Designed to foster diversity, this school leaves an enduring legacy

As my homeland is falling to pieces, I’m reflecting on a time when I grew up under very different circumstances. It is all too poignant that Iran is living through the “Woman! Life! Freedom!” movement with youth fighting bravely against dictatorship, wanting freedom to express themselves, choose their clothing, have the right to sing and dance in public, and other civil liberties. Knowing that I once had those freedoms makes my experience at Iranzamin School even more meaningful and important to share.

Now, decades into my career, there’s a confluence of legacy and nostalgia in my mind and in my heart. I’m thinking about the reasons why I became a designer of educational spaces, and the impact of the school I attended. As others talk about concepts of inclusion and belonging, I already lived that experience within my educational setting.

In the 1950s, we encounter the story of American Presbyterian missionaries Dr. J. Richard and Mary Ann Irvine. Graduating from Trenton State Teachers College, they joined a ministry and moved to Tehran. Many educators were planning the International Baccalaureate (IB) in the 1960s based on peace-building techniques. In 1967, the Irvines co-founded Iranzamin, also known as Tehran International School, the first of seven schools worldwide to launch the IB. Others were founded in Switzerland, Wales, New York, France, and Germany. Though Iranzamin means “Land of Iran,” the English-language co-ed school was based on learning about other cultures, while respecting the culture of one’s heritage.

Initially, the private school occupied a large residential compound in downtown Tehran. It hosted grades K-12, with 326 co-ed students and 40 teachers. The most iconic landmark was the grand exterior circular stairs, which became the spot “to see and be seen.” This is where upper-class students flaunted their seniority, young couples sat together, and students played guitar. It was filled with playful laughter.

In 1971, I began attending Iranzamin as a 4th grader. I watched the older students with awe and soaked in the atmosphere. The western vibe lasted into the mid-1970s, with students wearing the latest American and European fashions. We celebrated both Persian Nowruz (New Year) and Christmas festivities. Iranzamin created an environment where students could thrive with personalized attention, knowing each family, intentionally hiring international teachers, and accepting students from all backgrounds.

This is why I felt a strong sense of belonging at Iranzamin. Compared to other Iranians, my family was westernized. My maternal grandfather was from Iran. He married an American, my maternal grandmother, in New York, forever altering the trajectory of our family history. My mother, Laleh Bakhtiar, and Iranian father Nader Ardalan, were born in Tehran, raised in the U.S., and met in Pennsylvania during college. After marriage, they both went to graduate school, then moved to San Francisco, where I was born, followed by my sister Iran Davar.

Dad became an architect and mom a scholar before they moved back to Iran to discover their roots. There, my brother Karim was born. Our parents traveled with us throughout Iran’s countryside, documenting the architecture. In 1973, they co-wrote The Sense of Unity: The Sufi Tradition in Persian Architecture—a pivotal book which guided the design approach for Iranian architects at the time. At home, we spoke in English, watched American TV, listened to DJ Ted Anthony on the American radio station, and played American records, all while learning about Persian culture.

As Iranzamin grew, a group including developers and the Ministry of Education decided to build a new campus in West Tehran, an area being developed as part of a master plan to extend the city’s limits into Shahrak Gharb, or “City West” (a.k.a. Farahzad or “Queen’s City”). They hired Iranian architect Mozhan Khadem, who worked with a larger team at Perkins&Will in Chicago. The design this team created embodied Iran’s centuries-old tradition of unity for organizing community life, though, over time, the seamless fabric of the original master plan gave way to a modern interpretation.

The new school was a 3-story brick courtyard building with a covered arcade and balconies overlooking the fountain and trees. From every angle, you could see the school in its entirety, accommodating preschool, elementary, secondary, and college prep students. Each corner contained a gathering space: arrival/administration, cafeteria, library, and auditorium. Ground floor classrooms had private garden patios. Laboratories were provided for physics, biology, and chemistry. Lockers lined the hallways, visible to all. A row of flags along the top parapet reminded us of our diverse multinational community. The design enhanced the unity of the pedagogy.

Even though the fountain rarely had water and was eventually covered with a platform, it was the most popular gathering place on campus. The iconic circular stairs of the old school were replaced by this central meeting spot, where upperclass students and especially seniors expressed their authority, privileges, and shenanigans—on display for all to see. The school was designed inside out, from the perspective of the student experience in the space, versus from the outside view toward the building. The courtyard was where the school came to life, where stories were shared, books were read, relationships were formed, drama happened, skits were performed, protests occurred, confidence was built, and student autonomy was exhibited.

Iranzamin moved into the new campus in 1976, when I was in 9th grade. My classmates and I took courses in anthropology, creative and aesthetic studies, mathematics, laboratory sciences, and languages and literature, with required extracurricular activities. I thrived in school, loved to read, and especially enjoyed writing essays and participating in artistic projects. My favorite part, though, was how international the school was. At the height of Iranzamin, we had 1,450 students from over 50 countries, with 112 faculty from 16 countries. Students represented not only the Muslim majority, but also minority religions: Zoroastrian, Jewish, Christian, Orthodox (Armenian, Assyrian), Baha’i, Buddhist, and Hindu. Every October we celebrated United Nations Day, when students wore costumes from their country of origin. We held a school-wide parade, while raising flags from all the countries. In unison, we sang “The Song of Peace” from Finlandia, with music written by Finnish composer Jean Sibelius and lyrics by Lloyd Stone. This embodied the oneness of our school, bringing us together annually to acknowledge that, despite our many colorful nationalities, we were one community.

Exposed to such an environment from childhood, growing up together side-by-side, deterred prejudice and stereotypes from forming. Whether it was the design of the courtyard, which allowed us to see each other; or the diversity of the student body, staff, and teachers; or the deep friendships forged across borders; or the respectful behavior that was expected; there was a magical aspect to being in this setting. We were one, a concept called yeksan, or “one-ness,” in Persian—unity within multiplicity—a lesson carried over from Cyrus the Great. The Persian Emperor Cyrus defined the first declaration of human rights in 538 B.C. Inscribed on a cuneiform cylinder, he said: “I declare freedom of religion!” This credo is a primordial essence of our heritage, and a tenet of my personal philosophy, and it was instilled in me at Iranzamin. This is why it was so painful to endure the subsequent chaos and collapse of our harmony.

Given the supportive and sustaining environment Iranzamin nurtured, I was able to stay focused on my education despite both personal and political turmoil. When our parents got divorced, it changed our lives completely, and coming to school provided solace that everything was still the same. As our father remarried, moved to Boston, and my brother Ali was born, school provided comfort and camaraderie. School required us to have elective activities, and being a U.S. Girl Scout connected me with my American heritage. With my mother as our Troop Leader, it created an additional familial bond to carry me through.

In 1977, Iranzamin acknowledged its 10th anniversary with an enormous celebration that included a visit by Farah Pahlavi, then the Queen of Iran. She had studied architecture in Paris prior to marrying the king. The entire school gathered in unison to proudly show Iranzamin to the queen.

However, by my junior year in 1978, the tides had begun to turn against the monarchy. Protests led by college students demanded a more socialist and democratic ideal, wanting more political variety. Though the king—or The Shah as he was known—was popular, there were factions who wanted radical change. Exiled cleric and vocal critic Ruhollah Khomeini encouraged a new form of government. Riots erupted each day, creating an unstable environment. The school closed for many days for our security. Martial law was declared, public gatherings were prohibited, and electricity was controlled. We did our homework by candlelight and huddled together to sleep in one room with a kerosene lamp. Living near Tehran University, we could see student rioters running down our street as soldiers chased them with machine guns. Our mother’s strength and my school were the reasons I held it together while chaos reigned.

For their own safety, the pro-American king and queen decided to leave Iran in January 1979. Going to Iranzamin was the only thing that kept me and my fellow students sane, making us feel that everything was going to be okay.

By March 1979, the Iranian army capitulated. Khomeini returned and took over the country. The new regime publicly executed former ministers and those who worked for the monarchy. Each week, without warning, classmates wouldn’t show up to school. Families with sons began to flee, fearing the mandatory draft. Our foreign teachers left, replaced with Iranian ones. Each night, we awaited news whether school would be open the next day. It was a turbulent time, and we didn’t know from one day to the next what would happen. By April 1979, a public referendum favored an Islamic Republic. That fall, my senior year, we were determined to keep up the precept of normalcy in spite of the revolution, so we held elections for class officers. I was voted senior class president.

Iranzamin was assigned a warden, Mr. Tahbaz, sent by the government to ensure the segregation of boys and girls. He demanded we sit on different sides of the classrooms. In the courtyard, he asked us to separate. We were no longer allowed musicals or choir because singing was forbidden. Students devised pranks behind the warden’s back. In other ways, we showed our civil disobedience. We staged a student sit-in, for example, gathering in the courtyard and refusing to go to class. We were determined to fight these limitations. They weren’t going to break our spirits.

The clerics who took over the country spewed anti-American and anti-Western ideology, claiming it was sinful and immoral. Influenced by this rhetoric, in November 1979, university students stormed the U.S. Embassy and took 50 Americans hostage. Broadcast in the U.S. each day, this act shaped Americans’ opinions about Iranians. The hostages were kept for 444 days and released in January 1981. It was a painful time for those of us who loved our American community, and an especially challenging one for my family. One day graffiti was spray-painted on our school walls, saying: “We will make Iranzamin the cemetery of America.” It was unbelievably scary. We did not dare go outside except for school, where we could speak English safely and express our true identities. In all my years, the only time I felt truly comfortable in my skin as a hybrid Iranian-American was at Iranzamin.

It was sad for us seniors who had dreamed of the unique privileges that came with being the oldest students on campus. We held on to as many traditions as we could, such as Crazy Hair Day, Senior Ditch Day, and even a Secret Prom. We owned that central courtyard space! We continued with yearbook activities, and I took over as editor after my classmate who had been filling that role fled the country. My mother’s publishing firm was printing our yearbook and we had regular meetings in her office. It was of vital importance to follow in the footsteps of those before us and have a yearbook published as in prior years. Despite the turbulence, we held bake sales, art exhibitions, tournaments, and ski trips. We did anything we could to take and publish photos showing that everything was as it had been. I even included photos of my then boyfriend in the yearbook, though he had fled Iran halfway through the school year. The yearbook was our way of creating a stable space and documenting a less painful life that we wish we had instead of the actual mayhem we were living under.

Senior Ditch Day was held in the privacy of a student’s home. We all dunked into the pool, soaking and laughing. Even the assistant headmaster and teachers came! That’s how close we were as a community. Hijab had not become mandatory yet, so inside the walls of Iranzamin we could still feel normal. We applied to colleges, studied for our final exams, and prepared for our last days at school. Graduation was held in secret. We were told it was a rehearsal, but our parents showed up at the last minute! I was class valedictorian and gave a speech. There are very few pictures of this momentous day. We would have been 100 students, but with so many gone, only 16 attended the ceremony: 12 girls and 4 boys. I wept that day.

After I graduated, Iranzamin sadly closed its doors. It was not allowed to continue as a co-ed English-language school. The Irvines departed after decades of service to the community, taking with them their hopes and visions for an equitable Iran. The building was taken over by the government for other functions and our family relocated to the U.S., as many families did at the time. The Class of 1980 was Iranzamin’s last, a symbol of the harmony the school once embodied. As class president, valedictorian, and yearbook editor, it now falls on me to tell its story to the world. Bearing witness to the collapse, knowing the school can no longer speak for itself, I feel responsible. I have to be its voice.

Four decades after graduation, the Class of 1980 is still in constant communication. After all, we’ve been friends since elementary days. Even though we dispersed around the world, the advent of the Internet, social media, and cell phones helped us find each other again. There have been several reunions coordinated by alumni volunteers. I personally have not been back to Iran since I fled in 1980. Many classmates and their families have been forced into diaspora and exile. As such, we thrive on connecting and keeping up. While the Irvines were still alive, we included them in our reunions, which they gleefully joined, but now they have sadly passed away. We remember them fondly and are grateful for their vision and wisdom. Having gone through the trauma of a revolution together, we are forever bound in our tightknit friendships. The kinship is strong and unbreakable, as it was when the revolution tried to break us.

When deciding on which career to pursue, I thought back to Iranzamin. It is there that I loved to learn, and where learning protected me. This school kept us intact during the turmoil of my parents’ divorce and the country’s bloody revolution. Even though life around us was changing, school was our rock. It saw us through thick and thin, through laughter and tears, through joy and heartache.

This experience inspired me to create that kind of a place for others. It’s why I chose to become a designer of educational spaces. May you all be inspired by your places of learning to build resilience, shape your identity, and find your voice, like I did.