differentiations arising from the size of farms and herds, an “ethnic” division of work heightens social contrasts and hierarchy (see Gilān xiv. Ethnic groups). Recent progress has deeply disrupted the social landscape of the rural communities. In 1956, 77 percent of the population resided in rural areas; the proportion was 71 percent in 1976, 62 percent in 1986, 53 percent in 1996, and 46 percent in 2006. The rate of rural emigration is lower, however, than it is in other areas of Persia. Significantly, nearly 8 percent of the active population residing in urban areas are employed in agriculture, and the “neo-urbanized” maintain strong bonds with their native maḥalla. The prevailing model for social mobility, however, is the same for all of Persia: one leaves the country for the nearby town, then moves to the regional metropolis and finally to the state capital (even if migrations to Tehran dropped since the beginning of the 21th century), and from agriculture to trade or to the service industry. In the villages, poor mountain migrants now replace the small farmers of the plain who have found jobs in towns where there may be few large employers, but where employment in the trades, in craft industries, in factories, in construction, transportation, and repairs has increased significantly over the past 40 years (while the population of Gilān doubled between 1956 and 1996, the active population in these sectors has multiplied fivefold). The signs of social distinction have also changed: the bāzāris who became rich through speculation, led simple lives, sponsored religious associations, and supported the poor, are now gradually replaced by tradesmen, entrepreneurs, doctors, and dynamic executive types, who reside in villas in Golsar (the upscale district in Rašt) and are fond of Western consumerism.
Bibliography
- K. E. Abbott, “Narrative of Consul Abbott’s Journey along the Shores of the Caspian Sea,” 1843-44, MS FO 60/108, National Archives, Kew, UK.
- Marcel Bazin, Le Talech. Une région ethnique dans le nord de l’Iran, 2 vols., Paris, 1980.
- Hans Bobek, “Rentenkapitalismus und Entwicklund in Iran,” in G. Schweizer, ed., Interdisziplinäre Iran-Forschung, Wiesbaden, 1979, pp. 113-24.
- C. Bromberger,“Dis-moi quelle est ta grange…: variations micro-régionales et différenciation socio-économiques des techniques de conservation du riz dans la province du Gilān (Iran),” in Marceau Gast and François Sigaut, eds., Les techniques de conservation des grains à long terme, Paris, 1979, pp. 161-84.
- Idem, Habitat, Architecture and Rural Society in the Gilān Plain (Northern Iran), Bonn, 1989a.
- Idem, “Changements techniques et transformation des rapports sociaux. La sériciculture au Gilān dans la seconde moitié du XIXème siècle,” in Entre l’Iran et l’Occident, Yann Richard, ed., Paris, 1989b, pp. 71-90.
- Eckart Ehlers, “Agrarsoziale Wandlungen im Kaspischen Tiefland Nordpersiens,” Deutscher Geographentag Erlangen-Nürnberg 1, 1971, pp. 289-311.
- Ebrāhim Faḵrāʾi, ed., Gozida-ye adabiyāt-e gilaki, Rašt, 1979.
- Charles Issawi, ed., The Economic History of Iran 1800-1914, Chicago and London, 1971.
- Farhad Kazemi and Ervand Abrahamian, “The Non-Revolutionary Peasantry of Modern Iran,” Iranian Studies 9, 1976, pp. 259-304.
- D.- F. Lafont and H.-L. Rabino, L’industrie séricicole en Perse, Montpellier, 1910.
- A. K. S. Lambton, Landlord and Peasant in Persia, London, 1953.
- Markaz-e āmār-e Irān, Natāyej-e āmārgiri-ye kešāvarzi, Tehran, 1974.
- Basile Nikitine, La Perse que j’ai connue, 1909-1919, Paris, 1941 (dactylograph).
- H.-L. Rabino, “Les provinces caspiennes de la Perse. Le Guilān,” RMM 32, 1915-16.
- H.-L. Rabino and D.-F. Lafont, L’industrie séricicole en Perse, Montpellier, 1910.
- Idem, “La culture du riz au Guilān (Perse) et dans les autres provinces du sud de la Caspienne,” Annales de l’École nationale d’agriculture de Montpellier 10, 1910, pp. 130-63; 11, 1911, pp. 1-52.
- Research Group, “A Study of Rural Economic Problems of Gilan and Mazandaran,” Taḥqiqāt-e eqteṣādi 4, 1967, ser. no. 11-12, pp. 135-204.
- Cyrus Sahami, Le Guilân, Paris, 1965.
- Paul Vieille, “Les paysans, la petite bourgeoisie rurale et l’État après la réforme agraire en Iran,” Annales E.S.C. 2, 1972, pp. 347-72.
- Idem, “Un groupement féodal,” in La Féodalité et l’État en Iran, Paris, 1975, pp. 35-86.
- Toshio Suzuki, Land Reform, Technology and Small-Scale Farming: The Ecology and Economy of Gilaki-Rashti Rice Cultivators, Northern Iran, Michigan, 1985.
GILĀN xx. Handicrafts
The Gilān region does not have a great craft tradition, as do other provinces of the interior of Iran with their towns famous for one or more specialties: carpets, ceramics, metalwork, etc. At most we might number among local traditions silk or floss silk cloth (the celebrated čādoršab of Qāsemābād), the embroidery (qollābduzi) of Rasht, the wickerwork (ḥaṣirbāfi), including mats, baskets, and hats; turned-wood objects (table legs, cigarette holders, etc.); and pottery (including gamaj—green-glazed bowls in which the finest culinary recipes are prepared). This limited range of local craftsmanship is due to two factors: taking the broad view, Gilān was a region that produced raw materials (including silk), to which one came for supplies, much more than a region where finished products were made; and the area long remained rural, with only minor importance accorded to towns housing professionals, workshops, and master craftsmen (see Rasht).
Textile specialties. While Arāk, Isfahan, Kashan, Kermān, Tabriz, and Yazd are famed for their carpets and silk brocades, resource-rich Gilān (see ABRIŠAM ) is known for its much more modest creations: taffetas, such as the long (striped and checked loincloth knotted around the waist at the public bath), unicolored sashes (at one time exported to Georgia), and kajini (textiles of floss silk, often mixed with cotton, used for ordinary garments, such as the familiar čādoršab; see the inventory of these traditional products in Chodzko, pp. 78-79). The weaving of silk and floss silk (šaʿrbāfi) textiles was found throughout Gilān in the 19th and early 20th centuries (Lafont and Rabino, 1910,pp. 57-59, attest to the extent and volume of these activities). Today, this output is especially concentrated in eastern Gilān, at Qāsemābād in particular. These fabrics are woven on looms (pāčāl) with treadles and two rows of heddles (Figure 1 and Plate I; on the operation of this loom, see Wulff, pp. 204-5; Bazin and Bromberger, p. 62). The woven lengths (taḵta) are then sewn together to make the čādoršab, a fabric with geometric patterns (Plate II), which women tie around their waist when working or over their shoulders to carry a child.
Figure 1. Loom: 1. tir-e pāčāl, framework supported by four short legs; 2. māku, shuttle holding a bobbin (māsure) from which the weft thread (vabaj) unwinds; 3. nišin-e pāčāl, the loom’s seat, made of two planks, on which the weaver sits; 4. langa-ye pāčāl, vertical mounts to which are attached, in front, the breast beam (5) and, behind, the warp beam (6); 5. pišnord, jelonord, breast beam; 6. pasnord, nord-e aḵār, warp beam; 7. čubdast, diagonal braces maintaining the stability of the assemblage; 8. sardār, rod attached to the upper ends of the vertical mounts, straddled by the warp threads coming from the warp beam; 9. šāna, comb incorporated into the two sets of warp threads allowing the warp to be tamped down; 10. nordgardan, rod allowing the operator to unroll the warp attached to the warp beam; 11. lāh-e gāzkon, separate sticks, affixed to the sardār to maintain the tension and spacing of the two sets of wrap threads; 12. vard, links of the two rows of heddles, attached to the bars (vardčub) over which the two sets of wrap threads pass; 13. parak, a pair of pulleys, attached to the ceiling by a cord (hāpāta) on which the heddles are hung; each heddle is also linked to a treadle (pākatal-a vard) which the operator works in alternation, making each one in turn rise and fall; after each motion of the heddles, she passes the weft between the warp threads. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
Plate I. Loom (pāčāl) with treadles; see also Figure 1. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
Plate II. Čādoršab fabric. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
The other craft specialty of the Gilān plain is embroidery (qollābduzi), that of Rasht being especially esteemed. There were 15 workshops in Rasht in 1992 (K. G., III, p. 47) and 38 professional embroiderers in 2004 (MAI). The craft has been the object of a preservation effort by the regional Heritage Service where a young ostād, a master craftswoman (formerly the occupation was practiced by both sexes; today it is almost entirely female), maintains the tradition. The embroiderer keeps the material stretched in a wooden clamp (jaride) that rests on her thigh and on which she exerts pressure with her other leg. The designs, drawn on tracing paper, are copied onto the material before the embroidery work proper begins; they are basically geometric and vegetal motifs (such as qonče, bud of a flower, sar barg and riz barg, broad and narrow leaves; see Plate III). To do her work, “The embroiderer takes a crochet hook (qolāb, suzan) […] and pierces it through the cloth […]. Holding the embroidery thread (naḵ) on the reverse side of the cloth, she grips it with the crochet hook […] and pulls a loop formed by it to the front, and, with this thread loop still around the hook, pierces through the cloth again, gripping the thread underneath, and pulling the next loop up, and so on; thus producing the chain-stitch (pič; Wulff, pp. 218-19). Another technique (tekkeduzi, moʿarraq) consists of appliquéing onto the material a “multitude of small scraps of cloth in all colors, cut into the most complicated shapes and artistically resewn in such a way as to produce designs resembling those of the shawls of Kashmir. The seams are covered over with silk embroidery whose colors harmonize with those of the material” (Lafont and Rabino, 1910, p. 60). The two techniques—embroidery and appliqué—are often combined on the fabrics used to adorn saddlecloths (ʿaraq-gir), cushions (rubāleš), tablecloths (rumizi), tapestries (rudivāri), and blankets, and even clothing (Brugsch, p. 89) and slippers. Some of these items, prized not long ago by the aristocracy, are the flower of regional craftsmanship.
Plate III. Embroidery over the applied design. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
Weaving wool and goat hair is a specialty of the mountainous regions—Ṭāleš and Gāleš—of Gilān. The main product is a heavy material with a plain weave (one over, one under), the šāl. When both the warp (tār) and weft (pud) are wool, the material, first fulled in soapy water (which gives it an appearance not unlike loden woolen fabric), is used to make clothing: trousers (šalvār, šālšalvār), jackets (kut, šakā), and skullcaps (kalā). The saddlebags (ḵarjin) carried by donkeys and mules are also made of woolen šāl. On the other hand, the warp of larger-capacity bags (juol) is made of strands spun from both wool and goat hair, which results in a stronger fabric. As for the awnings (čādor, šāl-e čādor) that cover the roofs of cottages or the branches of huts (pargā, pori), they are made entirely of goat hair. The šāl is woven either on a horizontal loom on the ground with one row of heddles (Figure 2), or on a treadle loom with two rows of heddles, similar to that used for weaving the čādoršab (Figure 1), or using a different method of holding the warp (Figure 3). The horizontal loom with one row of heddles is especially widespread in southern Ṭāleš, where it is used by women, in the summertime, outside their cottages and huts. Their output, for the most part, is used only by the family. Weaving on the loom with two rows of treadle heddles is sometimes a male occupation, sometimes female, sometimes a seasonal domestic activity (most often in the winter), sometimes a specialized craft (in central and northern Ṭāleš, for example), sometimes an activity alternating with other tasks (on the distribution of the methods of weaving šāl, see Bazin and Bromberger, map 34).
Figure 2. Loom (southern Ṭāleš): 1. sečanga, tripod from which hangs by two cords the single row of heddles mounted on a wooden frame; 2. tanāb, cords connecting the single row of heddles to the peak of the tripod; 3. jirapura, stakes driven into the ground to which is attached a rod around which are rolled the sets of wrap threads; 4. qelič, comb, a wooden pole through which all warp threads are running, and used to compact the weft; 5. vārdaču, wooden support on which the single row of heddles (vārda) is mounted; 6. sarand, rod preserving the spacing and maintaining the fixed width of the two sets of wrap trads; 7. čupeveš, rod on which the weft is wound; 8. kapeynapura, stake to which the two sets of wrap treads are connected and affixed; 9. qelič, shed rod which the weaver alternately pushes away from and pulls toward herself to alternately place the heddle rod (to which half the warp threads are attached) in upper or lower position; 10. Separate stick; 12. čutāmdār, breast beam around which the warp is wound. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
Figure 3. Treadle loom with two rows of heddles for weaving šāl (Southern Tâlesh). Courtesy of the author.View full image in a new tab
In addition to this manufacture of šāl, in the northwest (in northern Ṭāleš) and south of the province jājim and palāz are also made, two multicolored fabrics that are also woven by women on the horizontal loom on the ground with one row of heddles (see Bazin and Bromberger, map 35) and used in these areas for covering the floors of houses. The pattern of the jājim is lengthwise, with groups of warp threads in different colors and the weft in a single color; this is reversed in the palāz, where the pattern is widthwise, the warp being in a single color and groups of weft threads in different colors.
If the creation of knotted carpets (qāli) is unusual in Gilān (even though it has been encouraged by theJahād-e sāzandagi since the 1979 Revolution), it is because they deteriorate rapidly in the humidity of the houses; traditionally people chose to cover the floors with rush mats (see below); they also valued plates of felt (namad) for their relative impermeability. Making these plates is the work of specialist craftsmen who live in a single village and move around to press felt at their clients’ locations. This is the case, in the southwest, for the craftsmen of the Tāt village of Siāh Varud, who supply the districts of southern Ṭāleš, as well as those of Ṭārom and Šāhrud. East of the Safidrud, more numerous and less well known centers divide up their territory into smaller areas (see Bazin and Bromberger, p. 64 and map 32). Above and beyond these villages of itinerant craftsmen, there are several settled centers of manufacture, such as that of Qāsemābād, which sells its output in the urban markets of the Gilān plain.
To make felt, first of all the wool is washed, carded with the bow (kamān), and then spread out on a sheet (qāleb “mold”) and aired with a wooden fork. The decorative designs are then created with the natural colors of the wool and with powdered pigments. The whole thing is then wetted with hot, soapy water, and then the wool is rolled up in the sheet, which is squeezed by hand for four or five hours. When the operation is completed, the felt is detached from the sheet, and pressure is again exerted for a while before it is allowed to dry for several days.
The plates of felt thus created exhibit some variety from one area to the next in the province: they can be put together without decoration in the mountainous south (at Kelaštar for example); their designs can be worked with black lines, with some pockets of bright colors on a light background (felts of Siāh Varud); east of the Safidrud the background is often dark and covered with glowing, sophisticated, colored designs, even more so at Qāsemābād, which sells some of its output to a clientele of tourists and citydwellers.
Among the products made of felt, we may mention, besides the plates, skullcaps (kolāh), which were being made quite recently in the village Šavak of the Eškevarāt; and, more generally, the heavy cloak (šawlā) worn by shepherds, which can serve equally as a garment and as a cover (when the shepherd lies down to rest; see Clothing xxii, Plate clvii).
To complete this overview of products made from wool, we may mention one other specialty of the mountains of Gilān, the stockings (gurāve or jurāb), single-colored or multicolored, knitted by the women with five needles; they are especially heavy (each strand of yarn is made of two threads doubled over). See also Clothing xxii.
Work in rushes and reeds. Wickerwork (creation of reed fences; manufacture of mats, baskets, and hats from rushes) is a signal activity of the delta of the Safidrud, the Caspian shore, and especially the Anzali lagoon. There were in 1986 1,506 families dedicated to this activity in the region (K. G., III, p. 34). Several varieties of rushes (gāli) and reeds (ney) belonging to the genera Carex, Typha, Sparganium, and Phragmites (Bazin, I, p. 78; Bazin and Bromberger, p. 73) grow in abundance on the Caspian shores and marshes as well as in the reservoirs developed for the irrigation of rice fields (see GILĀN xi. IRRIGATION).
From reeds are made, in the shore settlements, the fences (parde) that surround the domestic compounds and the walls of some rural buildings (Bromberger, p. 25). The reeds are bound together by wattling with plaited strands.
The Gilānis classify rushes according to two criteria: thickness and color. In this way they distinguish the li (large Carex) from the suf or sim, with a thinner stalk and shades of maroon, yellow-green, or whitish (abrišam gāli “silk rush” is what they call this last). The rush worker can play with these nuances of color to create the design of the mat she is weaving.
It is in fact the mats (hasir) that comprise the bulk of the output, traditionally. The women weave them in summer and fall in the courtyard of their house (Plate IV). The loom they use (Figure 4) is of very simple construction. The warp, consisting of doubled strands (called lu) of li, is held between two horizontal poles, each of which is supported by two vertical stakes; a wooden comb (šone) is incorporated into the loom so that the weft, passed from hand to hand, can be vigorously tamped down.
Plate IV. Weaving rush mats. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
Figure 4. A mat loom. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
The operator—or the two operators who face each other and work on the same mat—can make a single-color mat by using the same variety of rush for the weft throughout the entire length of her work or, as has been noted, can play on the variety of colors by alternately using a light shade and a darker one. For such esthetic purposes, she can also play on the variety of types of weave: the simplest mats, usually intended for domestic use, have a plain weave (one over, one under); those meant for sale to tourists have a cross weave (i.e., two over, two under) or serge (one over, two under, the twill weave); the last two are sometimes combined in a single piece.
The manufacture of baskets (zanbil) is found in a smaller area than the manufacture of mats and is especially concentrated around the Anzali lagoon and the mouth of the Safidrud (Bazin and Bromberger, map 36). Baskets of any size are made of spiral work, with sewn plaits, provided with a flat base, and their rims and handles are made of very strong cords also plaited from rushes. According to the commodities being transported and the sex of the bearer, the diameter of the base of the basket ranges between 40 and 80 centimeters, and it may be more than 50 centimeters tall. Women use a small basket when picking tea leaves; men who are bringing their products to sell in the bazaar attach a large zanbil to each end of a flexible pole (čān ču) that they bear on their shoulders (Plate V).
Plate V. Bringing produce to market in large bskets (zanbil) on a pole (čān ču). (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
To these traditional items may be added fans and especially hats, which are also made of plaits of sewn rushes, which are mainly intended for the tourists who flock to the seashore at vacation time. This “neo-craftsmanship” has flourished strongly since the end of the imperial regime, and the shops that sell these things have mushroomed near the shore and the shrines (such as Emāmzāda Hāšem) and along the main roads.
Pottery. This too is a traditional activity in the region; according to K. G. (III, p. 37), in 1986 43 villages still had one or more ceramic workshops. Output, however, is in decline, with plastic and metal replacing pottery for domestic use (jugs and various containers), and tin (ḥalab) replacing tiles (sofāl) where they had been used for covering roofs. Oblong and globular churns (nerḵe), bowls (gamaj) with a green glaze, and various shapes of tiles from the west to the center of the province are the most typical ceramic ware. To these traditional items may be added decorative objects (vases, copies of ancient ceramics, etc.) intended for a tourist clientele.
Five main types of pottery industry could be identified at the end of the 1970s (see Bazin and Bromberger, pp. 75-78 and map 37 and, for further detail, Achouri). (1) In four villages of central Ṭāleš, south of Haštpar, some sixty potters used a tournette (hand-turned wheel), made of two disks of apricot wood placed one on top of the other. The rolls of clay, placed on a base plate, were smoothed to produce churns, bowls, jugs, bakers’ ovens, etc., then baked directly in the fire in an oval kiln consisting of a low wall with openings blocked for each firing with plates of tin (Figure 5a). (2) Jirdeh, in central Gilān, is the most important center for women potters. There they use a slightly better tournette, where the upper disk (sar-e čarḵ) turns on a metal axis. The kiln is the same as in central Ṭāleš, and the output includes ceramics used throughout Gilān: bowls (gamaj) and their lids (noḵon), jugs (čire), mortars (namakyār, nimkār), and braziers (manqal); well hoops (tonor-e čāh) are also made there. (3) The gamaj, noḵon, and čire are usually sold unbaked at Gildeh and Ḵortum, two villages where the craftsmen have specialized in the creation and firing of glazes (laʿaab). Glazes are made with the lead from old car batteries mixed with glass ground with a foot-activated pestle (pā-dang) traditionally used in husking and polishing rice (see GILĀN xviii. RURAL PRODUCTION TECHNIQUES). The amalgam is heated with pewter and scraps of copper (on the role of pewter and copper as coloring agents, see Wulff, p. 162), then reduced to a powder. Added to water and ground in a handmill (āsiāb dasti), which is usually used for making rice flour, this powder yields a thin gray paste that is applied to the pots between the first and second firings. The upright kiln includes a firebox and a conical firing chamber (Figure 5b). After firing, the pots emerge from the kiln covered with a brilliant green glaze (Plate VI), a shade that pinpoints their provenance. (4) Other villages, west of the Anzali lagoon, near Siāhkal, south of Rudsar, are home to pottery workshops using the potter’s wheel (Figure 6) to make churns, jars, cups for yogurt and water (māst-gole, āb-gole), smudge pots used by beekeepers to smoke the bees out of their honeycombs, and again decorative items for the tourist trade, etc. The wives of some of these potters also use the tower wheel—and this is a rare occurrence anywhere in the world (see GILĀN xvii. GENDER RELATIONS)—to fashion mortars. Here the firing is accomplished in a tunnel-shaped kiln of masonry, heated by a subterranean firebox (Figure 5c). (5) Only the urban workshops of Rasht, located in the quarter of Ḵomeyrān-e Zāhedān, combined the use of the potter’s wheel with compounding, applying, and firing glazes. Two of these workshops remained in the 1970s, whereas in this quarter some fifty potteries could be counted twenty years earlier.
Figure 5a. A kiln, central Ṭāleš. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
Figure 5b. Upright kiln at Gildeh and Ḵortum: 1. ātešḵāne, firebox; 2. kure, chamber; 3. dudkeš, flue; 4. darb, opening into the chamber. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
Plate VI. Pottery workshops using a potter’s wheel. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
Figure 6. Potter’s wheel at villages near Siāhkal: 1. sarčaḵ, turntable; 2. mil, axle; 3. tabag, flywheel. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
Figure 5c. Tunnel-shaped kiln: 1. dudkeš, flue; 2. kure, chamber; 3. zanburi, tuyere; 4. ojāq, firebox. Courtesy of the author. Drawings after T. Achouri.View full image in a new tab
Clay is also used for making tiles (sofāl) in two different ways, resulting in different finished products, from western to eastern Gilān. In the west, on the coastal plain of Ṭāleš, tiles are made on forms and have a lip (dokme) on their convex side for attaching them to the battens of the roof; they flare broadly and appear hollow (see GILĀN xii. RURAL HOUSING; Bromberger, p. 54 and photograph on p. 66). These tiles are different from those roofing the traditional urban houses of central and eastern Gilān, which come from cylinders made on the tower wheel that are cut in half lengthwise after drying for a day. Whichever way they are made, the tiles are piled into a large rectangular kiln heated by a vaulted, semi-underground firebox. Tile manufacture has declined considerably over the last few decades with the widespread use of tin (ḥalab) as a roofing material.
Other specialties are less widely found, whether they are traditional local matters that concern only a fraction of the rural population, or conversely a craft or a “neo-craft” intended for the trendy clientele of the cities.
We may mention, in the former category, items made of leather (čarm), a mountain specialty, especially in the town of Māsula. Until quite recently, shepherds from Ṭāleš and Gāleš wore shoes (čumuš, čāroḵ) of cowhide, created by the local craftsmen (the description of the manufacturing process, see CLOTHING xxii with Plate lxxi). These traditional shoes have been replaced, over the course of recent decades, by rubber gāloš made from used tires. Leatherworkers also traditionally produced everything needed for harnessing pack animals (horses, mules, donkeys, even pack oxen): straps, tethers, crupper, etc.
In the second category, woodworking and in particular turning occupy a noteworthy place. The creation of wood furniture—including the famous bulaki chests used for storing clothes and valuable objects—is a major traditional activity in the town of Rasht (there were 120 cabinetmakers’ workshops at Rasht in 1992 according to K. G., III, p. 47). As for wood-turning, another Rasht specialty, it has experienced a renewal with the influx of tourists on the lookout for typical items: alongside the creation of spindles, table and chair legs, water pipes, have been added cigarette holders, tableware, novelty furniture, etc.
The creation of water pipes (see qalyān) from decorated gourds (ḡalyān-kuʾi) is another specialty of Gilān as of Māzandarān. Lafont and Rabino (1914, pp. 235-36) have left us a detailed description of how these ḡalyāns are obtained from gourds. When, at the beginning of July, the gourds begin to appear on the plants, “each one is enclosed in a wooden box, which will serve as a mold; as they grow, the gourds take on exactly the form of the boxes, which usually have six or eight side faces […]. With a string they tie off the gourds just above the top of the boxes in order to produce a constriction and a bulge […]. The molds are left on the gourds for a month.” Another technique, which was cheaper, consisted in shaping the gourds by hand twice a day for ten to fifteen days; the gourds grown in this fashion were round. After many operations (drying, decorating with a burin, dyeing, plunging into a kettle of lukewarm water, etc.), the drawings appear in black on the calabash.
Among the specialties that used to contribute to the reputation of Rasht, we may mention enamelwork (minākāri). But the craftworks that these days are represented as typical of Gilān at exhibitions of folk art are the čādoršab woven on the pāčāl, mats (haṣir), and embroidery.
Bibliography
- T. Achouri, La poterie artisanale au Gilân, doctoral dissertation,Aix-en-Provence, 1977 (unpublished).
- M. Bazin, Le Tâlech, une région ethnique au nord de l’Iran, 2 vols., Paris, 1980.
- M. Bazin and C. Bromberger, Gilân et Âzarbâyjân oriental. Cartes et documents ethnographiques, Paris, 1982.
- C. Bromberger, Habitat, Architecture and Rural Society in the Gilân Plain (Northern Iran), Bonn, 1989.
- H.-C. Brugsch, Die Reise der königlich preussischen Gesandtshaft nash Persien 1860-1861, 2 vols., Leipzig, 1862.
- A. Chodzko, “Le Ghilan ou les marais caspiens”, Nouvelles annales des voyages et des sciences géographiques, 5th series, VI, July 1850, pp. 78-79, 85-87.
- K. G. = E. Eṣlāh-ʿArabāni, ed., Ketāb-e Gilān, 3 vols., Tehran, 1995-96.
- F. D. Lafont and H.-L. Rabino, L’industrie séricicole en Perse, Montpellier, 1910.
- Eidem, “Culture de la gourde à ghaliân en Guilan et en Mazandéran (Perse)”, Revue du Monde Musulman 28, 1914, pp. 232-36.
- MAI = Markaz-e āmār-e Irān, Āmārhā-ye pāya-ye ostān-e Gilān 1382, Rasht, 2004.
- F. Tohidast, Sanāyeʿ-e dasti-e Gilān (Dāneš-nāma-ye farhang o tamaddon-e Gilān), Rasht, 2008.
- H. E. Wulff, The Traditional Crafts of Persia, Cambridge, Mass., 1966.
GILĀN xxi. Cooking
Eating habits and culinary preparations in Gilān have several distinct characteristics. In this rice-producing region, the consumption of rice is much higher than elsewhere in Persia. Garden vegetables and kitchen herbs (sabzi) generally appear in the makeup of most dishes and give the regional cuisine the green touch that is its hallmark. These preparations are usually associated with eggs, consumed in great quantities in a society where each rural family raises hens, ducks, geese, and turkeys; as the saying goes: Bāqāla qātoq / bi morḡāne / haft-tā olāḡ / ti mehmān-e (“a broad bean stew without eggs, seven donkeys must be your guests!”). Poultry and wildfowl, fish, along with olives, are also sought-after items and contribute to the uniqueness of the local recipes. As elsewhere in Persia, cooking is a long and complex operation, since the constituent ingredients of most dishes oftenrequire individual preparation of their own. Finally, the regional style of cooking is characterized by generous helpings of fat and oil and by a preference for a sour (torš) flavor: especially appreciated are condiments with a vinegar base and fruit juices made from unripe fruit, which are used to enhance the flavor of dishes. The most typical dishes of the region symbolize, each in its own way, a facet of this cooking style: kate is a simple rice preparation; the recipe for mirzā qāsemi includes the pulp of an eggplant, garlic, tomato, and egg; bāqāla qātoq is a broad bean stew; ašbol polo is a rice dish eaten with “white fish” (māhi sefid) roe; sir-e torši is pickled garlic, and haft-e bijār (“seven paddy-fields”), is a mixture of vinegar marinated chopped plants and vegetables.
Ingredients. Rice is the staple food of the populations of Gilān and the Caspian lowlands of Persia in general. In the 1970s, it was still customary to have rice with all three dailymeals (Bromberger, 1994, p. 187, and map on p. 188). In the central plain, where rice is practically the sole crop, an adult male would eat about two pounds (uncooked weight) of polished white rice a day, which represented between40 to65 per cent of his daily diet. Since then, people have become used to eating bread with breakfast, and even with dinner, whereas in the 1950s this basic food of the Iranian highlands was practically unknown in the Caspian region. As some Ṭāleši people told Marcel Bazin (1980, II, p. 57): “Had you mentioned bread to us then, we would have responded: ‘what is it?’” In spite of the general trend towards uniformity in dietary habits under the pressure of dominant urban models, rice remains the emblematic food of the Gilaki and Ṭāleši living in the lowlands, and bread that of the inhabitants of the arid slopes of the Alborz highlands and, more generally, of the people of the plateau, stigmatized as dahān gošād “wide-mouthed” (on account of their chewing bread) by their Caspian neighbors. The Gilaki criticize diets based on bread with their saying:Šokr-e ḵodā ke tork našodim! “Thank God we are not Turks!” As rice growers, they distinguish about twenty varieties and sub-varieties of rice in each area, depending on the shape of the grain (more or less long), the ripening period of the transplanted seedling, the color of the chaff, the presence or absence of awn at the end of the hull, and possibly the color of the awn; whereas the people of the plateau recognize only two or three varieties (rice with round, long, or medium grain; see Berenj i; Bromberger, 1979).
Regional cooking uses an abundance of vegetables, grown in the gardens around every house in rural areas and even on the slopes bordering rice fields and roads. The remarkably diverserange of crops makes it possible to renew and change, according to the time of year, the recipes for stews (ḵoreš) and vegetable cakes (kuku) served with rice. The harvest of summer vegetables (generically called seyfikāri) yields tomatoes (pāmādor, from the Russian word pomodor, itself a loanword from the Italian pomodoro), cucumbers, andsquash (kuʾï in Gilaki) in various forms and colors (e.g.,the ḵāna-mār kuʾï “squash [in the shape of] a house snake,” oblong and twisted; the ḵāše ku’ï “squash with ribs,” spherical and ribbed; etc.), melons and watermelons, eggplants, broad beans, short and long (pāč and pil-bāqāla), white (sefid) and yellow (zard); a great variety of kidney beans (lubiā, including čiti “with [the look of] a printed fabric”; češm bolboli “nightingale eyes,” beige with a black spot; qermez “red,” etc.), tare (Allium porrum L.), generously used in stews, sweet peppers, spinach, various kinds of cabbage, potatoes, beets, usually steamed (labu) and eaten as snacks in the fall and winter, and carrots (used for making jam). Turnips, radishes, lettuces (romaine lettuce, Lactuca sativa longifolia D.C.), and watercress (kakaj, kakij in Gilaki) complete the list of vegetables. Chickpeas, although used in great quantities in cooking on the plateau, particularly in the preparation of āb-gušt (q.v.; pot-au-feu), are not popular on Gilāni spreads, except in the arid areas of Deylamān and Rudbār.
It is mostly the use of kitchen herbs (sabzi) and condiments that give the local kitchen its individual stamp. Onions, served raw and used in the majority of dishes (a cook’s first move is often to sauté onions), and garlic, readily consumed when pickled in vinegar (garlic must be marinated for seven years in order for it to melt away smoothly in one’s mouth) and added to practically all preparations, are part of all meals. Fresh herbs or dried seeds, used to enhance the flavor of local dishes, are the same as elsewhere in Persia: coriander (called hel locally; however, helis the common term for cardamom seeds elsewhere in Iran, where gešniz is used to refer to coriander), oregano (golpar), turmeric (zardčuba), cumin (zira), cinnamon (dārčin), parsley (jaʿfari), basil (reyḥān), tarragon (tarḵun), dill (ševid). The local aromatic touch comes from an ingenious use of several varieties of mint: Mentha sylvestris (bina in the Gilaki of Rašt, pitanak in the Gilaki of Lāhijān), Mentha pulegium L. (pennyroyal or pudding grass, ḵalvāš in Rašti, kutkutu in Lāhijāni), common mint (scornfully named ḵalḵāli naʿnā, “mint from Ḵalḵāl,” west of Ṭāleš, Turkish-speaking and a source of seasonal labor for Gilān). The Gilaki relish delār (or darār), a paste also called namak-e sabz (“green salt”), is prepared by mixing chopped pitanak and ḵalvāš with coriander and salt, which they eat with sliced cucumber, damson plums (āluča), salad, etc. Also typical of the area is the use of čučāḡ (Eryngium coerulum M.B., see Zargari, II, p. 619) leaves to flavor, among other dishes, olive preparations and the torš-e vāš (Oxalis corniculata) which, as its name suggests, gives a sour taste to stews, particularly to sabzi ḵoreš (“herb stew”).
A natural orchard, Gilān is home to many varieties of wild fruit trees whose domestic counterparts are grown in gardens. The fruits are used for stews, turned into jams and syrups, or eaten raw, before ripening if possible. The Gilaki are especially fond of sour āluča—to the point of protecting their trees rather than their henhouses against foxes, or so the story goes! They also consume, depending on the season, but always before or between meals, quinces (beh), citrons (bādrang), peaches (āštālu), apples (sib), pears (ḵoj), figs (anjir), medlars (kunus), sweet oranges (portoḡāl), sour oranges (nāranj), cherries (gilās), morello or sour cherries (ālbālu), and wild blackberries (buluš—of which they eat the peeled stems with salt—and the fruit of the mulberry trees (Morus alba) grown to feed silkworms. They also make syrup out of the fruit of the white mulberry (tut). Many of the fruit flavors contribute to the uniqueness of local culinary preparations. A paste of wild pomegranate (torše anār), sour grape juice (āb-ḡura), wild grape juice (called sag-angur, literally “dog grape”), and damson plum juice (āb-e āluča), which all add a sour touch to the dish, are particularly appreciated. Among favorites are jams made of the following: aḵta (cornelian cherry, Cornus mas. L.), arbā, the fruit of false date plum (Diospyros Lotus L.), and wild grapes (rāz). Crushed walnut (āḡuz in Gilaki) halves are an ingredient in several stews and, when mixed with pomegranate paste, are used in the preparation of green olives. Olives (zeytun) also provide an oil prized as seasoning well beyond its production area (the region of Rudbār).
Although the diet of the region is primarily vegetarian, animal products do, in fact, play a significant part. The people of Gilān eat great quantities of poultry and eggs, wildfowl from the ponds, and, to a lesser extent, mutton and beef. They are also very fond of fish.
Chicken and duck are the ingredients of many stews (ālu ḵoreš “plum stew,” āḡuz ḵoreš “nut stew,” or fesenjān [q.v.] à la mode du Gilān, etc.). A rural family of four consumes between five and ten farm birds per month. On special occasions, and depending on the season, they may substitute waterfowl: ḵutkā (from the Russian word utka, teal), čangar (coot), ḡāz (goose), morḡābi (wild duck), etc., caught with nets or shot. Eggs hold an essential place in the cooking and, more generally, in the culture of Gilān. They are found everywhere: in the culinary preparations of typical regional dishes (bāqāla qātoq, mirzā qāsemi, šāmi rašti; see below), in games (such as morḡāne jang (“egg wars”), in propitiatory rites, and in popular medicine. In fact, Gilān could, with some justice, be described as an “egg culture.”
The Gilaki eat mutton in kebāb on special family or ritual occasions, though men may also consume some in a neighboring village on Fridays, among their own friends and without their families being present, a practice shared, to a lesser extent, with people of the plateau. They are also fond of beef, an original feature which struck most observers, including Aleksander Borejko Chodźko (q.v.), who served as the Russian consul in Rasht in the mid-nineteenth century: “Among all the regions of Persia, Gilān is the only one where beef is consumed and sold in the bazaars. As for the Persians living beyond the chain of the Caspian mountains, they abhor [beef]” (Chodźko, p. 203). They eat it as meatballs (šāmi rašti), or they eat the offal (heart, liver, kidneys) in a very popular dish, the vaviškā (which can be also prepared from mutton or wildfowl); as for the intestines (ruda) seasoned and preserved in bottles, they constitute the only meat-base food of the poorest during the gedā-bāhār (“the spring of the mendicant”), the lean season which precede harvests.
On the coast and the plains, the Gilaki eat vast quantities of sea fish, or fish which spawn their eggs in the rivers during the winter, and this has earned them the disparaging nickname of kalla-māhi-ḵvor (“eaters of fish heads”). We should not forget that, according to the Shiʿite dogma, only fish with scales are acceptable in religious terms (ḥalāl). Sturgeon (uzun burun “long nose”) and their precious roe (ḵāviār, caviar, q.v.) are thus traditionally prohibited (ḥarām). In 1983, however, a fatwā prepared by Ayatollah Eḥsānbaḵš, the leader of the Friday Prayers (emām-jomʿa) from Rasht, and promulgated by Ayatollah Khomeini declared the consumption of sturgeon and caviar as ḥalāl. The decision was taken after several seminars and technical consultations. Experts, including marine biologists and religious authorities, had initially denounced the imperialist exploitation of the ban by the Russians in the past, depriving “the Moslems and the Iranians” of a food “rich in proteins.” A college of experts had then specially scrutinized from every angle the four varieties of sturgeon and noticed on parts of their bodies some diamond-shaped scales, particularly on the higher lobe of their asymmetrical caudal fin. As it happens, the local consumption of sturgeon and caviar, quite expensive products, has not increased since the decision was taken (for further sources and extensive documentation, see CAVIAR).
A favorite among scale fish, the māhi sefid (“white fish”), a variety of goatfish (Rutilus frisii kutum), is used in the most sophisticated recipes (fefič, malata; see below). Salmon (māhi āzād, the “free fish” or “noble fish”) is caught and consumed only in small quantities. Pike (suf) is also valued. In everyday life, the less expensive varieties of carp (kapur), bream (sim), and kuli, a small clupeid, are served with rice in less affluent households. All the soft parts of the fish are consumed: in addition to the flesh, the fish roe, eaten raw or prepared as a cake with herbs (this dish is called ašbol kuku), the intestines, which are browned and specially liked for their sweet taste, the heads, whose contents are sucked or else which are prepared in stews with herbs (a recipe called māhi kalle qātoq, fish head stew, or taboryān). Fish heads are also used in bouillons (māhi kalle āb: “Fish head broth”), after being browned in oil with a mixture of garlic and turmeric.
The production and consumption of dairy products on the plain, where only cattle are raised, is limited, but it is high in the pastoral uplands of Ṭāleš and Gāleš. On the plain, the only products derived from cow and buffalo milk (the Kurds specialize in the breeding of the latter) are yogurt (māst) and, through the process of churning (Bazin and Bromberger, p. 33), butter (kara) and buttermilk (duḡ). Mountain stockbreeders use additional techniques to produce other dairy products; by heating, they process part of the fresh butter into ghee (rowḡan) which can be stored for several months; from cooked, drained, and salted buttermilk they make a paste, šur, which is very popular among the Ṭāleši; when dried and turned into balls or chips, šur is made into kašk, whose cooked, drained water gives a sour paste (serja) which is used as a condiment. Stockbreeders also produce cheese (panir) by mixing sheep and goat milk, including the famous yellow paste siāh mazgi, a specialty of a village in southern Ṭāleš from which it derives its name. Milk, mixed with rennet, coagulates at first (the product obtained is called dalama), then solidifies, after being heated and brewed; finally, it is salted, pressed, and placed in molds. Whey, mixed with fresh and heated milk, makes lor, whose liquid, salted and dried residue, turns into šura, a condiment that can be stored for several months. While cheese consumption for breakfast is still high, the use of butter in cooking has diminished considerably and has been widely replaced by margarine.
On the whole, and as one can readily see, the basic dishes in Gilān are quite varied (Plate I), combiningrice, an essential yet somewhat monotonous and flavorless element, with a multitude of vegetable ingredients and animal products. The diversity is reinforced when one looks more closely at the variety of culinary processes and recipes.
Plate I. The bazaar of Rasht, 1993. Rice, dried seeds, fresh vegetables, olives, etc.: the basic dishes in Gilān are quite varied. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
Culinary processes and types of dishes. Apart from the actual cooking, food preparation is done in several stages which transform the nature and shape of the food. The washing of the ingredients (vegetable and animal) is a preliminary step and requires much time (particularly the cleansing of herbs). Water is also used to soakrice to remove the starch, and with dry vegetables to soften them. To crush, chop, or grind food, cooks use various utensils which are part of their permanent equipment: a rotary pestle made of polished stone used in a large clay plate (namakyār or nimkār) to crush walnut halves for āḡuz ḵoreš or for zeytun parvarda or grind cooked meat to make meatballs; a hatchet (sāṭur) to mince meat and herbs on a special cutting board (sāṭur taḵta); a pestle (guštkub, lit. “meat-pounder”) made of wood or metal, and used, for example, to crush fruit to make preserves. Spatulas (katarā) and skimming ladles of various sizes made of wood and metal are used to stir up and remove slow-cooking food from the fire. To make rice-flour, used in particular to thicken the juices in the stews, cooks traditionally use a quern with a rotary grinding stone (āsiāb-e dasti). Most of these demanding tasks of chopping, crushing, and mixing are carried out today with highly popular electrical appliances, even if the traditional manual practices (crushing nuts on the nimkār, for example) retain their own accepted and acknowledged virtues.
In addition to cooking, various biochemical techniques are used to process food. It was customary, until recently, to smoke rice after the harvest, a practice which gave the grains a specific flavor and taste and ensured better cooking conditions (Bromberger, 1979, pp. 170, 181); smoking fish to preserve it is also done in fisheries, although the more traditional salting technique is generally preferred (with the possible addition of madder, runās). Fish are stored in large and substantial earthenware jars (ḵoms); with their predilection for sour flavors, the Gilaki use great quantities of vinegar to marinate and preserve garlic, turnips, and eggplants stuffed with herbs in glass jars (noquldān). On the other hand, to reduce the acidity and bitterness of wild fruit used in syrups and jams, ashes or lime are added in their preparation.
The posture of women while preparing meals has noticeably changed since the introduction of stoves. At one time they cooked squatting down next to a tripod (se-langa) or a low fireplace built out of clay, kura, shifting its location in line with the seasons (Bromberger, 1989, p. 72). Now they stand in a permanent kitchen watching dishes on the fire. While technical innovations—particularly the freezing of raw and cooked ingredients—have deeply modified the management of time and the seasonal rhythm of culinary preparations, cooks have remained attached to traditional utensils typical of female identity and of the dishes of the area. Among those is the gamaj, a green-glazed bowl with a lid (noḵon), used to simmer such popular dishes as the bāqāla qātoq, the āḡuz ḵoreš, the torši tare, or to steam māhi fefij (stuffed fish). Each cook has several gamaj of various sizes, measured in “chicken” units (one-, two- or three-chicken gamaj). Several popular proverbs and expressions are associated with this bowl, a symbol of local culinary culture.
Among cooking methods, “browning” (vaviš, vabij, vavij) is a favorite, and the word appears frequently in the names of utensils and prepared dishes. Kulevič applies to the frying pan, sirabij is a dish made with garlic stems browned with eggs, vaviškā, a popular dish pompously referred to as ḥasrat-al-moluk (“the envy of monarchs,” Ḵāvar -Marʿaši, p. 86), made with a mixture of browned offal, onion and tomato, ḵamas-e abij, cooked grapes served with fried eggs, etc. Hardly any dishes are prepared without a phase of cooking on a high fire in a largequantity of oil. Simmering in water is also a widespread culinary method for soups (āš) as well as rice, meat, and poultry (torš-e morḡ “sour chicken,” for example), and most preparations include both these two cooking methods. Ingredients browned beforehand are often added to soups (such as apricots and dry grapes in āš qaliya, a spring vegetable soup thickened with flour and flavored with tangy sour grape juice), and the same goes for stews (a mixture of garlic and eggs, browned with herbs simmered beforehand in water in the gamaj, is added to the torši tare “sour leek”). The preparation of rice is completed with a steaming phase (dam), a method also used in a closed and dry environment for vegetable cakes (kuku) browned in oil beforehand (embers are placed on the lid to ensure an even cooking of the lower and top parts of the dish). Nevertheless, this dry environment cooking method, just like roasting (as used to prepare eggplant pulp, kāl-kebāb), is exceptional. With little bread consumed in the region, Gilān’s culinary culture is not about ovens or dry cooking or roasting but about browning, simmering, and steaming.
Following local classifications, several categories of dishes stand out, among them: various rice recipes (generically called polo in Gilaki), soups, stews, egg-based preparations (mirzā qāsemi, kuku), meat, fish, sour condiments, pastries, breads, and jams.
In Gilān rice is consumed daily as kate. It is a simple and quick recipe. Once cleaned and rinsed, rice is poured into a quantity of cold water one-and-a-half to two times its volume, then heated to a boiluntil the water is thoroughly absorbed; eventually a little ghee (rowḡan) is added (but the Gilaki rarely appreciate the addition of an oily substance on rice), and cooking ends with steaming (dam) on a low fire. The result of this cooking technique is a compact mass of grains stuck together which is turned out of the mold, cut out with a knife, and formed into little balls by hand before being consumed. Dill and broad beans can be added to kate (these preparations are respectively called ševid polo and bāqālā polo—here the word polo means kate). In this case, the additional ingredients are plunged into cold water at the same time as the rice (see Ḵāvar-Marʿaši, pp. 93, 97). Well-known on the Iranian plateau, the methods used in the preparation of čelo and polo, generally reserved for special occasions (celebrations, receptions) are quite different. The rice intended for čelo is washed in lukewarm water and soaked overnight. It is then dipped into boiling water, parboiled, drained, and rinsed. It is shaped into a cone in a pot in which a mixture of rowḡan and water has been heated. It is then steamed slowly. These steps (soaking, parboiling, straining) and the choice of long-grain rice help keep the grains from sticking together. Polo, for its part, typically combines rice with other ingredients at the time of cooking. The rice is first cooked in the same way as čelo, while meat, vegetables, herbs, fruit, andspices are stir-fried together and then placed in alternating layers within the rice; the mixture is then steamed. In this category are ālbālu polo with morello (sour) cherries, torš-e polo (with a sour base), zerešk polo (with barberries), šir polo (rice with milk, dates, and raisins; see more in Rabino and Lafont, p. 32). Whereas polo is generally served as a single dish, čelo is consumed with kebab—the only specialty prepared by men—stew, omelet, boiled poultry, or browned fish. Kate is served with the same dishes as čelo, except for kebab. Thus one can differentiate between dishes for special occasions (polo, and čelo with kebab or with a savory stew) and daily food (kate with a vegetable stew, a little browned poultry or fish, or fish roe and broad beans—the latter called ašbol polo). Rice is not only prepared as part of a main dish; it is also the basic ingredient for several pastry recipes, made on special occasions, which will be described further.
Soups are often complete dishes, such as āš kuʾi (squash soup with milk and rice). Their preparation requires several steps and often mixes sweet and sour flavors. Aš qaliya is thus made of a mixture of chickpeas, dry beans, carrots, beets, garden herbs, and meat, all chopped and boiled together, to which sour grape juice and rice flour are added; at the end of the cooking time, a little sugar, mint, raisins, and browned apricots are added to the bouillon. The torše āš (“sour soup”) is typical of the Gilaki preference for unsweetened preparations; it is made of meat, beans, chickpeas, broad beans, garden herbs, rice, and very sour damson plums, with brown garlic and mint added at the last minute.
The words qātoq or ḵoreš (stew) generically refer to dishes served with rice and used to season it. There are no less than fifty of these in Gilān (Ḵāvar-Marʿaši, pp. 21-87), a figure indicative of the craving for variety in flavors and menus. Ḵoreš is usually a mix of cheap cuts of meat or poultry, with vegetables and/or fruits and herbs left to simmer. Stews made locally have two specific features: the importance of acidity and the dominating role of plants in the preparations—some ḵoreš are made with only vegetables and herbs. Indeed, fesenjān rašti is prepared, as elsewhere in Persia, with walnut halves mixed with pomegranate paste and poultry; but its color is darker than in other areas of Persia, a sign of stronger acidity: the pomegranate paste is made with wild fruit; and one never adds sugar in the course of cooking (an anathema to a Gilāni cook!); traditionally, a metal nail or spoon is soaked in the mixture cooking in the gamaj to induce a darker color. The sour flavor is characteristic of other stews, like ḵoreš-e āluče masamā, where onions browned with damson plums and herbs seared in oil are successively added to the meat boiling in water. Among the exclusively vegetable preparations, we must mention the torši tare (“sour ‘leek’ soup”) and the ḵoreš šiš andāz (“stew with six things-thrown-in the pot”). The former is a mixture of chopped herbs (“leek” and beet leaves, parsley, coriander, spinach, pennyroyal, mint) simmered for some time in water with a little rice; at the end of the cooking time, chopped garlic browned with turmeric, eggs cooked in the garlic and oil left over in the frying pan, and finally sour grape juice are added. The latter is a kind of vegetarian fesenjān: glazed eggplants, in lieu of poultry, are added during cooking to a mixture of crushed walnut halves, pomegranate paste, and turmeric.
The two most famous dishes which go with rice are prepared with eggs, the bāqāla qātoq and the mirzā qāsemi (popular etymology relates this to the creator of the dish, a certain Mirzā Qāsem). The former is a stew made with short broad beans (pāč-bāqāla) cut in two, browned with chopped garlic, dill, and turmeric, then simmered in a little water, to which eggs are added at the end of the cooking time. The latter is a mixture of eggplant pulp, chopped garlic browned beforehand with turmeric, and tomato purée added during cooking. At the end of the process, one adds beaten eggs or eggs cooked in the oil used to brown the garlic. In this, as in other preparations, much attention is paid to the seasoning of the oil used for cooking, thus enhancing the flavor of the ingredients.
The ingredients for kukus are closely related to those of an omelet (a mixture of beaten eggs and other elements cooked together), but they are cooked like cakes (in a closed environment, in frying pans with lids covered with embers and more often today in ovens). The addition of yeast gives these dishes even more firmness and thickness. There are a number of recipes: the vereqā is a kuku made with glazed eggplant; the ašbol kuku is made with fish eggs and herbs; the less costly sabzi kuku (made with chopped “leek” leaves and parsley) is the most popular recipe among cooks.
As mentioned earlier, meats and poultry are mainly consumed as stews; cut in pieces, they are either cooked in water and seasoned during cooking with pre-browned ingredients (as in the torš-e morḡ) or simmered in oil or a fatty sauce. The latter are called kebāb (a term which usually refers to grilled meat in Persia); thus the morḡ lāku (“young girl chick”; lāku literally means “girl” in the Gilaki of Lāhijān) or morḡ kebāb (“roast chicken”) is a variety of fesenjān where chicken is cooked in a mixture of walnut halves and sour pomegranate paste; ṭās kebāb is made with successive layers of cut beef, onion, tomato, and potato; the first layer of meat is cooked in oil and the whole dish sprinkled with oil and water, then covered with a lid and left to simmer. Meat can also be browned (in vaviškā) or shaped into balls, as in šāmi rašti, a mixture of cut veal and split peas (lappe) cooked in water, crushed with the rotary pestle in the nimkār, mixed with beaten eggs and kneaded, then glazed with oil. While these long and economical methods of using meat and poultry are widespread, roasting, on the other hand, is exclusively reserved for special occasions.
In everyday life, fish is simply browned in oil. For receptions and special occasions, more elaborate recipes are used, such as fefič or febij and malate. Fefič is fish (generally white fish) gutted and stuffed with crushed walnut halves, pomegranate paste, herbs, and various spices and possibly the washed fish-eggs. Once stuffed, the fish is sewn up and cooked in the gamaj, placed on two pieces of tile or wood to keep it from sticking. Malate is a fish prepared on the grill or in the oven after being gutted and coated with pomegranate paste or seasoned with sumac (somāq).
The Gilāni, as pointed out several times already, are fond of sour condiments, a must to accompany most meals. Among the favorites are pickled heads of garlic (sir-e torši) to which barberries (zerešk) are added to enhance the sourness, eggplant cooked in vinegar, seeded, stuffed with herbs and mint, and preserved in glass jars filled with vinegar (bādanjān torši), and also more elaborate preparations such as torši-maḵlut (mixed pickles) and haft-e bijār (“seven rice fields”). The former is a mix of vegetables (carrots, eggplant pieces or pulp, beets) cooked in vinegar beforehand and other plants (cauliflowers, potatoes, onions, watercress, oregano) dipped raw. The latter is a mix of thin eggplant with tops cut off, green peppers, green tomatoes, crushed onion and garlic, cabbage, turnip, and other ingredients (the choice of ingredients depends on tastes and availability) and a bouquet of finely chopped herbs (pennyroyal, čučāq, coriander, oregano). All ingredients are salted and preserved in vinegar covered to a depth of one finger. Another favorite sour accompaniment is the zeytun parvarda (“marinated olives”), a mixture of pitted green olives, crushed walnut halves, and pomegranate juice, flavored with garlic, mint, pennyroyal and čučāq, and later seasoned with oregano and pepper. The preference for sour foods is again revealed in the generous use of unripe, or sour, fruit juices for seasoning: āb-limu (“lime juice”), āb-e nāranj (“sour orange juice”), and especially āb-ḡura (q.v.; “unripe or sour grape juice”). The latter is made from wild grapes pressed by trampling or by stone, then filtered. The juice is cooked down into a concentrate (rob-e āb-ḡura), then salted and preserved in bottles. The Gilaki are also fond of delār or derār, a bitter-tasting condiment, made, as mentioned earlier, of a generously salted mixture of various mints and coriander. It is eaten with cucumbers, damson plums, whole or crushed in the nimkār (this latter preparation, called āluče-feškan, is particularly appreciated by pregnant women; Ḵāvar-Marʿaši, p. 251) or even lettuce leaves soaked in vinegar and powdered with sugar (the passion for acidic foods does not exclude a strong taste for opposite flavors).
Not very popular until recently among peasants in the plain, bread is an essential element in the diet of mountain populations (Bazin and Bromberger, pp. 80-82, and map 39). Grain farmers in the areas of Deylamān and Rudbār and in northern Ṭāleš generally cook bread in oval-shaped ovens (tanur) set in an adjoining part of the house, never in the main part, as is the case in Azerbaijan, where ovens are used as cooking areas for most of the food and are the principal source of heating. The making of bread, a thin pancake—lavāš, nazök čörek in Turkish-speaking Ṭāleš—begins with the preparation of the dough (ḵamir), a mixture of corn flour, water, and salt. Women knead the dough in a wooden tray (majmaʿa) and add sourdough (ḵamir-e torš); after the dough has risen, they make loaves, which they roll on a flour-covered tray with a rolling pin (nān-čub, vardana); the pancakes are then pressed onto the sides of the oven with a pad (nān-āviz) and, once cooked, separated with a small spatula. Cooking techniques used by Ṭāleši and Gāleši stockbreeders are more rudimentary. The simplest way is to place the raw pancake on hot ash (nun-e āteš); sometimes the pancake is topped with a metal cup (tāva) turned upside down and covered with embers. Another basic technique, used in central and southern Ṭāleš, consists in pressing the kneaded dough upon a stone set up and heated beforehand. Elsewhere, the sāj technique is used: the dough is cooked on an inverted metal plate or on the back of the gamaj placed on a cooking tripod. Special kinds of bread, like bread made for departing travelers, and for celebrations, include other ingredients besides flour. Milk and oil are used for a bread known as kulvā; crushed walnut halves, oil, milk, and saffron are used for a preparation called zarinun.
On the plain, the only traditional bread is made with rice flour (nān-e berenji, baj-e nān) for special family and holiday celebrations. Rice flour is not suitable for bread making because of its low gluten content; therefore a little wheat flour is added to the kneaded and shaped dough after it is boiled in water (thus the name given to some varieties of these breads: nān-e gandomi “wheat bread”). Flattened with a rolling pin, the thin crepes are cooked according to the sāj method on the back of a gamaj or an inverted tāba (metal container). This type of plain bread (called lāsunun) is served at mealtime during the New Year celebration, as well as more complex preparations such as kulabij-nān, a paste made with a mixture of eggs, turmeric, cinnamon, and sugar, cooked in oil as its name indicates.
Most pastries and delicacies are made with rice. When the season arrives, women traditionally pick armfuls of green rice (jukul), which they roast and peel to eat with a mixture of milk and sugar. Jukul-ku is prepared with rice bulgur cooked in grape must in which crushed walnut halves and cumin (zira) is soaked (see Rabino and Lafont, p. 33). But the most frequently used ingredients are rice flour, ground with āsiāb-e dasti, or rice soaked and reduced to a paste in a nimkār. The rešte-ḵoškār, a well-liked delicacy sold in bazaars, is a thin bar of rice paste mixed with nuts and sugar, cooked on a plate coated with egg yolk and butter and shaped with a comb in a mesh design (Plate II). Ferini is another popular dessert dish in Gilān and elsewhere in Persia; it is a rice paste cooked on a slow fire in water to which are successively added milk and sugar, and, at the end, rose water and cardamom. Halvā, Gilāni style, is made with a mixture of rice flour cooked in butter, to which honey is often added (in halvā ʿasali), along with, when the cooking is done, sugar water flavored with rose water, powdered cardamom, and saffron. Rice flour is also used to prepare squash fritters (kuʾi kākā), to which eggs, milk, crushed walnut halves, cinnamon, rose water, cardamom, and other ingredients are added. These sweetened specialties are not part of the daily routine; they are consumed on special occasions or traditional celebrations.
Plate II. Preparing rešte ḵoškār, the bazaar of Rasht, 1996. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
Several varieties of fruits are used to make pastes (ḵamas) or jams (morabbā). Hard, sour, and bitter fruits undergo a preliminary treatment: cornelian cherries (aḵte) are soaked until they get soft; to reduce the acidity of wild grape, ashes are added during the cooking; to remove the bitterness from citrons (bādrang), or from the fruit of the false date plum (arbā), they are dipped in a lime solution before rinsing and cooking. A compact preparation called ḵamas is made with grape, figs, and cornelian cherries, and sometimes damson plums; preferred morabbā s are arbā, quinces, morello or sour cherries, cherries, carrots, and citrons. Some fruit, particularly grapes and homegrown blackberries, are also used for syrups (dušāb), prepared with crushed and cooked fruits. These are consumed with added water and sugar in the summer as refreshing drinks.
The everyday, year-round drink is, as everywhere else in Persia, tea, drunk širin (sweetened) for breakfast (with several spoonfuls of sugar) and talḵ (bitter) with a lump of sugar placed at the tip of the tongue, with other meals, and at any time of the day. In the Gilān region, “weak” tea (kam-rang “light-colored”) is generally preferred to “strong” tea (por-rang “full-colored”), which is more popular on the plateau (Report …; Bromberger, 1985, p. 31). In addition, infusions are sometimes prepared and essences (ʿaraq) extracted using basic techniques, for the cure of various ailments. Pulḵom (Sambucus ebulus) infusion is famous as a cure for high blood pressure, kutkutu (pennyroyal) essence will stop diarrhea—a common illness in the spring, when the Gilaki take particular pleasure in eating green plums.
Meals. Whereas in the West different courses follow each other according to a well-established pattern, in Persia all the different dishes are placed on the spread simultaneously so that they can be tried and tasted at the same time (Plate III). Menus are radically structured according to the time of day and year, or according to life’s rituals and celebrations, and also according to the cooks’ dietetic concern for balanced menus of “cold” and “hot” dishes according to the season, the age, and the status of their guests (Bromberger, 1985, p. 26).
Plate III. A meal in an urban family, Rasht, 1996: fFish, kate, olives, etc. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
Traditionally, kate is the main food for breakfast. It can be eaten cold (usually leftovers from the day before), accompanied by cheese, preserved garlic, onion, fish roe, uncooked broad beans soaked in water, nuts, and olives, or, eaten hot, swimming in sweetened milk, mixed with syrup of arbā or simply served with jams. In the past thirty years, bread has gradually replaced rice, and breakfast (ṣobḥāne) is more and more similar to that of the Iranian plateau. The usual mid-morning collation (qalye nāhār) includes boiled vegetables (broad beans, beans, beets), possibly seasoned with lime juice and a dash of olive oil. Lunch (nāhār) is more consistent: the ever-present kate is served with stews, browned or salted fish, yogurt, onion, and raw herbs (in the spring and summer). The mid-afternoon snack (ʿaṣrāna), similar to the mid-morning collation or simply a soup with sour flavors (torše āš), is a welcome pause, considering the late time of dinner (šām), usually between nine to ten at night. The menu for the latter is less copious than the lunch menu: a vegetable cake (kuku), a soup, stewed leftovers, or fried eggs are served with the kate, which now competes with bread. In the dry areas of Gilān, dairy products, pot-au-feu (āb-gušt), dry vegetable stews, and bread consumed in great quantities are the basic elements of a less varied diet and less sophisticated cooking. In the last decades, however, standardization of the ways of life has brought an increase in rice consumption to these dry regions, while, as a corollary, eating bread has become popular in the plain of Gilān.
The cold season is a time for hot (garm) food such as dry vegetable stews slowly simmered in fat. With the arrival of spring, food is colder (sard) and greener, as in fresh vegetable dishes and herbs eaten raw. Bāqāla qātoq—a mixture of freshly cut broad beans and herbs with eggs produced in quantities during that season—is the typical dish in this season of renewal. Dishes served at the time of the kulkule čāršanbe (the eve of the last Wednesday of the year; see Čahāršanba-suri) and sizdah be-dar (the thirteenth day of the new year; Plate IV) are proof of this culinary transition: spinach stews, tare, polo with herbs, fried eggs, in the first instance; lettuce soaked in vinegar and powdered with sugar in the latter case. Dishes served cold, such as kāl-kebāb (eggplant pulp) are often consumed during the spring and summer cycles. Menus for special occasions are characterized by hot seasoning and sweet flavoring: āḡuz ḵoreš (fesenjān) with teal is served with polo kišmiš (rice with dry grapes), or a stew with peaches or dried apricots (qeysi) served with čelo, bread with eggs and milk. At the time of annual celebrations or important events in the cycle of life, special attention is given to cooking: the food prepared during Ramadan is particularly hot and nourishing, and includes rice, butter, and sugar for saḥari (the meal before sunrise), and a complete dish (šāmi rašti, for example), served with herbs, and many sweets (halvā, bāmiya, zulbiyā) at the time of efṭār (the meal after the day’s fast). As time passes, mothers cook up more or less hot menus for their sons: cold dishes if they need to be tempered at the time of puberty, burning hot on the day before their wedding.
Plate IV. Meal of sizdah be-dar, Safidrud delta, 2000. (Courtesy of the author)View full image in a new tab
Table manners symbolize the hierarchy within the family and in the presence of company. Men and women share the same tablecloth. However, there are usually invisible limits between male and female spaces. The men occupy the back (bālā “top”) of the room, women and young children sit in the front. Eating meals around a table and using forks are practices confined to well-to-do city dwellers; in the country, people continue to shape rice balls with their hands and resort to spoons only to eat specific dishes (yogurt, etc.).
Exploiting the diversity of local resources, and characterized by the importance of vegetables, sour flavors, and oil, Gilān has a highly original cuisine which is a source of pride for the people of the region who are given to criticizing less sophisticated diets (dismissed as ḵalḵāli ḡaẕā “Ḵalḵāli food”) and who remain resolutely faithful to their gastronomical traditions, even at times of migration or exile.
Bibliography
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- Marcel Bazin and Christian Bromberger, Gilân et Ãzarbâyjân oriental. Cartes et documents ethnographiques, Paris, 1982.
- C. Bromberger,“Dis-moi quelle est ta grange: variations micro-régionales et différenciation socio-économiques des techniques de conservation du riz dans la province du Gilān (Iran),” in Marceau Gast and François Sigaut, eds., Les techniques de conservation des grains à long terme, Paris, 1979, pp. 161-84.
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