In the early and mid 1970s, I spent two summers in Iran.  It was my first exposure to an extraordinary culture: to Moslem hospitality, to the dazzling architecture and tilework of Isfahan’s Naghsh-e Jahan Square, to the ruins of Persepolis, to intricate bazaars, stunning tribal carpets, and so much more.  In many ways those were idyllic days, but there was no ignoring the cruelty of the Shah’s illegitimate regime.  He was seen as America’s staunchest ally in the Middle East and a ‘friend’ of Israel.  And because Iran was regarded as an essential force for stability in the region, because Iran poured hundreds of millions of oil dollars into purchasing American arms, the Shah’s ruthless subjection of his own people was readily ignored by our leaders.  As I saw it, America had struck a devil’s bargain, a disaster of pragmatic foreign policy that was immoral and certain to come crashing down.  I came to Iran with no thought whatsoever of writing about it, but the tension between the beauty of the world I encountered and the simmering anger of its people spurred me to embark on my first novel.  I conceived a narrative in which naive, young Americans living in Shiraz encourage restless Iranian students to engage in subversive actions against the Shah-- a course of action that does not go well.  But my project was overtaken by events.  By the time I’d completed a first draft, the Shah was overthrown and replaced by an even more brutal theocratic regime of mullahs.  My story of misguided protest seemed insignificant, so I abandoned it.

          Then, years later, America invaded Iraq, driven by a mission of regime change and nation-building on a democratic model.  It seemed to me that our actions were driven by the very illusions that guided the ill-fated young people in my unfinished manuscript; thus, I returned to my tale, using our disastrous invasion of Iraq to frame my narrative.  Late in my novel, a character comments upon what he sees as the paradox of America’s bumbling interventions overseas: Whether America supported tyranny or whether it sought to unseat tyrants and impose democracy made little difference.  Either way we wreaked havoc.  Shiraz dramatizes this disturbing claim.  It examines the problematic nature of intervention on several overlapping levels (political, cultural, and personal), and it questions whether even the most honorable intentions justify America imposing its values on others.

         Of course, we’re drawn to fiction for more than the themes it presents-- or as Duke Ellington said, ‘It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing.’  In writing Shiraz, I did my level best to evoke the feel of this faraway place; to capture the languid rhythms of life there; and to suggest the underlying tension of life in a doomed police state. 

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