Isfahan

The headscarf was bothering me and this is really ruined my mood. I was tying the ends of the scarf at the top of my head in a new style, but my husband's sharp remark immediately cut through my efforts. His concern was for my appearance, for avoiding the scrutiny of the morality police. A sense of suffocation grew within me, each harsh word of his making the lack of freedom even more palpable.

Spring was in the air, cherry trees were blooming on the side of the road. We were passing Hamadan, the world's oldest city, home to descendants of Persians, Azerbaijanis, and Lurs. It's also where the mausoleum of the great healer Avicenna stands. In Iran, many visit the tombs of renowned figures to seek answers without words. They sit nearby, meditate, and then rise with quiet understanding. The tomb of this scientist and thinker is never without visitors.

Avicenna believed the soul's state impacts the body, anticipating modern psychotherapy and aromatherapy through his use of words, music, and smells in patient treatment. His works were translated into Latin, Persian, Hebrew, and Old Ukrainian. He was known as Avicenna in Europe and Ibn Sina in the Arab world.

New places and the surrounding nature lifted my spirits and helped distract me from the obsessive thought of how to tie my headscarf differently. I deeply wanted to uncover my neck and breathe more freely.

But with time, I made peace with this practical accessory and even became quite fond of it. It truly suits those living in desert climates.

In Iran, girls are taught from childhood to cover their heads. Every little girl dreams of being like her mother, so they begin wearing the scarf almost from birth.

Another stop at a historical site. In the distance, stone slabs came into view—engraved with inscriptions in Old Persian, Neo-Babylonian, and Neo-Elamite. These were the Ganjnameh inscriptions, messages carved from the past to speak to the future.

Set in a narrow, picturesque gorge with a waterfall, the inscriptions were left by two Persian kings—father Darius and son Xerxes. They were not only wise rulers of their vast empire, but also, quite literally, laid the foundation of the ancient Persian literary tradition.

For centuries, the local people—having long forgotten the ancient scripts—believed the carvings to be a coded treasure map. It took generations, until European scholars arrived in the 19th century, for the inscriptions to be deciphered. And what did they reveal? Not hidden riches, but a testament to the greatness of the kings.

In Ancient Persia, art and writing were never merely decorative; they were instruments of royal glory, designed to immortalize power.

We’re heading to Isfahan to visit a friend of my husband’s. Iranians with love call this city “half of the world.”

At a time when poetry flourished here and acoustic palaces were being built, Columbus had not yet even set sail for America.

I breathe in the slightly dry, yet cool air of Iran’s most beautiful city.

We promenade through the evening streets with a friend—a tall, broad-shouldered man from Isfahan who once studied with my husband in Kyiv. Together, they’ve lived many stories. 

Cars rush past, stirring the already polluted air.

Unnoticed, we arrive at the ancient bridge. Soft music and laughter drift through its illuminated arches. This is where local artists, musicians, and dreamers gather—drawn to the magic of the night.

Once, Shah Abbas II ordered the construction of a remarkable pedestrian bridge with arcade galleries, built upon the foundations of an older one. It was to be a place where he could quietly sip wine and write poetry. At that time, the Zayandeh River flowed swiftly through the city, a living artery of Isfahan.

The architect, fully aware of the weight of the task, poured all his knowledge and the Shah’s wishes into the project. And so, the Khaju Bridge was born — a masterpiece of Persian architecture.

At both ends of the bridge stood stone sculptures of lions.

On one of the lion, a little boy was cheerfully playing.

“Does this child’s mother know that lion is five hundred years old?” my friend asked dryly.

He directed my attention to a lion on the opposite side, asking for a closer look. Shifting from foot to foot, I searched for the lion's eyes. Suddenly, they lit up, only to extinguish as soon as I moved. Was it the power of thought? No, it turned out to be the power of the architect's clever design.

Late in the evening, we found ourselves in the Armenian quarter of New Julfa, happily eating local fast food and chatting with familiar Isfahans.

Four hundred years ago, Shah Abbas I forcibly relocated the inhabitants of Old Julfa in Eastern Armenia deep into Persia. Soon, these Armenians prospered thanks to their crafts and trade with India, settling in quite well. Of course, they built a church, and polite new friends invited me to pray there the next morning. I accepted, eager to examine the temple's rich wall frescoes.

The Armenian quarter of New Julfa felt frozen in time, an impression solidified by its old, massive clock. It's likely the only place in Iran where you can buy a pork sandwich and, if you're lucky, even wine. For a very long time, consuming these "unclean" foods and partaking in "holy" alcohol was a privilege reserved solely for local Armenian Christians. This tacit right largely remains theirs even today.

Quietly, so as not to wake my friend's parents, we snuck into his room. Family tradition dictates that children remain in their parents' home until they start their own families.

As we sipped the hidden wine, we reminisced about our trip to Georgia.  Adding to the euphoria of our shared emotions, our Isfahani friend pulled out his santur and began to play. His clear love for folk music seemed to breathe new life into the instrument.

A friend recounted his very first flight to Kyiv for university. He found solace in playing his santur during the seemingly endless border control at Boryspil Airport. For his initial eight hours in Ukraine, all he saw were snowy fields, planes coming and going, and the strings of his traditional instrument. My future husband and seven other students were with him, patiently waiting for the border guards to return their passports.

My husband still vividly remembers his profound delight when the Motherland Monument finally emerged from the snow, a landmark he recognized from Ukrainian study advertisements. So overwhelmed with emotion, he even gifted the minibus driver an entire package of Iranian pistachios, meticulously prepared by his mother.

The Isfahani morning was bathed in sun. My friend's father, a thin man with no gray hair and a sharp, lively gaze, sat at a round table, leisurely drinking coffee. He'd been educated in London and now managed his own factory in Isfahan.

"Do you like it in Isfahan?" he asked in English, leaning in and offering a handshake. I recounted my impressions from yesterday. He smiled faintly, responding that the city was full of marvels. He explained that Iranian architecture has six styles, with the final, Isfahani style, being the most skillful. Grabbing a pen and paper, he sketched the Khaju Bridge, detailing its design. Water roared in from one side of the bridge and flowed out peacefully from the other. This unique feature was why the Shah adored resting there. The secret, he divulged, was a simple wooden dam built into the bridge's center. Even the mystery of the lion's eyes was just a trick of refracted light. Suddenly, it all became clear. Science lights the path to the future, and in Isfahan, it illuminates the past.

Since ancient times, people in this city have gathered in "kahvehuns" – not just to drink coffee and discuss the latest news, but also to listen to poems, often inscribed directly onto the walls.

The Ali Qapu Palace captivated us with its acoustics, after which we decided to wander through the Grand Bazaar, stretching along Imam Square.

To this day, this section of the city remains its primary financial hub, where social and cultural life thrives. Singing canaries greet you at every turn, loud workers push heavy carts of goods through the rows, jewelry gleams, and sellers, with narrowed gazes, expertly string together necklaces and earrings. Folk craftsmen display handmade pots and boxes, Persian carpets unfurl, healing herbs offer their scents, and huge mountains of spices create a vibrant tapestry. Everything blends together, seeming endless and utterly fabulous, as if a magic carpet might whisk you away at any moment. And still, just as they have for a thousand years, wandering dervishes (Sufi ascetics, akin to Muslim monks) walk and sing here.

Winding through rows of embroidered shoes and bags, we stumbled upon a small, old coffee shop. There, we managed to calmly enjoy a cup of Turkish coffee. Immersed in the local atmosphere, we suddenly spotted world-famous Persian miniatures in an antique shop window. The city seemed to cast a spell on us, charging and inspiring with an invisible energy that pulsed from everywhere. Surely, a Jin lived somewhere nearby.

Memories flooded my mind again: winter Kyiv on New Year's Eve. I was returning home with a bottle of champagne, its label adorned with "Happy 2013" in multicolored beads. Again, 13, our official lucky number. The taxi driver's wife—whom he'd already met—my Iranian love, had crafted the festive decoupage on the bottle. Our meeting was destined to be our last. My beloved was returning to live in his country forever, with no promises or obligations. All that would remain were happy memories, carefree days, and Soviet sparkling wine in a beautiful wrapper.

Without waiting for the holiday, I opened the gift, filled my glass, and mentally said goodbye to another emotional wound. It seemed to me then that love was an invention, and those who were bored had simply mastered this game. I felt caught in a powerful trap, hearing only the sad sonatas of separation within.

This empty bottle still gathers dust in the corner of my room. Perhaps it was magical, and someone heard me? After six months of silence, I received a message on a popular social network: "I miss you, come to Iran." To which I replied: "Thank you, I'm meeting my friends in Tbilisi."

My friend and I—the same one who championed my plan and flew to Georgia with me—are seated in the lobby of Isfahan's oldest, most fashionable hotel. I observe the diminutive porter effortlessly carrying large tourist suitcases. At a nearby table, a man without legs converses pleasantly with his friends, sipping coffee. He doesn't appear unhappy at all; rather, he smiles constantly, using his wheelchair as his chair.

Once again, I grasp that there are no true standards for what a "normal" person should be or where one ought to live. We are all distinct—separate planets, where sometimes a hurricane rages or the sun shines brightly. Someone might be incredibly beautiful yet feel like the loneliest person alive. Another might be drowning in money and contemplating death. Where, then, can one find the best place on Earth to discover inner peace and quiet happiness?

And to hell with that scarf, a mere cloth, not a brick, that they compel you to wear! My compass had gone astray, leading me to an entirely different world, one I was slowly beginning to appreciate. Here, everyone seemed to strive to preserve time. Technological progress advanced in small, hesitant steps against the formidable barriers of ancestral traditions. In that moment, Isfahan felt truly unique.