Caves and Memories
Jul 19th, 2008 by pedestrian
A long flight of steep stairs made of edgy, hard rock. A dark hallway that opens to a cave.
I may have spent many a summer nights on the roof, but during the day, this is where I lived.
The shavadoon.
Dezful/Khuzestan enjoys some of the hottest summer climates in Iran - and simultaneously nurtures some of its most fertile soil. But long before electricity and air conditioning, the people stayed cool (and alive) by crafting living rooms deep underground. These basements would be, in older houses, all connected to one another creating a long, dark tunnel that spanned the entirety of the city.
Come it summer time, most households would cater a second home under these grounds. They would take in furniture, stoves, lamps to battle the long, gruesome heat waves ahead.
Many homes did have air conditioning throughout. But except for the one in the main living room, none were ever used.
They didn’t need to be.
It should have been immensely humid under ground, but the humble, unknown architects of the past had found a way around that as well. Craftsmen dig vertical, tunnels know as Dariza and horizontal tunnels known as Taal. The dariza was constructed from the depth of ground to the central courtyard level or rooftop. These vertical tunnels would bring enough daylight to the depths of the Shavadoon as well as reduce moisture.
I vividly remember the excitement of making the long journey to my homeland every summer from the crowded streets of Tehran; of having the entire family residing there. Of us kids running up and down those horrendous stairs and into the burning water of the pool – and running back down again.
Dozens and dozens of times everyday we’d jump into the water, burning our skin, screaming of the scalding heat, only so we could run to the cold, crisp air of the basement. Then, when our wet bodies began feeling too cold, we’d repeat the entire procedure all over again.
Noon times when the family was to depart on a long, abysmal nap, running around would be forbidden. So we would spend the time “excavating” the tunnels and paths underground. Occasionally, if luck was on our side that day, a grownup would decide to read to us in a another hallway.
As time passes, nostalgia and longing amplify the beauty of these memories; they have slowly forgotten the scorching heat or the dampness of the caves. They have forgotten the grueling accidents caused by running such steep stairs or the painful sunburns.
And yet, I let them do what they do. I marvel them; devour them; sip them slowly as one would a glass of archaic, sumptuous wine.
I fear that I belong to a last generation of kids who experienced the comfort of the shavadoon; of the rooftop; of a humongous family coming together despite war, conflict, work and chaos.
The shavadoon is a dying concept in the city.
Too many people were killed in those basements during the bombings of the war. And with the immense depth of these structures and little aid in the city, their bodies were not recovered for many moons.
There had been too many accidents and too many fatalities.
A daughter, home for the week from school, had fallen head first from the first few stairs when their house had been hit by an Iraqi bomb.
She has resided in her wheelchair, paralyzed neck down ever since.
Yes, people died in their homes as well. But to most people, the thought of death seems more comfortable at ground level.
This refuge of centuries past had become, during the long, brutal war, a cave of death for many.
But that wasn’t what caused this constant degradation of the underground basements.
Over time, arrived Samsung and other Korean manufacturers who provided air conditioning for all. There was born a necessity to rebuild the city as fast as possible which left little time to dig deep beneath. Neighbors were no longer comfortable with the thought of paths that led to each other’s doorstep. The elders’ knees suddenly became too timid for the long climb; the youngsters had more intriguing, shiny merriment indoors. Slowly, the shavadoon withered and died.
As did the spirit of an entire people and an ancient city.
Today, with the gruesomely high price of energy, and with the fatal need throughout the word to indulge and strive for conservation, as I look through out Iran, I marvel of how some of the earth’s most “under developed” inhabitants had indeed developed some of the most highly feasible solutions we could hope to someday achieve.
I see a day, years from now when we realize we should not have closed the doors of the shavadoon, but helped to open more. When we will realize that we should not have disintegrated that particular brand of family, but helped to nurture and grow it. I fear that we will realize this at a time when it will be too little, too late.
But for now, the memories are not that distant and not that vague. They do not belong to a long, forgotten past but an eventful yesteryear: noticing an oddly familiar face amongst the masses; a warm wave that washes over you in a tender embrace. They are magnificent fairies flourishing with life; fused with passion and dancing vividly in the landscapes of my memories.
It is not only pains and joys that bind; but the comfort of the caves that devour us.










