

Alireza Najafi, 40, playing his self-made nay-anbaan on the Si-o-se pol bridge, Isfahan, Iran.
“The nay comes from Iranians. The bag part we got from the Portuguese when they came to Iran.”
“Growing up in Abadan, I heard it played at weddings and ceremonies. It was a local instrument; you couldn’t buy it in the stores. People who played it, made it themselves. Nobody outside Khuzestan knew about it.
“The sound stayed in my head. Back then, when half the country was illiterate, people didn’t value knowledge of music for their children. If a family allowed it, it was because they wanted to hear it at home just for themselves.
“But to play for other people and do it for a living? That was shameful. It was unthinkable. You had to find a hole somewhere to play the flute for yourself.
“When I was at the front during the [Iran-Iraq] war, sometimes I was desperate to find just a tiny reed somewhere to make myself a flute, but even that was impossible sometimes.
“The war dispersed Khuzestanis all over the country and so nay-anbaan is now known. You can even buy it.
“I had to make my own, though. An artist always has to make his own to get the sound right.
“I don’t know any notes, so I could never call myself an ostaad. I just go by the ear.
“Things got complicated with my job [as a welder] seven or eight years ago and I’ve been playing in the streets ever since. Music takes you to another place. It’s about the heart not the mind. The heart holds all the secrets.
“Here’s how it works: when I play the flute alone, there are tiny moments of silence, correct? It’s because I’m out of breath. You can’t do anything about that.
“But with a bag full of air, the spaces are gone. It’s like your car is running and you keep driving —the sound never stops—and so you go places you can’t otherwise go.

You can’t stop the spread of knowledge. Someday this planet will be one because of knowledge.
“Early after the revolution, music was banned. You had to find secret places to play. Persian classical music took a dive. Only people like Shajarian kept it alive but only from outside the country.
“Then slowly things changed and little by little music came back. First they allowed it 40-percent of the time and then 60-percent and then 80-percent. Now they hold music festivals and invite people from all over the world.
“Like some Africans who came here with their bongos and we had a blast together. It was a sight to see. We couldn’t speak a word to each other but we understood each other.
“You can’t stop the spread of knowledge. Someday this planet will be one because of knowledge.
“There are many many unknown musicians in the countryside that are as good as any, some with mind-bending abilities, things you would not think were possible. No one outside their region knows them, though, and when they die, their ability goes with them.
“From the books I’ve read, I admire Americans’ ability to summarize knowledge. Us Iranians have a lot of knowledge; everything there is to know is contained in our culture and religion. But it’s expressed with many turns. It’s not easy to get.
“The Americans have this ability to express the very essence of knowledge concisely, especially when it comes to what makes people tick. I admire that.
“I also admire the fact that they can freely write it down without any repercussions. Not only that, they receive praise from their fellow countrymen for their words.
“Democracy, if I understand it correctly, is humane rule by the humane. The kind of inspiration comes only from God.
“I’m a homeless, illiterate man and then someone with your class comes from America and pays attention to me. That’s an honor for me.
“I wish you only the best. Remember this wherever you go: some things cannot be expressed by words. You have to understand it through the heart. And then sometimes one sprouts wings and flies.
“Also this: whatever you think, what you put out, the society reflects back to you. It’s not what’s out there that matters; it’s what inside you.”
Q: Where are you going to sleep tonight?
“You ask too many questions!”