Tehran: Clean Air and Less Fuel

Life is uncomfortable, but in the fervor of war few complain

The most visible sign of how the war has affected the Iranian capital of Tehran is the disappearance of the maddening, noxious traffic jams that once clogged the city from dawn to dusk. As a result of gasoline rationing and restrictions on privately owned cars, taxis and buses travel at speeds previously unimaginable. Said Abbas Tavakkol, 38, a taxi driver: "It's wonderful. I wish gasoline rationing and the ban on private driving remain in force forever." Retorted his passenger, an elderly man pressing an attache case against his breast: "It is a good thing God does not grant taxi drivers' wishes." The shortage of fuel has made life uncomfortable for Tehran's 7 million people, but in the fervor of the war between "Islam and paganism," there are few complaints. An Iranian journalist sent the following report to TIME:

"We breathe cleaner air," quipped Ahmad Hozzar, a Tehran grocer, when asked how the war had changed his life. "The war taught me I was not as helpless as I thought," said Hassan Torabi, the owner of a tea shop. "I never thought I could still ride a bicycle until I tried it two weeks ago. I had to--after 23 years." Because of rationing, Torabi has temporarily stopped using his car, a locally assembled Peykan. Every motorist is entitled to 30 liters of gasoline a month, but getting the ration involves several hours in line at filling stations. Even then, private driving is prohibited from 6:30 a.m. until 2 p.m. Driving during the nightly blackout is legal but dangerous. Motorists may not turn on their headlights unless the lights are painted deep blue. Some owners have covered their lights with blue carbon paper. The sight is eerie, and the chances of collision high.

Tehran has suffered only infrequent, light air raids by Iraqi planes. When the sirens go off, people on the street carry on as if nothing has happened. Nobody dives for cover: they just look up into the sky, hoping to see a dogfight, even though the state radio and television constantly remind Tehran residents that they should take the air raid signals seriously. Most people have covered the window panes of their homes or apartments with thick black paper or tin foil, in order to keep the lights on during the blackout. The reason is not so much the fear of air strikes as the noisy urging of young people and children who act as self-appointed civil defense wardens. The briefest glimpse of light from a window starts a chorus of "Turn it off" from a dozen directions.

At the outset of the war, there was some panic hoarding of bread and other staples, mostly in the well-to-do northern sections of the city. There is no shortage of basic foodstuffs. Shops and supermarkets are well stocked with both Iranian and imported food. Kerosene, the principal cooking and heating fuel, is rationed: 20 liters a week for each family. The government has ordered a halt to the supply of fuel oil to private consumers until further notice. Anticipating a cold winter, people have been buying electric heaters, which are now in short supply. "If the worst fears come true, we shall walk around the house fully dressed," says a telephone company repairman.

Even while the war rages, Iran's Shi'ite Muslim mullahs pursue their campaign against the earthly pleasures of drinking, dancing and dating. Tehran has had no public night life since the Islamic revolution ousted the late Shah; the blackout has now put an end to private parties as well. "We have all become disgustingly healthy," says a university professor who misses the good old days. "I still cannot believe I have become an early riser." At the "Department for the Enforcement of Prohibitions," where officials keep barrels of half-fermented grapes confiscated from amateur winemakers, the war is used as an excuse to lecture offenders. "Your brothers are dying for Islam and Iran and you indulge in illicit pleasures?" an investigator lectured a bootlegger. Another accused drinker tried to convince his captors, to little avail, that his confiscated home brew was vinegar, not wine. "I have been selling homemade vinegar for years," he implored. "Ask my neighbors. Take a taste."

Now more than ever, Tehran is a city of rumors. One story has it that the son of the Shah is planning a military-led coup on his birthday, Oct. 31. The Tehran Security Command has asked people to report "counterrevolutionary activities, including rumor making." There are plenty of Islamic zealots willing to oblige, and last week 40 "rumormongers" were arrested. Unlike the Iraqis, whose propaganda stresses the historic enmity of Arab and Persian, the Iranians carefully distinguish between the people and the government of Iraq. Tehranians reflect this distinction in talking about the war. Says Ali Ehtesham, a schoolteacher: "Saddam Hussein wants our two Muslim nations to destroy each other so that Israeli usurpers may feel safer in this region."

Martyrs who have fallen in the war against Iraqi "heathens" are given elaborate funerals, and the people rejoice in stories of Iranian heroism. One of them involves a member of the Islamic Revolutionary Guards who preferred to die rather than comply with his Iraqi captors' order to "insult Khomeini." A militiaman last week told a group of fascinated listeners how the Iraqis had fled from the fanatical charges of his unit. "If out of a group of ten, nine of us fall, the last one will still fight to death," the militiaman boasted. "When a single Iraqi soldier falls, his entire company flees." The story would be told again and again in Tehran, embellished and emboldened as it passed from mouth to mouth.

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