By Navid Ganji
I’m tearing through Khuzestan’s blistering plains, the road a dusty scar under my tires, chasing Susa—the ancient beast that’s been whispering my name. The sun’s a hammer, smashing the earth into a golden haze, and the air’s ripping through my cracked window, thick with heat and the faint tang of river mud. This isn’t just a dig site; it’s the cradle of empires—Elamite, Persian, Parthian—and I’m about to kick open its door.
The Drop: Stepping Into a Lost World
I screech into Susa, dust exploding around me, and the first thing that hits is the silence—a heavy, ancient hush hanging over the mounds. The modern town’s buzzing nearby, but out here, it’s just me and these crumbling hills, scarred by time. I ditch the car near the Acropole mound, boots slamming dirt, and march toward the sprawl. The air’s dry as bone, but there’s a weight to it—like the ghosts of 6,000 years are sizing me up.
This place is raw—no fancy signs, no polished paths—just earth and echoes. The mounds rise around me, lumpy and brown, hiding palaces, temples, and secrets. I can see the Karun River glinting in the distance, a muddy snake that’s been feeding this land forever. I’m grinning already—this isn’t a museum; it’s a battlefield of history, and I’m charging in.
The Acropole: Digging Into the Past
I hit the Acropole mound first, the heart of old Susa, and it’s like the ground’s whispering under my feet. This was the high ground—temples, royal digs, the works. I scramble up a slope, dirt crumbling beneath me, and spot trenches where archaeologists clawed out the past—shards of pottery, bits of bronze, stuff that’s older than most gods.
The wind’s picking up, hot and gritty, carrying a whiff of baked clay. I squat by a chunk of wall—mud bricks stacked tight, weathered to nubs—and run my fingers over it. It’s rough, flaking, but I can feel the hands that slapped it together 4,000 years ago. Up here, the view’s wild—mounds rolling out like waves, the modern town a speck against the ancient sprawl. This was Elam’s throne, a city that laughed at invaders ‘til the Persians rolled in.
The Apadana: Palace of the Kings
I drop down and head for the Apadana Palace—or what’s left of it. Darius the Great built this beast, and the columns hit me like a punch—huge stone stumps, some snapped off, others leaning like drunk giants. I weave through them, boots kicking up dust, and imagine the halls that once stood here—roofs of cedar, walls dripping with gold, kings barking orders.
The bases are carved—lions, bulls, lotus flowers—faint now, but still snarling through the centuries. I climb onto one, the stone hot under my palms, and the scale sinks in—this was Achaemenid flexing, a palace to make empires tremble. The wind howls through, tugging at me, and I can almost hear the clink of armor, the rustle of silk. It’s wrecked now—Assyrians torched it, time finished the job—but it’s still got swagger.
The Royal City: Ghosts in the Dirt
Next up, the Royal City mound—it’s quieter, spookier. This was where the elite lived, their houses long gone, just outlines in the dirt. I wander through, eyes locked on the ground—bits of glazed brick glint like treasure, turquoise and yellow, catching the sun. I pick one up, cool and smooth, and roll it in my hand. Was this a wall? A floor? Some king’s bathtub?
The trenches here are deep, layered like a cake—Elamite at the bottom, Persian on top, Parthian crumbs sprinkled over it. Every step’s a time warp, and I’m tripping over history. A hawk screeches overhead, circling the emptiness, and I feel small—like Susa’s daring me to keep up with its ghosts.
The Ville Royale: Life in the Ruins
I push into the Ville Royale mound, where the regular folks lived, and it’s a different beast—messier, denser, alive with the chaos of ordinary life. The alleys are gone, but I can trace them in the dirt—narrow, twisting, packed with houses once. I find a broken pot shard, its edge sharp enough to cut, and picture some potter firing it up while empires rose and fell.
The sun’s climbing, baking me into the ground, and I flop under a scraggy tree—the only shade for miles. Susa’s not gentle—it’s brutal, exposed, but that’s its power. I sip water, the bottle sweating in my grip, and watch heat waves ripple over the mounds. This wasn’t a city; it was a survivor, clawing through wars and floods ‘til it couldn’t anymore.
The Edge: Chogha Zanbil’s Shadow
I hike to the edge of the site, where Susa’s sprawl fades into the plains. In the distance, I can just make out Chogha Zanbil’s ziqqurat—a dark, stepped shadow from the Elamites, 13th century BC. It’s calling me, but today’s about Susa itself. I stand there, wind blasting my face, and take in the sweep—mounds, river, sky.
The Karun’s still flowing, a muddy lifeline that kept this place alive through millennia. This isn’t just dirt; it’s blood—kings fought here, priests prayed here, people died here. I kick a rock, and it skitters down a slope, lost in the dust. Susa doesn’t care—it’s been here longer than me, and it’ll outlast me too.
Sunset Burn: The Ancient Fire
The sun’s crashing now, torching the mounds in oranges and reds. Susa lights up like a furnace, the columns of Apadana glowing like sentinels in the dusk. I’m sprawled on a rise, dirt in my nails, watching the sky bleed purple. The air’s cooling fast, a sharp edge cutting through the day’s heat, and crickets start their racket in the scrub.
I wander back through the Acropole, shadows stretching long and thin, and the silence gets louder—not empty, but heavy, packed with echoes. This place isn’t dead—it’s waiting, daring you to listen. My boots crunch one last time as I head for the car, the mounds shrinking behind me. Susa’s not just a visit—it’s a wrestle, a gut-punch of history that’s still swinging.
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Email: Navidganjii@Gmail.com
