for National Geographic News
(Editor's note: Karim Sadjadpour, a former associate producer at nationalgeographic.com, is a visiting fellow at the American University of Beirut.)
It was over two years ago, in the summer of 2001, when I first and last visited Bam. To get there I crossed southern Iran on a 12-hour bus ride through twisting mountains from Shiraz to Kerman (see map of Iran), the capital city of the region where Bam is located. The region's inhabitants—known as Kermanis—have a reputation in Iran for being pleasant people. I found this especially true in Bam, which is about 120 dusty miles (190 kilometers) southeast of Kerman.
The date palms and lemon trees that dotted Bam gave it a peaceful air, a combination of tropical and desert. The pace of life was slow, and the town’s people all seemed to know one another. Strangers greeted me on the streets in the traditional Iranian manner—heads slightly bowed and hands on their hearts—and said khosh amadi, welcome.
While Bam’s population had outgrown its ancient confines, the original Old City and its grand citadel—Arg-e Bam, as Iranians call it—remained the soul of this Silk Road city. Bam was founded some 1,800 years ago during Iran’s Sassanid Empire. The city was at its peak from about A.D. 1500 to 1700, under the Safavid dynasty.
Bam maintained its rugged grandeur despite being intermittently controlled or raided throughout the centuries by Arabs, Turks, and Afghans. Iranians finally gained control of it once and for all in the late 18th century.
The city was subsequently abandoned, however. It wasn’t until the mid-20th century that authorities in Tehran realized they were in possession of a cultural jewel.
After-Hours in the Citadel
I remember vividly the first time I saw Arg-e Bam. My congenial taxi driver, Mohsen—a father of five who hailed from the Baluchi people of southeast Iran—insisted that we approach the Old City from a little-used side road that provided the most dramatic vista.
As if to provide a soundtrack to the video I was recording, Mohsen inserted a cassette. Suddenly there was the sound of beating drums, accompanied by a deep voice chanting Iran’s national poem, "Shahnameh" (the Epic of Kings). The sudden appearance of the majestic mud-brick complex against the stark desert backdrop was indeed like something out of a film.
By the time we arrived at the entrance gate, the walled city had closed early for the evening. Before I could turn back, Mohsen told the guard, a family friend, that I was a visitor from far away. He agreed to make an exception.
I thanked Mohsen and attempted to pay him for his services, but he refused my money and insisted on coming with me. He had grown up just outside the Old City and wanted to show me firsthand the fortress where he had played as a child.
Together we explored the Old City’s interior, which contained, among other things, a bazaar, a mosque, a synagogue, military barracks, and horse stables. All these were made of mud and straw and remained remarkably intact.
