“Privyet,” shouts a motorbiker.
“He thought you were Russian, like most of the foreigners here,” explains Ahmad. “Come, I’ll show you something.” He stops by a green corrugated iron fence separating the beach. Looking through a hole, we can see men and women in bathing suits. In Western bathing suits, that is, shorts and bikinis. “This is the only beach in Iran where men and women can swim together without the women wearing veils,” says Ahmad. However, there is a catch—no admittance for Iranians; Russians only. A small concession to foreign workers. The expertise of Russian engineers is so important that they try to make things pleasant for them here.
But pleasant maybe isn’t the right word. There’s an awful lot of driftwood and empty plastic bottles lying around. On the other side of the road, directly behind us, there is an anti-aircraft battery and another one three hundred feet away. The Russian beach at Bandar Gaah is probably the securest beach in the world.
On their way to work, the soldiers can peer through the hole, as there are no signs of repairs. “Nothing ever gets repaired here. The government has been planning to completely resettle Bandar Gaah for years, for security reasons,” says Ahmad.
He does a U-turn before heading back to the village’s second beach, which is no less unusual and begins directly next to the moorings of the fishing boats. The sand is full of plastic garbage, but two children are still swimming. Their parents sit on a blanket, spreading out a small picnic. Relaxed, a perfectly normal Friday at the seaside; there is tea from the thermos and tomato sandwiches.
The reason that this scene, despite its normality, is engraved in my memory has nothing to do with the garbage but what I catch sight of beyond the beach—a gigantic white concrete dome, next to it a minaret-high red-and-white striped chimney with ladders and a square concrete structure. In addition: blocks of houses, looking like a military barracks, and two cranes. Signposts name the facility BNPP, an abbreviation of Bushehr Nuclear Power Plant. The premises is protected by a considerably higher and more solid fence than the Russian beach, naturally without holes but with quite a few watch-towers, guarded by soldiers with machine guns. A thousand megawatt capacity, four cooling pumps, and 163 fuel rods. It is one of the most famous nuclear power plants in the world because it was the very first one in Iran, a milestone in the national nuclear program. Ahmad has to pass the reactor every day when he goes shopping in Bushehr, 7.5 miles away.
“Originally, Siemens was responsible for the construction. In the 1970s there were thousands of Germans living here,” he recounts. “But after the Islamic Revolution in 1979, the work was stopped because the political situation was too insecure, and the funding was tricky. The Russians finally finished construction three years ago. I would have preferred a German power plant—then we wouldn’t be so afraid of accidents.” The government apparently doesn’t share these fears. “Five years ago it was decided that all settlements within a three-mile radius of the plant should be relocated, but nothing has happened yet,” says Ahmad.
The plans for the construction of another reactor have just been signed, which may speed up this process. Bandar Gaah will die; it is just a matter of time. And then? “I’ve bought a plot of land in Bushehr. I know where I can go,” says Ahmad, but he still finds it sad. He was born in Bandar Gaah, and his parents, in whose garage he now parks the Peugeot, live directly opposite his own one-room apartment.
In the courtyard there are tomatoes and aloe vera plants. Ahmad’s nephew has written Cristiano Ronaldo 7 on the wall. Inside light blue brocade drapes on golden rods hide the windows. The wall is decorated with framed photos of horses, and on the bookshelf there are cups from dressage competitions. Ahmad was for many years a member of the Nuclear Plant Horse Club.
The washroom and showers are outside, and they can only be reached via the courtyard. “I wish I could offer you better accommodation,” Ahmad says with typical Iranian modesty, which you have to quickly counter with praise for the quarters. This is not difficult, as many a holiday home landlord on the Mediterranean would give his right arm for such a courtyard, and the room is nothing to grumble about, either. It’s just the location that concerns me. It is less than 1,500 feet to the next watchtower. I, too, would have felt considerably better had Siemens built the beige-colored monstrosity.
“PLEASE PLAY SOMETHING,” says Ahmad, suddenly producing a guitar from next to the sofa.
I strum around a bit, some classical and some flamenco. Ahmad and Laila applaud.
“And now sing something, please.”
“I’m not a good singer.”
“Doesn’t matter, do it anyway.” Luckily, Laila has a much better voice. As a duo we wouldn’t exactly win on American Idol, but we could put on a pretty good performance late nights at a campfire. “Wonderwall” by Oasis, “Good Riddance” by Green Day, “Someone Like You” by Adele. The Iranians love Adele; she could sell 5 million tickets in Tehran if performances by women singers weren’t forbidden. Ahmad asks if he could film us on his cell phone. “Please do, but don’t show it to all your friends,” says Laila.
“Okay,” says Ahmad. “You’re a great couple.”
Not for very much longer, I think to myself. Separation after our ten-day “marriage” is imminent. Bushehr is our last site as a couple since afterward Laila is heading back to Tehran. “I don’t believe that anybody feels the way I do about you now,” we sing together, and “I hope you had the time of your life,” and “I wish nothing but the best for you,” and we look at each other and grin because it’s all so unintentionally romantic.
We then pass on the guitar to Ahmad. He is a fantastic singer—five times better than us—a strong but also fragile tenor. He performs “Manoto,” which means “Me and You,” a sad love song with a flamenco-like accompaniment. “No, I’m a bad singer,” he says as we express our enthusiasm. “My parents never wanted me to play music. They are very religious and conservative. When I was young I used to pray five times a day. I was always in the mosque.”
“And nowadays? Not anymore?”
“No, when I was twenty I read a book about an Egyptian physician called Sinuhe and understood that religion only exists in people’s minds. Look at Afghanistan or the Iraq War—can there be a God when such things happen? Islam creates terrorism, and the Iranian government is destroying our country.”
“What do you believe in?”
“I believe in human rights, in love, honesty. I hate Islam, but that is a secret. If I go around saying that then…” He draws his index finger across his throat. The death sentence awaits all who renounce the national religion in Shiite Iran.
“I think half of all Iranians are not strictly religious, but the government is so strong that they have to conceal it. And the young people are frightened of fighting for their rights because they know how brutal the mullahs are, how many people they have killed for opposing their views.”
The conversation has turned. A few moments before, we were having a pleasant musical afternoon, and now we are talking about death, fear, and religion, with Ahmad saying one forbidden sentence after the other.
I have often experienced such shifts in mood in Iran. Moments of lightness are more fragile and more precious than elsewhere. A downpour can at any moment drench cheerful small talk at a garden party, even if there were no signs of clouds before.