The Road to Paradise By David Rohl The snow-covered dome of the Mountain of God, shrouded in clouds, towered above the old Mongol village of Kandovan, known locally as 'the honeycomb'. I had  finally reached the volcanic peak where, according to the prophet Ezekiel, God looked down from his lofty (*can I have this back as 'lofty throne' is another term for God's mountain*?) throne onto the earthly paradise of Adam and Eve. The air was clear and sharp at ten thousand feet above sea level as the long Iranian winter of 1996 began to give way to the spring thaw – and I was feeling on top of the world.     This moment was the culmination of years of painstaking research: delving into ancient documents from Babylonia, Assyria and Egypt, analysing the epic literature of ancient Sumer and poring over faded 19th-century maps in the British Library. All this had led me to a high valley located far off to the east, in the Iranian province of Azerbaijan. This was the place where the Bible tells us it all began – the Garden of Eden – and I was here to see if God was still receiving visitors.       My quest to find the Eden began in 1987 when I was sent a short, privately published paper by amateur historian, Reginald Walker, which proposed a location for the Garden of Eden in north-western Iran. The main thrust of Walker's argument was that the four rivers of Eden, described in Chapter Two of Genesis, were to be found in that region. All four had their sources (the Bible refers to them as 'heads') around the two great salt lakes of Van and Urmia.     Since the time of the Jewish historian Josephus, a near contemporary of Christ, scholars have tried to use Genesis 2 to locate Eden. But the problem has always been the identification of the rivers themselves. The Bible calls them Perath, Hiddekel, Gihon and Pishon. The first two are easy to decipher: the Perath is simply the Hebrew version of Arabic Firat and Greek Euphrates; similarly the Hiddekel is Hebrew for Sumerian Idiglat from which the Greek Tigris derives. The remaining two rivers, however, have always been a mystery. In order to locate Eden precisely,  I needed to find the sources of all four – and that's where Walker's research came in. He showed that the River Aras, flowing into the Caspian Sea from the mountains north of Lake Urmia, was once called the Gaihun. By checking the writings of the Islamic geographers who accompanied the Arabic invasion of Persia in the 8th century, I was able to confirm that this was indeed the case. Moreover, even as late as the last century, Victorian atlases and encyclopaedias were still naming the river as the Gaihun-Aras. The Gaihun is therefore the missing biblical Gihon.     The fourth river – the Pishon – was more difficult to find. Walker suggested that this Hebrew (West Semitic) name derived from the old Iranian Uizhun, where the Iranian vowel 'U' had been converted into the Semitic labial consonant 'P'. Thus we have Uizhun to Pizhun to Pishon. The river Uizhun (the modern Kezel Uzun) – thus identified as the biblical Pishon – flows down from the mountains of Kurdistan and empties into the southern basin of the Caspian Sea.     Bringing all this together I found that the sources of all four rivers originated in the highland area which Alexander the Great knew as Armenia and we know today as eastern Turkey and western Iran. ****** Not long after beginning my research into Eden I also soon discovered that there was an extra-biblical clue which would help guide me to my goal. An ancient Sumerian epic known as 'Enmerkar and the Lord of Aratta' relates the tale of a journey made by the envoy of Enmerkar, King of Uruk, from his home city in southern Mesopotamia, through the seven high passes of the Zagros range and down into the magical kingdom of Aratta – the 'Eldorado' of the ancient world.  A  crucial line in the epic describes the envoy descending from the last of the seven mountain passes (the Sumerians called them 'gates') and crossing a broad plain before arriving at the city of Aratta with its red-painted city walls. The envoy, journeying to Aratta, covered his feet with the dust of the road and stirred up the pebbles of the mountains. … Five gates, six gates, seven gates he traversed. … Like a huge serpent prowling about in the plain, he was unopposed. … He lifted up his eyes as he approached Aratta. [extracts from 'Enmerkar and the Lord of Aratta'] Here, the Sumerian word for 'plain' is edin which some scholars believe is the source of the word Eden in Genesis.     So, combining my discovery of the location of the four rivers,  together with the Sumerian location of Eden, it seemed as though the whereabouts of the lost Eden and its fabled garden was near to being resolved. I decided to set out for the ancient city of Susa (burial place of Daniel of the lions' den) in the south-western flood plain of Iran from where I determined to retrace the Sumerian envoy's route to paradise.     Following the ancient track through the seven 'gates', I eventually reached the Miyandoab plain to the south of Lake Urmia on the western frontier of Iran (*do we need this if we are including a map?*). The journey had taken four days by car but would have taken the envoy the best part of four months by donkey.       The edin remains today one of the lushest regions of the Middle East: thick soil, fruit orchards and vineyards, lazy meandering rivers. This, I am sure, was the original heart of Eden which, over time, became a much wider area, including both the salt lakes and the Garden of Eden itself. The Bible describes the Garden as being 'east in Eden' [Genesis 11:8] – in other words to the east of but still within the wider territory of Eden.    My driver and I continued eastwards, between the south-eastern shore of Lake Urmia and the towering volcanic peak of Mount Sahand. An hour's drive along the highway brought us into a long west to east valley, the sides of which were terraced with 'every kind of tree' smothered in spring blossom. God planted a garden in Eden, which is in the east, and there he put the man he had fashioned. From the soil, God caused to grow every kind of tree, enticing to look at and good to eat. [Genesis 2:8-9] The soil was deep and rich. Little mudbrick villages clung to the foothills, others scattered across the valley floor. All around,  a high snow-laden ring enclosed this earthly idyll, nurturing its warm micro-climate.     The nearest mountain to the north glowed bright red in the low evening light – a pile of pure red ochre. At its foot sprawled the regional capital of Tabriz, squatting at the heart of the valley where Adam and Eve (whoever they were) once lived according to biblical tradition. The first thing which came to mind was paradise lost. Nothing of the earthly garden and its original settlement could have survived beneath these bustling streets. But then, away from the city, I soon discovered that there was much that remains of Adam's Neolithic culture.     This was the region where Man first began to settle down to sedentary life in around 7000 BC; where he learnt to domesticate animals and plant his crops; and where he began to bury his dead in graves, the bones painted in red-ochre. Adam's name means the 'red-earth' man. According to Sumerian mythology, Man was crafted by the gods from the clay of the earth, just as a potter throws his red clay pots on the wheel. The creation of Man in Genesis is much the same. Yahweh God shaped Man (Heb. Adam) from the dust (Heb. aphar) of the earth (Heb. adamah) and blew the breath of life into his nostrils, and Man became a living being. [Genesis 2:7] … return to the earth (Heb. adamah), as you were taken from it. For dust (Heb. aphar) you are and to dust (Heb. aphar) you shall return. [Genesis 3:19] Here the word 'dust' is a poetical translation. The understanding of Hebrew aphar is the earth from which clay is made, or simply clay itself, and I believe the clay which gave Adam his name was sourced in the red mountain looking down on Tabriz. ****** Having finally reached Eden and its protected garden, an exploration of the surrounding lands revealed more clues to confirm that I really was at the heart of Adam and Eve's primordial world. Even further to the east of the Adji Chay valley, in which Tabriz is located, beyond a high pass leading out of the Garden of Eden, is the land of Nod into which Cain was exiled after he had murdered his brother Abel. The area is still called Upper and Lower Noqdi today and many villages bear the epithet Noqdi ('belonging to Nod').     In the same region we find the town of Kheruabad. The name means 'settlement of the Kheru-people' and the Kheru were the Kerubim (Cherubs) of Genesis who protected the eastern entrance into Eden. The volcanic peak of Mount Savalan, which guards the eastern gateway back into the Garden of Eden, is a good candidate for the 'Fiery Flashing Sword' associated with the Kerubim. When I travelled over the pass beneath Savalan volcano for the first time, the vehicle was pounded by a violent electrical storm. To the ancients, used to the metaphor of jagged peaks as divine swords or spears, it would have been easy to envisage the angry mountain, casting down its bolts of lightening, as the Fiery Flashing Sword of Genesis.     I returned to Eden from Nod by a different route, travelling along the valley of the Ahar Chay – the next river basin north of the Adji Chay. The Ahar Chay is a major tributary of the Gaihun-Aras/Gihon which, according to Genesis 2 'winds all through the land of Cush'. Separating the Ahar and Adji valleys, and acting as the northern wall of the Garden of Eden, stretched a high snow-capped ridge named Kusheh Dagh – the 'Mountain of Cush'.     Long after nightfall I was back in my Tabriz Intercontinental Hotel bed, dreaming of an early morning climb up to the Mountain of God. ****** The troglodyte (* = cave-dwellers - but I explain this at the end of the para*) village of Kandovan seems as old as the mountain to which it clings. The cobbled main street is only just wide enough to take a donkey and cart. Steep side alleys, populated by free-roaming chickens, soon morphe into roughly sculpted flights of steps which twist and turn between huge canine teeth of lava. Each is a home – a dwelling from a bygone age – with rickety wooden doors and tiny mullioned windows. In this Disneyesque landscape of cave-dwellers, I almost expected Pinocchio to appear around the next bend.     Kandovan with its volcanic spires is as close as anyone will get to Adam's world. It is located within reach of the summit of the highest mountain overlooking the valley I have identified with the Garden of Eden; a number of biblical texts inform us that Adam's God dwelt on a volcanic peak overlooking the primeval paradise; a sacred stream flows down into the valley from the summit of the volcano just as a stream watered the Garden of Eden. By following a trail of biblical and extra-biblical clues I had been led to the geographical setting in which the early Genesis stories were played out. This extraordinary village, perched high up on the Mountain of God, was just about as near as you could get to the fabled Throne of Glory.     We can certainly record Kandovan's history back to the Mongol invasion of Persia in the 13th century when a group of settlers occupied the village. But none of today's locals have memories beyond the arrival of their Asiatic ancestors. Did the village exist before that time? It seems highly likely, given the complex agricultural terracing which covers the steep-sided valleys around the holy mountain. These go back at least to the first millennium BC and probably much earlier. Assyrian war annals of the 8th century mention towns in the vicinity of Mount Uash (the Assyrian name for Sahand volcano) and these population centres would have required considerable agricultural produce which must have been eked out of the volcanic soil clinging to the slopes of Sahand. Beyond the 8th century BC, however, we cannot go with any certainty. Of the thousands of ancient occupation mounds surveyed in this region only a tiny percentage have been excavated. We have just begun to scratch the surface in the land where human civilisation began.     Whatever the ancient history of Kandovan, the soul of the place is timeless. Hardly anything has changed over the centuries.  Above the snowline for much of the year, it is hard to imagine why anyone would continue to live here in such an unforgivinng climate. The reason they do, and have done since time immemorial, is because of a powerful attachment to their sacred mountain with its life-prolonging spring waters.     At the summit of one of the two peaks of Sahand the extinct volcanic chimney overflows with ice-cool water as if from a bottomless well. The locals call it Jam Daghi – 'Mountain of the Chalice'. The water which gurgles from the tiny lake joins other streams, flows past Kandovan and on down into the Adji Chay valley, eventually forming a marshy delta on the eastern shore of Lake Urmia. A river flowed from Eden to water the garden, and from there it divided to make four streams (Hebrew roshim meaning 'heads'). [Genesis 2:10] In Sumerian theology spring-water lakes on top of mountains were regarded as holy places where humans might communicate with the great god of the underworld ocean of sweet water upon which the earth floated. Such an interface between the worlds of the living and dead was called an abzu, from which we get our word abyss.     Tabrizi weekend tourists come up Mount Sahand armed with plastic containers to collect the water which flows down from the nearby summit of the volcano. This water is regarded as having magical properties: it cures the sick and prolongs life. Many a grandma or grandpa in Tabriz are fed the holy water of Mount Sahand to keep them fit and strong. The reason for this veneration is all to do with the sacred source of the river which runs through the Garden of Eden.       I had travelled over one thousand kilometres from the Mesopotamian plain to the Garden of God. I had crossed seven mountain ridges, through the ancient lands of Kuzestan, Luristan and Kurdistan. I had followed in the footsteps of Enmerkar's weary envoy as he passed through the seven gates which led into the mysterious land of Aratta and, beyond, I had found myself in the primeval world of Adam and Eve. I was literally in Seventh Heaven.     My journey had come to an end just below the summit of God's holy mountain. The exalted Throne of Glory was within a few hours' climb, a thousand metres above me – but, sadly, I was not to reach it this time. Dark clouds had enveloped the mountain and falling snow began to shroud the way forward. My meeting with God would have to wait for another time. I headed down the mountain, leaving Pinocchio and his friends to their own devices. Son of Man, raise a lament … You were in Eden, in the Garden of God … I made you a living creature with outstretched wings, as guardian, you were upon the holy Mountain of God, you walked in the midst of red-hot coals. … I have cast you down from the Mountain of God and destroyed you, guardian winged creature, amid the coals. [Ezekiel 28:11-19] ****** The Hebrew word for 'garden' used in Garden of Eden is gan which has the meaning 'walled' or 'enclosed garden'. The enclosed valley of Tabriz is just that – a rich-soiled paradisiacal haven protected by high mountain walls. The Greek version of the Old Testament calls the Garden of Eden 'Paradise' (paradeisos) after the ancient Persian pairidaeza meaning 'enclosed parkland'. The great Meidans (royal squares) of Islamic Persia, particularly the beautiful Meidan-é Imam of Isfahan, are symbolic representations of the original Garden of Eden with their high enclosures and formal gardens containing fountains and pools.     When the descendants of the Mongol chieftains who had invaded Persia in the 13th century moved on into India to become the Mogul emperors of the 16th to 19th centuries, they took the Persian ideas relating to the Garden of Eden with them. So it was that Shah Jehan built the Taj Mahal for his beloved queen, Muntaz Mahal, not simply as a mausoleum but as a representation of heaven itself – with the mausoleum functioning as the Throne of God.  Jehan was effectively recreating the paradise on earth which had been lost to humanity following the expulsion of Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden. A study of the Koranic inscriptions around the arches of the Taj, undertaken by Professor Wayne E. Begley of Iowa University, has shown that this was the hidden secret of the building – the sacred knowledge of Eden brought out of Sufic Iran.     But now that the landscape of Eden and its garden have finally been identified, I believe we are in a position to read much more into this extraordinary 17th-century monument to one man's vanity.        The Taj Mahal's glistening white dome, can be seen as a representation of the snow-capped Mount Sahand – God's original Throne of Glory. The formal gardens in front of the Taj mirror the garden of paradise with the central pool (representing Lake Urmia) and the four water channels (representing the four rivers of Eden) flowing out from the centre of the complex. The ornamental arch leading into the enclosed garden of the Taj Mahal represents the mountain pass or 'gate' leading into Eden which was ferociously guarded by the cherubim and the Fiery Flashing Sword. The symbolism is striking. ****** There is no straightforward way to explain how an Egyptologist, used to working in the dry heat of the north African deserts, should end up traversing the Zagros mountains of western Iran in search of the earthly paradise.     I had first visited Egypt as a ten-year-old, travelling all the way from Cairo to Abu Simbel in King Farouk's royal paddle-steamer, the 'Kased Kheir'. This unusual means of transport had only recently been confiscated by the state upon the king's abdication and exile. Events and experiences on that first amazing journey through the Land of the Pharaohs were to become the catalyst for a life-long passion and interest in the archaeology of the ancient world. Try to imagine for a moment what it feels like to end a one-thousand-kilometre voyage up the River Nile, standing on a sandy beach, before dawn, at the foot of the huge rock-cut temple of Abu Simbel – and then being handed the heavy brass key (shaped as the 'key of life') to Ramesses II's most famous monument. As the sun first rays began to light the faces of the seated colossi which flank the temple entrance, I turned the great key and the five-metre-high doors swung wide open to flood the inner sanctum with the dawn glow. A thin shadow, cast by this youngest of visitors to Egypt's crowning glory, stretched down the central corridor and drew me into the holy of holies. It was there, on the morning of the spring equinox in 1960, that a young Egyptophile had his first audience with the deified King Ramesses and his fellow state-gods, Amun-Re, Ptah and Horus of the Eastern Horizon – a life-changing meeting if ever there was one.      In later years I had begun my studies in the Departments of Egyptology and Ancient History at University College, London, with a major interest in the complex chronology of Egyptian civilisation. My PhD work to radically revise that chronology had also inevitably drawn me into the world of biblical history – so closely bound up with the Land of the Pharaohs. Two decades of research had led me to the conviction that many of the stories in the Old Testament were based on real historical events: the Israelite sojourn in Egypt, the Exodus, the conquest of the Promised Land – all were attestable within the archaeological record once the correct chronology had been applied.     But why was I now delving into the Book of Genesis – that most mythological and hoary of the biblical texts? Surely it would have been better to leave well alone? But that is not my way. The simple fact is that ancient stories and legends have always fascinated me and the chance to uncover the historical reality behind the greatest legend of them all was just too tempting an opportunity to pass by.

Site Map