Читать книгу Mad for it: From Blackpool to Barcelona: Football’s Greatest Rivalries - Andy Mitten - Страница 11

More than a million people died when the two nations fought in the 1980s. Today, the only battle that counts lasts for just ninety minutes…

Tehran’s thoroughfares buzz with anticipation, the streets seeming to move as one in a westwards direction towards the Azadi national stadium. Here Iran will today take on their bitter rivals Iraq in a win-at-all-costs World Cup qualifier.

The pace is glacially slow, but there is a harmony that is rare in Iran these days. The atmosphere is charged, but the fans smile and salute each other. Flags are draped over every tree and lamp-post, and Iranians lose themselves in a nationalistic fervour which is usually denied them.

‘This is what it used to be like, when the Shah was in charge,’ a 73-year-old university lecturer turned shoe-shiner tells me. ‘Then we were told it was all right to be proud of being Iranian. Now we are told that our nationality doesn’t matter, that Islam is all that matters. But whoever says that should go and look at all the historical sites that litter Iran. We are an ancient land and our spirit is strong. We will prevail over anyone who tries to dampen our national spirit.’

Inside the stadium, their team emerges to the thunderous acclaim of 110,000 Iranians packed like pilchards in a tin. There are no Iraqi fans here, only the few officials who have travelled with the team. The Iraqi national anthem is played out to a stony silence but there are no jeers. When the Iranian anthem begins, though, the mood changes; the crowd boos, and the players, who mouth the words, look embarrassed. ‘They hate anything that reminds them of the State,’ a photographer from one of Iran’s leading daily newspapers tells me. ‘This isn’t their national anthem, this is the State’s…’

In 1979, a year after reaching their first World Cup finals in Argentina, Iran underwent a dramatic change. The Shah, an absolute monarch who favoured Western values, was overthrown. By nature protective of their culture, Iranians had felt increasingly threatened by the Shah’s policies. In his place, the Mullahs (Muslim clerics), led by Ayatollah Khomeini, came to power. The Islamic Revolution of that year transformed Iran from one of the most cosmopolitan and diverse cultures in the Middle East into the most introspective.

Ironically, those same Iranians who wanted to preserve their national identity now found their country dominated by Islam, a religion that does not recognise borders. Far from being encouraged to be proud Iranians, they found themselves pushed, first and foremost, to be dutiful, obedient Muslims.

Worse still, a year later, in 1980, Iran and Iraq went to war. The first Gulf War, actually a dispute over territorial control of the shipping lanes of the Shatt-al-Arab waterways, lasted for eight years. In Iran, it was given the spin variously of Jihad (or Holy War) and ‘The Imposed War’ and proved a useful propaganda tool for Khomeini. According to the Islamic Republic of Iran, Iraq was the pawn of Western influence, armed by the USA and France. Those who died fighting them were exalted as martyrs. It became one of the bloodiest conflicts on record. In the second year of the war, Iraq made moves towards a peace settlement, but Khomeini rejected them, saying that Iran would ‘fight until the last drop of blood’. An estimated 1.2 million people died on both sides, yet thirteen years after the final drop of blood was spilled the government still celebrates the beginning of the fighting, with ‘Holy Defence Week’.

The young (under-30s) who form 70 per cent of the population don’t remember much about the war. They care little either, brushing it aside and trying to keep themselves entertained. In Iran today, entertainment is mostly of the home variety. Although banned, many homes have satellites. The Internet, which is not banned but under heavy surveillance, allows the young another entry point to the outside world.

They see what the world has to offer, but can rarely interact. Football offers an outlet to vent their frustration at this debilitating state of affairs. The fact that Iran has a strong team helps. ‘We want the sort of freedom that young people have everywhere else; the freedom to laugh, the freedom to dance, the freedom to celebrate our successes. When we watch Iran play football we feel these freedoms,’ says Amir Mahdian, a 21-year old receptionist and devoted follower of the national side.

The passion that this has generated means football personalities in Iran are bigger than pop stars elsewhere. Ali Daei, the national team captain is a UNICEF ambassador like Geri Halliwell. ‘Daei is a legend to us; he has achieved what every Iranian dreams of, he has accomplished success abroad [with Bayern Munich and Hertha Berlin in the Bundesliga], and he represents his country with pride,’ says Mohammad Heydari, 15, from Tehransar.

Reaching the World Cup finals in 1998 meant that Iran came into contact not only with host nation France, but with the rest of the world. Much more than the chance to score a political point by beating the USA (or rather ‘The Great Satan’), this was an opportunity, and one which the nation and national team grabbed with both hands.

Qualifying for Korea and Japan in 2002 and renewing those tentative contacts with the outside world quickly became an obsession for Iranians. ‘Iran must go to the World Cup, it is necessary; no one can imagine anything else,’ Dariush Kabiri told me in the days leading up to the first qualifier against Saudi Arabia, a game that would give me my first taste of football in Iran.

Walking away from the stadium after that match, I felt a glow of satisfaction I had never felt anywhere else. It was strange, because the Azadi is not a glorious venue, but there was something there. It wasn’t the huge crowd – officially 100,000, but probably closer to 115,000 with all the standing tickets that are illegally sold at the turnstiles – or the propaganda slogans that are plastered between the upper and lower tiers. I just felt proud of ‘our’ boys, and their 2–0 win over a team they had not beaten for five years. Suddenly I, like so many other football fans before, had become absorbed into the throng.

Dreaming in that schoolboy kind of way, about all the possible permutations involved, the one name that kept cropping up was Iraq. Iraq, our most bitter rivals, Iraq the perennial party poopers, Iraq our foe. What surprised me was how laid back most Iranians were about the Iraqis. I thought I’d hear frenzied bouts of expletives and censure. Instead, to a man and woman I heard that ‘the war is the past’, that ‘the Iraqis aren’t so bad’, and that ‘it is only a game after all’. Still, they didn’t hide the fact that beating the Iraqis would be sweeter than beating most other opponents.

Iraq is an Arab country. Iraqis speak Arabic, a language with its roots in Hebrew. Iranians are not Arabs and most do not want to be. Their language is Farsi, derived from northern India over 7,000 years ago. Now, though, twenty-two years after the Shah was overthrown, many Iranians again fear that their national identity is being eroded. This time the threat comes not from the west, but from the Arabisation of Iran favoured by its religious leaders.

Those leaders have become increasingly aware of the strength of feeling the country’s football team generates. When Iran visited Iraq to play the first of the two World Cup qualifiers between the countries, the Islamic Republic of Iran saw an opportunity. These are heroes representing Islam, they wanted to say, figureheads not for Iran, but for Islam.

Because, ironically, the most significant shrines to Shia Muslim (the dominant religion in Iran) are in Iraq, the Iranian national team were sent to visit them – and state TV barely stopped showing the footage. So far as the regime in Tehran was concerned, football was of secondary concern – this was a propaganda tour. So when the team came back with a 2–1 win, having gone a goal down, it was all down to providence. On their return, the players were treated like heroes. They appeared on chat shows, and were asked what it felt like to have ‘conquered’ Iraq.

The process of qualification ticked on. The win against Iraq had given Iran a comfortable three-point cushion over second-placed Bahrain, and four over Saudi Arabia, who were beginning to show some form. Indifferent performances against Thailand and Bahrain resulted in a pair of draws though, and with the Saudis registering significant wins against the same opponents, Iran suddenly trailed by two points. The saving grace was that they had a game in hand.

A heroic display in Jeddah against the Saudis earned Iran a 2–2 draw and kept them on course for automatic qualification, but the return game against the Iraqis now took on a completely new dimension and importance. It was make or break, ninety minutes in which Iran’s fate might be decided. A defeat or a draw and the Saudis would be in the driving seat. The game in hand would be wasted and the two-point deficit might not be bridgeable.

Suddenly the level of rhetoric increased. True the Iraqis had lost to the Saudis the previous week and would now only be playing for pride, but most Iranians felt this would make them even more dangerous. The ambivalence of previous weeks turned into a tangible hostility. Iran has no fewer than eight dedicated sports dailies and their polemic tone put into shade anything the tabloids in England have ever been guilty of. No ‘Achtung, For You Ze War Is Over’; instead, ‘Now the War Begins in Earnest’ was the calmest headline any of the papers managed in the days leading up to this crucial match.

The fans were no less reluctant about letting their feelings be known. Masood Zamani, a farmer, had left his land two days prior to the game to come to Tehran and soak up the atmosphere. ‘I have been watching them for a long time. This is the best team we’ve had since the one that went to Argentina [in 1978]. When I watch them I feel proud to be Iranian. It is important for us to be successful, because we need to find a place for ourselves in the world. Most other ways are closed to us.’

Women are not allowed to attend football matches but Saeedeh and Samira Shojaiepour, students from the city of Karaj, just outside Tehran, would be there in spirit. ‘We will pray for a good game and we will pray that the manager makes good choices and most of all we will pray that Iran win and go to the World Cup.’

Again and again I heard how essential Iran reaching the World Cup finals was, how young people loved football so passionately because it allowed them to express feelings about their national identity that in so many other walks of life had become taboo. ‘The older generation do not understand our need to be different from them,’ said Saeedeh and Samira. If we hate the Iraqis it’s only because they can stop us from getting to Japan, not because our parents fought a war against them.’

Miroslav Blazevic, most famous for leading Croatia to third place at France 98 – losing out narrowly to the French themselves in the semi-finals – is the man in charge of Iran. He has an abundance of confidence that goes beyond sheer enthusiasm. It is almost intimidating. He is the master of his own mind, and his tactical awareness is noted in the game. Blazevic has published two books on tactics, but the Iranian press, who for the most part seem to dislike him with a passion equal to his confidence, continually question his tactical awareness. For each game in the campaign Blazevic has changed his formation or tweaked his tactics, and this has given Iran an extra edge.

I meet Blazevic and his ever-present translator Mr Challangar shortly before the match against Iraq. They seem poised and confident about what lies ahead. How has he changed Iran’s psychological attitude? ‘That’s a question I haven’t been asked since I’ve been here,’ he says. ‘They keep asking me about tactics, tactics, tactics, but the attitude of the players has changed completely and that is what I’m most proud of. This team didn’t have the highest morale before, but today I can say that they are a solid outfit. Now when we fall behind, as we did to the Iraqis and the Saudis twice, we never say die. These are new Iranians.

‘I can tell you, that I know the winning formula, without considering the technical merits of a team. I know that stability and unity can bring success, and that this squad is like a family. There are no internal divisions. They will be ready to take on the world.’

The day before the game I catch up with one of Blazevic’s stars, Mehdi Mahdavikia, the 24-year-old German-based Iranian right wing-back, at his mother’s house in Tehran for a meal. ‘First we need three points,’ he says. ‘But I’d be foolish to say I don’t recognise that it has an added significance for the people. With the special circumstances around it, and the sensitivity that people have towards the war, we know there’s a lot at stake, but we’re not going to let that distract us.

‘We only think about the sport. There is no hatred on our part towards the Iraqis. When we visited Iraq, we received a very warm reception from the people. However, we can never forget the unique sacrifice that our martyrs made in the war we had and we honour their memories.

‘We’ll win. But it’s going to be a tough game. We don’t expect any favours, least of all from the Iraqis. They’re going to give everything they have. They have a lot of pride.’

And so, finally, the day of reckoning arrives. As I set out to the Azadi, my mind drifts back to the Saudi Arabia match. Then the crowds had begun to swarm around Iran’s national stadium by 6 a.m. The demand for tickets was tremendous. ‘I must see this game, I have travelled for sixteen hours to be here,’ Masood Sistani from Zahedan had told me.

By 7 a.m. riot police were in evidence, and by 8 a.m. they had delivered the first of a series of routine beatings. The reason for these never became altogether clear, but as I nursed my own police-sponsored bruises, a young fan told me that these security forces were drafted in from the provinces and had a chip on their shoulders about Tehran’s citizens.

For the visit of Iraq though, the pre-match beatings are few and far between. Instead there is a feeling of dark foreboding, a tension that suggests everything is being bottled up for later. At every significant square and junction, the security forces stand at the fringes, a menacing presence and an ill-omen for the rest of the day.

Standing at pitch side and looking up at the faces of the colourful masses, it is impossible not to be taken over by the sheer drama of the occasion. Behind the grease-painted faces of the young there is a desire, a real vehemence that today they will taste victory.

The war is never allowed to be too far from people’s thoughts. Even now, its allegorical symbols are a fixture in Iranian society. So on the day that Iraq visits Iran, when they are once again the enemy, it is obligatory to wheel out the war wounded. As the Iraqis warm up, alone in front of 110,000 Iranians, the home team’s players embrace the veterans and present them with flowers. The reaction of the crowd is mute, the cynicism of the whole ceremony obvious to everyone. For most fans, the only war that really matters is the one that will last for the next ninety minutes.

It is a real cup-tie from the first kick to the last. Iran have all the possession, they make all the running, and they take the risks. The Iraqis play like demons. They are here to be the spoilers. They have no chance of going to the World Cup themselves, but if they can stop Iran, if they can take away Iran’s unbeaten record in qualification, then it will make up for all of that. They are also playing for their futures. When the Iraqis lost to Iran in Baghdad, Saddam Hussein’s son Uday, who runs the Iraqi Football Federation, sacked eight of the team. There is a real fear in the faces of the Iraqis. They dare not lose.

For twenty-seven minutes, they defend with their lives. Then comes the breakthrough. Mahdavikia serenely passes the ball from the right edge of the eighteen-yard box past the despairing Iraqi keeper Saad Jameel. The crowd, merely frenzied up until now, lose all control. They leap as one, and in the scrum that follows, fights break out over lost seats. The Iraqis try to chase the game, and the tension goes up another notch, but Iran stay in charge.

Half-time and Blazevic is pleased. ‘More goals lads,’ he tells Mr Challangar to tell his boys. But the second half comes too soon for the Iranians. They are still playing the first half in their heads. They create a great chance, but miss and the Iraqis counter-attack quickly. Qathan Drain converts a well-worked move to bring the scores level.

The fans turn up the volume, and Iran respond. They show all the spirit, all the unity that Blazevic had told me about. The game is at their mercy. Chances come and chances go. The anxiety level reaches fever pitch…and then the dam bursts. Iran’s latest pin-up Ali Karimi scores. With seventy minutes gone, it’s 2–1. For the remaining twenty minutes the Iraqis pour forward, desperately chasing the game and, when it comes, the final whistle is like the mercury bursting on a thermometer. The relief is tangible. The crowd cheer, cry, hug each other. Iraq, the old foe, has been defeated. But much more importantly, the World Cup finals are a step nearer.

But after the joy comes the release of pent-up anger. The Iranian footballers have become symbols of national pride, that rare thing in Iran, a totem around which to gather, a lightning rod for dissent against the unhappiness that people feel in their otherwise humdrum lives. Here were ninety minutes of exultation for the masses, but what is there for them now?

In the wake of the victory, the crowds take to the streets. Their delight turns into a violent reaction to the harsh circumstances they face. Tyres are set ablaze, telephone booths vandalised, windows smashed, and anti-regime chants are heard across Tehran and Iran’s other cities. Some claim this is a spontaneous reaction and to some extent they are right. But in a country where boys and girls fear holding hands in case the special morality police take them in or, worse, send them to a moral correction unit, football may not be enough to contain their passions.