Parts of Call Parts of Call Beyond Blue Horizons Beyond Blue Horizons, far at the world's end, strange, fascinating lands beckon us. Bid us revel in their exotic splendors. Come with us tonight as we make Persia our port of call. The Persian Gulf Skirting the desert shores of Arabia, our steamer enters the Persian Gulf and drops anchor in the harbor of Kormousa, Persia's principal deep-water port. Here, east meets west. Dirty grimy tankers of the Anglo-Persian oil company lie at anchor beside Latine-rigged Arabian merchant vessels, their triangular striped sails shrieking brilliant colors against the drab black and gray of the vessels of Europe. On the quay, barrels of crude oil but recently pumped by pipeline from Abadan stand close to bales of priceless Kurdistani rugs just arrived by camelback across hundreds of miles of shimmering desert. Here are the Fakhirs, the vendors of sweet meats and Persian melons, the sellers of pottery, here too the shipping point for Persia's opium. And here are the southern terminus of the railroad, which one day will carry the traveler north hundreds of miles to Tehran, the capital. But today we must journey by automobile, or if adventurous enough, by camelback, Persia's surest method of transportation. In Tehran, millennium-old market city, Risa Shah Pahlavi, king of kings by grace of his astute political ability, is building a modern capital, stretching wide tree-lined boulevards through the ancient bazaars, demolishing blocks of mosques and mud houses to make way for beautiful government buildings, forcing progress on the ageless east. Above Tehran, Mount Demavand thrusts its eternally snow-capped peak 18,000 feet into the clear blue Persian sky. It was upon this legend-crowned mountain, some say, that three thousand years ago, dwelt the first great sage of antiquity, Zarathustra, while he meditated upon good and evil. All life resolves itself into a struggle, the good against the evil, the evil against the good. Ahura Mazda, lord of wisdom and light, strives against Hariman, ruler of evil and darkness. The choice is yours. Fill your soul with the good and the light, or dwell in evil and darkness. You must choose, and as you have chosen, so you will be judged in the life to come. Thus the first conception of the life hereafter, thus the first clear conception of good and evil, thus the heritage of Christianity, thus spake Zarathustra. Into this country of desert and snow-capped mountains, a thousand years before Zarathustra, had drifted nomadic Aryan tribes. Those who settled to the north near the Caspian Sea became known as the Medes, and those who settled in the south near the Gulf were known as the tribes of Pers, or Persians. For centuries the warlike Medes held the Persians in subjection, and then six hundred years before Christ, there rose among the people of Pers Cyrus, a shepherd king, who unified his clansmen and led them north against the Medes. After four years of campaigning across burning deserts and in freezing mountain passes, Cyrus finally tasted the sweet fruits of victory in his camp on the plains beneath holy Mount Demavent. His occupants and protection, the giver of light, as the Yages, king of the Medes, king of Persia and Armenia. Welcome to our camp, brave Astyagis. In turn, I am unable to welcome you to my country. I believe I address Cyrus, leader of the rebel Persians? You address Cyrus, king of the Persians and of the Medes, Cyrus, king of kings. I have come to discuss terms of peace, not to listen to the bragging of a boastful shepherd. There are no terms to discuss, Astyagis. When you heard that slave announce you as you entered my tent, you heard your proud titles for the last time. You are vanquished, Astyagis, and I have ruler. By what authority? By authority of my Persian bowmen, my Persian horsemen, and by grace of Ahura Mazda, whose light I will carry to the ends of the world. You are but the first of a noble company, Astyagis. Belshazzar of Babylon will bow to my arms, Cresus of Lydia will surrender to me, the Phoenician and the Jew will learn of Cyrus and his Persian warriors, and my might will be felt in farthest Greece. Here my work is finished. On the winged feet of fleet runners, the fame of Cyrus spreads. Across Asia Minor, down through Phoenician Palestine, into the valley of the Nile, across the Hellespont. King Cresus of Lydia, richest man of the ancient world, fears for the safety of his bursting coffers. Quickly he organizes a defensive coalition against the barbarian thundercloud gathering on his eastern horizon. Sparta joins him, and the Pharaoh of Egypt and Belshazzar of Babylon promise help. But the handwriting is already on the wall. By 46 BC, Cyrus captures Cyrus, capital of Lydia, and takes King Cresus prisoner. By 39 BC, Cyrus, at the head of the conquering Persians, defeats Belshazzar and enters Babylon. And in the next ten years, Parthia, Hyrcania, Catrosia, Vakriana and Archaosa are added to Cyrus' domains, thrusting the Persian Empire east into India. Then in 525 BC, Cambyses son of Cyrus conquers Egypt. Thus in 25 years had Cyrus, the obscure shepherd king, vaulted to world prominence, become emperor of the world. For a hundred years, Persia ruled supreme. Then history's spotlight swung westward, and Greece held the stage. Then Rome. In Bethlehem, a savior was born. But the land of the lion and the sun heard little of him. Six centuries later, another prophet appeared in the Arabian city of Mecca. Of him, Persia was to know much, for he was Mohammed. And his fatalistic philosophy, his promise of paradise to the faithful who died for Allah, was destined to spread across half the world, subjecting it to the rule of the Cales. In Persia's holy city of Meshed is the tomb of the most famous of these, the Caliph Harun al-Rashi, the mention of whose name conjures up pictures of the thousand and one knights, and the deathless story of the cruel sultan Sharia, and his lovely sultana, Scheherazade. Scheherazade, thou hast reveled in thine actual pleasures. Prepare to die. Oh, wise and powerful sultan, my lord of but a single knight, well do I know that thou considerest all women faithless, that thou beheadest each of thy wives at the end of the bridal night. Hath thou pleading for mercy? No, my lord, but the sun's fair shaft of light has not yet gilded the top of Yondermost. But I am weary. Then lie back among thy cushions, and let me tell thee a story. Very well, before thou diest, thou mayest tell me a story. Know then, O King, that there was in the time of the Caliph, the prince of the faithful, Harun al-Rashi, in the city of Baghdad a man called Sinbad the porter. He was a man in poor circumstances, who bore burdens that he might slake his thirst with wine, and fill his belly with a pilaf of rice at night. Now it came to pass one day... And when grey dawn slipped between the richly woven curtains of the harem, filling the pointed arch with promise of a new day, Sheherazade had only just begun her fascinating tale of the adventures of Sinbad the porter and his host, Sinbad the sailor. Fascinated with the story, the sultan postponed his bride's death until the next night, so that he might hear the conclusion of the adventures of Sinbad. But at the end of each night, Sheherazade was in the midst of another amazing story, and each night the sultan put off her death until the morrow. Sinbad the porter But at the end of the thousand and one nights, Sheherazade had told all her stories. Seated at the feet of the cruel sultan Shariyar, Sheherazade gazed out the window, so at last the sun's first rosy beam snared the top of the distant minaret. O powerful sultan, my master and my lord, for a thousand and one nights I have related to thee the history of the preceding generations and the admonitions of the people of former times. Now, great and wise king, I am ready to die, as is your avowed wish. Know ye, Sheherazade, it is no longer my wish that thou shouldst die. During these thousand and one nights I have seen thee to be chased pure, ingenuous and pious. I have found thee unlike other women whose faithlessness drives reason from the souls of men. Sheherazade, I pardon thee and exempt thee from all injury, and henceforth thou shalt truly be my queen, ruling equally with me in my vast domain, receiving the fullness of the love I have learned to hold for thee, until together we shall wander in paradise. As the sun's bronze disc slides beneath Persia's western horizon from the minarets of countless mosques, the moisan calls the faithful to prayer. A sacred hush falls over the busy bazaar and the chattering marketplace. Only the tinkle of a camel's bell or the nervous whinny of a horse breaks the stillness, as man, woman and child face towards Mecca, drop devoutly to their knees, touch their foreheads upon the earth. There is no God but Allah, and Mohammed is His prophet. But though the vast majority of Persia's estimated population of ten million profess the sheer confession of the Mohammedan faith, religious freedom is granted to all, and many Persians still worship the Ahura Mazda of the ancient Zarathustra, the Jehovah of Israel, the God of Christianity. At the great bazaar of Tabriz collects the Orient, changeless, eternal, living life today as it has been lived for thousands of years. By slow plodding camel caravan they have come from all over Persia, across the steppes of southern Russia, from the Caucasus, from Belukistan, from Inner Mongolia, even from farthest China. Here amidst the babble of outlandish tongues, white-clad men from Bokara rub shoulders with tekkas from Merv, with a pigtail down each side of the head, smooth-shaven Persians wearing pillbox hats, trade with bearded Kazakhs from the Kyrgyz wastes, Hindus quiet with the calm of centuries, wheedling Armenians, bloodthirsty Afghans, untamed Bhaktiari from Persia's southern mountains, slant-eyed Chinese, shrewd Greeks. All are here to buy, sell, exchange or barter the wealth of the Orient. Sandalwood from Samarkand, melons from Ispahar, rare gems from Kashan, needlework from Georgia, wonderfully carved ivory from China, ripe purple figs from Kermanshah, and rugs, soft, silky rugs in the intricate designs of which are caught the essence of the mysticism of the Orient. Rugs made by unlettered Kurdish nomads, in which are woven the ancient symbol of a serious sacred tree, flanked by two guardian beasts. Prayer rugs are the most delicate moulds, on which may be found every flower known to Persia. Rugs from Shiraz, wrought in rose, ivory and blue. Tekka rugs of geometrical design and smouldering red, modern in their essential simplicity, although following designs, tradition has dictated for ten centuries. In the ancient Persian city of Nishapur, nearly a thousand years ago, flourished one of the Orient's most famed universities. And here under the tutelage of the Imam Mu'afak, studied the son of a tentmaker of Nishapur. Brilliant, talented, this youth soon brought himself to the attention of the Imam, who one day called the young man to him. I have summoned you, Omar Khayyam, to offer you the use of my library, my books and my charts, and the benefits of my private instruction. Most about, Imam. Emotion chokes my throat, and my soul prays for eloquence with which to thank you. You will work hard, you will study, you must learn, for in you I see one to succeed me as professor. You shall mould the thoughts of the next generation. You honour me, that one whose learning is so complete should grant such opportunities to an unworthy scholar, whose father is a maker of things. Henceforth you shall be as my son, you shall live with me here in my house, you shall... What sound is that? Surely Allah, may His name be ventilated, has not sent one of His heavenly virgins to earth? Even so, Omar, even so. That is my daughter Sharin who approaches. It cannot be that one so lovely possesses the brief mortality of life. Sharin, come here. You should know, Omar Khayyam, he is to live with us. He shall be as a brother to you. Omar Khayyam, you are welcome here. Paradise could never hold more beauty than I see in your eyes, Sharin. Dutt, dutt, dutt, Omar. Sharin is to become a wife of the Sultan. So has she been promised. But she is still little more than a child. So has it been destined since her birth. The rose of Kashmir could in all its beauty never dim what today mine eyes have seen. A book of verses underneath the boughs, a jug of wine, a loaf of bread and thou beside me singing in the wilderness. Our wilderness were paradise and now... It is lovely, Omar, lovely. I wrote it for you, for us. But Omar, this is not the wilderness. This is Nishapur and we are in my father's garden. Anywhere with you, there would be paradise. But such is not my fate. I am to be the bride of the Sultan. There lies not joy. It is destiny. Hear me, Sharin. Some sigh for the glories of this world and some sigh for the Prophet's paradise to come. I'll take the cash and let the credit go. Nor heed the rumble of the distant drum. But both Omar and Sharin, lovers in that lovely Persian garden, knew that they must heed the rumble of the distant drum. For the day came when the Sultan arrived to claim his wife. And this, oh wise and munificent ruler, is Omar Khayyam, my favorite pupil. Omar Khayyam, may Allah, whose name is holy, grant you fortune. Words would be useless to express my gratitude for the kindness of your omnipotence. Omar and Sharin, for these past two cycles of the zodiac, have been his brother and sister. Then indeed, this must be a sorrowful parting. Sharin, my child and my bride, you may bid your companion farewell. Omar, Omar, it is Gizmet, our fate. Gizmet, I... If only we might... No, no, my beloved. Fill the cup that clears today of past regrets and future fears. Come, come, my priceless pearl. Come, my Sharin. Yes, my lord. Goodbye, Omar. Goodbye. The moving finger, right, and having rip, moves on. Not all your piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line. Not all your tears wash out a word of it. Persia lies midway between British India and Russia, and thus became an extremely important buffer state during the imperial struggle for power which preceded the World War. The British lion and the Russian bear finally agreed to permit Persia her autonomy, while splitting her into two zones of influence, Russian to the north, British to the south. But this balance of power swung sharply toward Great Britain, when in 1901, William Knox Dorsey, an English mining man, discovered oil in southwestern Persia and promptly obtained a lease on 500,000 square miles of potential oil fields, five-sixths of Persia's territory. As the Anglo-Persian oil company develops a city of 40,000 at Abadan near the Gulf, as well after well this sunk in the Persian field proves to be the richest in the world, as the British government takes over the company, and as Risa Khan Pallavi, Persian minister of war, astutely forces his election to the Peacock throne and becomes Risa Shah Pallavi, King of Kings, British officials discover that Persia has awakened to European waves, has begun to appreciate European values. A new voice is heard in the east, a vibrant voice, ringing with the tradition of Cyrus and Darius, the voice of Risa Shah Pallavi, King of Kings, as he utters his favorite dictum. Persia must learn to do without foreigners. Since his accession to the throne in 1925, Risa Shah Pallavi has founded a national bank to replace the British own imperial bank of Persia, recodified the nation's laws in accordance with western conceptions of jurisprudence, begun the construction of a railroad from the Persian Gulf to the Caspian Sea, disarmed the tribes of mountain bandits, introduced compulsory military training, begun a westernizing program to rival that of his neighbor Mustafa Kemal of Turkey, inspired Persia to a nationalistic policy which in 1932 resulted in the cancellation of the British oil leases. The reverberations of this act are worldwide. From Baku to Kettleman Hills, oilmen prick up their ears, wait breathlessly for the next move which may upset the basic equilibrium of the petroleum industry. In distant London, the Admiralty nervously considers the situation, for from the Anglo-Persian oil fields comes the fuel for Britain's fire-flung navy. The traditional imperialistic gesture is made. British warships up anchor for the Persian Gulf, as Sir John Catman, President of the Anglo-Persian Oil Company, steps into a plain in London, roars across Europe, across the Levant, across mountains and deserts to Tehran, rushes to the audience room of the King of Kings. Your Majesty, we hold a 60-year lease granted by your predecessor, the Shah Ali Muhammad, in 1901. Sir John, let us not mince words. This is not the Persia of Shah Ali with which you are dealing. This is the Persia of today, the Persia of Risa Shah Pahlavi. May I remind you that you are not cancelling merely the lease with the Anglo-Persian Company, but also with the British government. I am aware of that, and I am also aware that your warships are but a day away from my ports in the Gulf. It is not my desire to resort to force. Nor mine. But it is not my pleasure that you should buy this lease, control five-sixth of my territory. But this lease is valid. We have paid our royalties. I am not interested in that. Your royalties, in any case, have been insufficient. This oil is Persia's, and I intend that Persia shall have it. This is outrageous. You won't dare to... May I remind you, Sir John, that Persia is a member in good standing of the League of Nations. Your threats, your warships, and your outraged anger do not concern me. Would you care to risk this subject before the League? But Your Majesty, our investments... Think of it! We have sunk 150 wells. We have built more than 100 miles of pipelines. I understand these facts and appreciate them. You will find me a just man with whom to deal. You may retain your pipelines and your wells, but you will sign a new lease. It reduces the land you control from 500,000 square miles to 250,000 square miles, and in 1938 to 100,000 square miles. It requires a royalty payment of four shillings a tonne and participation in the profits of your company to the extent of 20%. But, Sir... Furthermore, it deprives you of exclusive operation privileges. Hereafter, Persia will produce oil, and Persia will be your competitor as well as your partner. Your Majesty, don't you think these terms are a bit stiff? There is one alternative. You can get out of Persia. But look here, man, I... Priest, the Shar-Palevi King of Kings has spoken. Thus, the political descendant of Cyrus, master of Persian bohman, fights his battles across the council table, exercising a balance of power in the Near East, building upon the glorious foundations of antiquity a new world state. Thus, Persia continues to add glory to her glorious history, already 3,000 years old. May Allah shine upon you, Persia, and cause your fortunes to prosper. May Allah shine upon you, Persia, and cause your fortunes to prosper. Next week, the sponsors of this programme invite you to join them again on a journey to another fascinating country, where you will meet interesting people, visiting many of the most beautiful places in the world. And, as always, I invite you to join the journey to another fascinating country, where you will meet interesting people, visiting many of the most beautiful places in the world. And, as always, I invite you to join the journey to another fascinating country, visit strange places in a half hour of romantic travel to ports of call.
