What did Iran’s heritage reveal about development?

Iran’s crafts taught me that culture is also development. In Isfahan, minakari enamel painters say their blues come from the sky over Naqsh-e Jahan. In their workshops, plain copper is transformed into small pieces of sky, with white, blue and turquoise fired again and again until they glow like the city’s domes at dusk. Craftsmen say minakari is patience made visible — each curve a quiet breath, each plate a story. Alongside them, khatamkari masters assemble thousands of tiny pieces of wood and bone into patterns so precise they seem woven by patience itself, while ghalamzani engravers carve poetry into copper and silver, saying softly, “Metal remembers every stroke.”

In Kerman, the looms speak louder than words. Persian carpets — deep reds, desert browns and motifs of mountain life — are woven knot by knot in family workshops. Nearby, kilim weavers move faster, their flat-woven designs echoing nomadic routes across Iran’s highlands. One weaver told me, “A carpet is a map of our memories, and our livelihood.” In Shiraz, craft becomes poetry: monabat woodcarvers shape walnut into flowing arabesques inspired by the gardens of Eram, while calligraphers turn verses of Hafez into emotion. In Neyshabur, the earth itself becomes art, as turquoise workshops set famous blue stones into copper and silver, and potters fire glazed ceramics in kilns that have burned for generations.

In the red village of Abyaneh, elderly women show handmade dolls — simple, colourful and deeply symbolic. “These dolls are our stories,” they say, “and tourists take a piece of our village home.” In Yazd, identity is woven into the city’s legendary termeh, silk and wool brocade with paisley motifs that glows in small family ateliers. Tileworkers shape turquoise tiles that carry the same soul as the city’s architecture. In Tabriz, master carpet weavers, potters and metalworkers keep alive traditions that once supplied the Silk Road. “Tabriz is a crossroads,” an artisan says, “and our crafts carry the world’s footsteps.”

In Yazd, the windcatchers — the elegant badgirs rising above earthen roofs — offered another lesson in how heritage can also be technology. Long before modern air-conditioning, these towers captured the wind, channelled it downward, cooled the air through shade, pressure and evaporation, and made life possible in one of the hottest and driest urban landscapes. They are beautiful, but they are also intelligent: passive cooling systems rooted in climate adaptation, energy efficiency and local knowledge. For UNDP, this is a powerful reminder that innovation does not always mean importing something new; sometimes it means listening to what has worked for centuries, partnering with communities and engineers to protect it, and delivering solutions that reduce energy use, preserve urban heritage and support climate-resilient cities.

The same is true of Iran’s qanats — underground water channels that have survived for thousands of years by carrying groundwater gently across long distances, with minimal evaporation and deep respect for the limits of the land. Few technologies express so clearly the link between heritage, water governance and sustainability. They are not relics of the past; they are evidence that societies in drylands have long known how to adapt, conserve and cooperate around scarce water. This opens an important opportunity for UNDP to connect experiences across countries facing similar challenges, such as foggaras in Timmimoun (Algeria) or Khettaras in Tafilalet ( Morocco)  I saw, where traditional water systems, palm date and other oasis livelihoods and dryland resilience are part of a shared heritage. Through South-South cooperation, technical exchange and community-based preservation, UNDP could help protect these systems not only as cultural treasures, but as living infrastructure for climate adaptation, rural livelihoods and intergenerational knowledge.

One of the journeys that remains vivid in my memory is the road from Tehran to Khoi. It was not just a drive; it was a moving classroom in geography, beauty and scale. The road revealed layer after layer of Iran’s rich landscape — open plains, distant peaks, villages resting quietly against the horizon, and finally the extraordinary Ala Dagh Lar range, with their bands of red, ochre, copper and gold rising from the earth like a painted history of time. It reminded me again that Iran’s natural heritage is not only breathtaking; it is also an opportunity for responsible tourism, local livelihoods, environmental education and a renewed appreciation of the land as a shared asset for future generations.

Across all these cities, crafts and landscapes, heritage is more than beauty or memory. It is also economy, identity and lifeline. Cottage industries sustain thousands of families, and every visitor who buys a carpet, a turquoise pendant, a termeh or an Abyaneh doll becomes part of a chain that keeps these traditions alive. Listening to the craftsmen and women, I realised that Iran’s artisanal heritage is not preserved in museums — it is lived, breathed and carried forward one handmade piece at a time. This is also a development opportunity: investing in creative economies, women-led enterprises, cultural tourism, digital market access and sustainable value chains can help preserve heritage while expanding livelihoods, especially for young people and rural communities.

How did poetry and tradition shape your understanding?

In every workshop, conference, meeting and long drive, I would learn a verse from Iran’s poets — the country’s quiet compass. People spoke of Hafez as the one who teaches them to seek beauty without losing truth; of Saadi, whose words about humanity being one body guide how communities care for each other; of Rumi, who turns wind, water and gardens into lessons on harmony and growth; and of Ferdowsi, who reminds them that identity and courage can rebuild nations. These poets still shape how Iranians think about land, justice and the way communities grow. And when Nowruz arrives — when homes are cleaned, wheat is sprouted and families gather around the Haft-Seen — those same voices return with spring, reminding people to begin again with care for nature and one another. For UNDP, this matters because sustainable development is never only technical. It is also cultural, ethical and deeply rooted in how societies understand dignity, renewal and collective responsibility.

How did crisis shape your understanding of resilience?

Nothing shaped me more deeply than witnessing the resilience of Iranians during periods of acute crisis and conflict. I saw pain that words cannot hold. I saw fear move quietly through households. I saw uncertainty test families, institutions and communities. But I also saw courage — steady, unbroken and dignified. I saw hope — not loud, but persistent. I saw humanity — in volunteers, mothers, youth, local authorities and colleagues who worked through nights without sleep. Rumi wrote, “Where there is ruin, there is hope for a treasure.”

This experience reinforced for me the importance of UNDP’s crisis response: staying and delivering, supporting national and local capacities, protecting essential services, enabling recovery and helping communities move from shock to resilience. It also showed how much more can be done when crisis response is connected early to development pathways — livelihoods, governance, social cohesion, health systems, environmental recovery and trust-building.

What do you wish the world saw more clearly?

The Iran I lived in is not the Iran many imagine from afar. Years of constrained engagement, limited mobility and fewer opportunities for exchange have shaped a perception that is partial at best. It often misses the warmth of its people, the ingenuity of its communities, the beauty of its landscapes and the quiet dignity with which Iranians face adversity. The Iran I lived in is a place of hospitality so instinctive that strangers become hosts within minutes. And yet, much of the world cannot fully see this Iran — not because it is hidden, but because the spaces for encounter and understanding have become too narrow.

My hope is for renewed connection — grounded in public diplomacy, people-to-people contact, cultural openness and respectful exchange. Iran’s story is also a story of multiculturalism: of languages, traditions, faiths, landscapes and communities that have lived side by side and shaped one another over centuries. From Persepolis, with its stone testimony to encounter and diversity, to today’s artisans, students, scientists and communities, the wonders of this society remind us that development is also about connection — between past and future, between people and institutions, and between national knowledge and global solidarity. This, too, connects to UNDP’s future opportunities: rebuilding trust through knowledge exchange, supporting cooperation on shared environmental challenges, enabling responsible tourism, and creating platforms where Iranian expertise and community innovation can be seen, valued and connected to the wider world.