(Manfred Klimek / Research: Ben Siegert / Photo: Tomb of the poet Hafez / animated image: Runwayml)
Iran and wine – this is not a footnote in history, but its very beginning. Long before Bordeaux was a name of prestige or Burgundy knew of vineyard plots, the Zagros Mountains were already fermenting whatever nature provided. Archaeological finds show that in north-western Iran, some 7,000 years ago, grape juice was turned into wine in clay jugs. Persia is no latecomer to wine culture. It is its birthplace.
And yet today it is one of the countries with the strictest alcohol bans in the world.
Between these two extremes lies a history that could scarcely be more contradictory. In antiquity, wine in Persia was an integral part of civilisation itself. It was a commodity, a state ration, a cultural asset. The administration of Persepolis meticulously recorded wine deliveries. Wine represented order, not debauchery.
And it was a language. In the 11th century, the poet Omar Khayyam wrote verses about wine and love that are still quoted today: ‘What do you preach about fasting and prayer? Instead of going to the mosque, let us step into the wine house.’ In Persian poetry, wine became a metaphor for freedom, enlightenment, ecstasy and resistance to narrow-mindedness. This poetic significance has survived for centuries – even as reality changed.
The city of Shiraz, near Persepolis, was once famous for its wines. Today, ‘Shiraz’ appears as a grape variety on bottles from Australia. In Iran itself, the production of alcoholic beverages has been banned since the Islamic Revolution of 1979. Officially, vines are now cultivated solely for table grapes and raisins. Yet bans do not eradicate a culture; they merely displace it.
For, as the newspaper *Jungle World* describes in a compelling report, a hidden world of alcohol exists in Iran. Homemade wine is produced in Tehran flats – in bathrooms, using improvised equipment. “We’ve been making wine in our bathroom for years,” the magazine quotes one resident as saying. Grapes, sugar, a little chemistry – and, above all, discretion. Parties take place behind closed doors. Neighbours warn one another when Basij militiamen appear in the street. A phrase like ‘Hurry up, they’re here’ is part of everyday life for those who take the risk.
The black market is thriving. High-proof spirits are smuggled, often at absurd prices. A bottle can cost 120 euros – in a country where the average income is far below that. *Jungle World* describes a system which many suspect could scarcely exist without the tacit tolerance of certain organs of power. A double game: morality in public, the market in private.
And then there are the minorities. Christians and Armenians report that they are sometimes subject to less stringent checks. Alcohol is sourced from Armenia, hidden away and shared. Here, too, life is lived in a grey area.
A look at northern Iraq shows just how relative this culture of prohibition is. In Erbil or Sulaymaniyah, it is said, there is one bar after another. Iraqi Kurdistan is referred to as the ‘bar of the Middle East’. Just a few hundred kilometres further on, in Mosul or in the south, fundamentalist forces dominate. Alcohol is persecuted there, and shops are attacked. The contrast could scarcely be greater.
These tensions show that alcohol policy in the Middle East is not a monolithic entity. It is political, religious, regional and a matter of power strategy. And it is deeply symbolic.
In Iran itself, wine remains a phantom pain of the culture. It is found in poems, in the memories of older generations, in whispered conversations. It is found in humour. And in defiance.
There, wine is not just a drink, but a statement. Those who drink are making a statement – sometimes consciously, sometimes simply because they want to live. “Prohibitions breed ingenuity,” writes *Jungle World*. This applies here in two senses: technically and culturally.
At the same time, the ban has real consequences. Cases of poisoning from adulterated alcohol occur time and again. There is no regulated market. Risk is privatised.
And yet: the vines continue to grow. The landscapes around Shiraz and in the north of the country are still shaped by viticulture – albeit for a different purpose: table grapes, which are also exported to Turkey, where they are pressed and turned into wine for the diaspora. History cannot be erased.
Iran is thus perhaps the most radical example of a thesis that should concern us as the wine world: wine culture is more than just production and trade. It is memory, metaphor, resistance, identity.
You can close down vineyards. You can ban trade. You can impose penalties. But you cannot simply erase a 7,000-year-old culture.