The Bible in the cooking pot

What does it mean to change your faith in a country where apostasy is a crime?

“When I was a child, I saw images of Ashura [one of the holiest days in Shia Islam, when some self-flagelate to commemorate the killing of Imam Hussein, a grandson of the prophet] on TV and I asked myself: ‘What’s the relationship between all that blood and religion?’”

The middle-aged man speaking to us from his home in Iran continues: “My grandfather was originally from Azerbaijan and he was a communist. Religion was not acknowledged in our house; [our talk] was all about politics. So I had to find the answer to my question elsewhere.”

That question marked the beginning of a journey that would eventually lead him to a church far from home, where he converted to Christianity.

But in a country where apostasy, which in the case of Iran means the abandonment or renunciation of Islam, is a crime, it was a journey he had to undertake alone.

"When I started questioning faith, I was really young. I was not even 10 and the main themes that were discussed at school were Islam and the Quran. I was growing curious to know more about it,” he says, his words spoken softly but with conviction.

Roughly 90-95 percent of Iranians are Shia, about five to 10 are Sunni and less than one percent adhere to a different religion. Aside from the persecuted Baha’i, who are viewed as heretics by some Muslims and not considered a religious minority under the Iranian constitution, the country recognises other religions and ensures freedom of worship, as well as the opportunity for parliamentary representation. But for a Muslim to convert to another religion is illegal.

“I did not want nor could I share my doubts with my family. When I became an adult I started to attend a church. Then I started to read the Bible and to wear a chain with a cross around my neck,” he explains.

It was only a few years after he converted to Christianity that he felt able to tell his wife about it. Although she is Muslim, she shows an interest in his faith and sometimes asks him to read the Bible to her [Linda Dorigo]

It meant living a double life. "When I was 46, I went to Sweden and I converted to Christianity. Initially, not even my family knew about it.” His wife smiles at these words.

Holding a black and white photograph of the moment he converted, he explains: "Every time I look at it I get the same feeling of warmth.” Now his house has become his private place of worship; his bedroom the alter at which he speaks to God.

For this Iranian convert to Christianity, his bedroom has become his private place of worship [Linda Dorigo]

But, even at home, he must guard his secret carefully.

His house is in a complex with several other residences. There is a caretaker and a common carpark. Each window threatens to expose him. He lives with the fear that a nosey neighbour or a moment’s indiscretion could be his downfall. So he hides his Bible and rosary among the pots in his kitchen and ensures that no other sign of his faith is left visible.

Because he must keep his religion a secret, he hides his Bibles in his kitchen cupboards [Linda Dorigo]

But if this sounds like a hardship, he doesn’t feel it to be so. "My faith is a source of energy and my God is a guide who knows how to direct me. I do not need anything else,” he says.

And while he believes that the Ayatollahs have “betrayed the ideals behind the revolution [of 1979], and also the principles of Islam,” he is determined to stay in his country.

Iran “has become a police state and many people have left,” he says. “But I never wanted to leave, so I decided to continue to live my double life.”

"In Iran, everything is forbidden. I believe that every religion should be a beacon, not an obstacle. But this regime has taken advantage of Islam, ” he states.

The theocratic government is supported by a dense control network, featuring the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corp as the ideological custodians of the Republic and occassionally ordinary citizens as spies and informers.

"I had to be careful not to leave any clue leading to my new religion, because it would have been lethal for me and those around me,” he says. “No one knew that I had become a Christian, except my priest here.”

But while his new life has brought with it a host of difficulties, he believes it has also offered him a fresh perspective.

“Violence is incomprehensible to me,” he reflects. “What pushed me towards Christianity the most is the peace it gives me. I firmly believe that Jesus was a messenger of love and that if I follow his teachings I cannot do anything wrong.”

And while the Iranian authorities are forceful in cracking down on any perceived efforts to spread alternative faiths, this gently-spoken man insists they have nothing to worry about on his account.

Iran recognises most other religions and ensures freedom of worship, but it is illegal for a Muslim to convert to another religion [Linda Dorigo]

"I'm not going to engage in proselytism,” he explains. “I am not interested in convincing others about the positivity of my choices. I never forced my daughters to pray, I never changed my relations with Muslim friends, nor have I ever denied my former life and religion."

In fact, it was several years before his family even learnt of his conversion.

“To my family I said that I was going to Sweden to visit relatives,” he remembers. “I was afraid that my little daughters wouldn’t understand my choice. I was afraid that they would think that their father was different from the others.”

“A few years later, I told my wife I had converted. Initially she was scared. She was worried about the problems we would have to face. But soon enough she supported me and stayed by my side, as she has always done.”

Although his wife is Muslim, he says she is curious about other faiths and sometimes asks him to read the Bible to her.

His children are now grown and have been told of the family’s secret. His second daughter occasionally accompanies him to church, where she sits quietly beside her father as he engages in his private dialogue with God.

“In the past I could go to church more often and more easily,” he says, referring to the time during the presidency of Mohammad Khatami when the tight mesh of social control seemed to have been loosened. But all of that changed during the more conservative rule of Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. “Now there are spies everywhere and I have to be careful not to get myself and the priest into trouble,” he says.

He says he was able to go to church more easily in the past, but remains hopeful that Iran will become more tolerant of diffent faiths in the future [Linda Dorigo]

He’s hopeful that the election in 2013 of reformist cleric Hassan Rouhani will again lead to greater levels of acceptance, but he is yet to see that materialise.

"My daughters know that one day if they want to leave Iran or change religion they will have all the answers and support they need from me,” he says looking lovingly at his daughters, before adding with a tone of fatherly concern: “However, only beyond these borders.”

“I would like to get married in church,” one of them responds. “For the music, I think, and for the atmosphere.”

But, for now, they must help guard their father’s secret, aware that a mispoken word could bring the peace and calm of this simple family home crashing down around them.