Iranian Book News Agency (IBNA) – Culture and Publishing Desk¹

The question of why science has been historically “closed off” in Iran is, in fact, a question about a deeply rooted mindset—a mindset that viewed science not as a “universal right” but as the “property of privileged classes.” From chest-style libraries to the way manuscript collections were treated, there has always been a visible “fear of public access.”

Rasul Jafarian, head of the Central Library of the University of Tehran, sees the root of this perspective in traditional understandings of knowledge, where esoteric sciences like jafr and hierarchical moral standards determined who was “deserving” of knowledge. But the modern world pulled science out of its boxes and placed it on shelves—reproducible, transferable.

In a conversation with IBNA, he discussed how interacting with computers, research software, and text reproduction shaped his views. He noted that when knowledge is reproduced, it “stays alive.” Resistance to open access still persists, from limiting access to manuscripts to universities withholding data. But he believes that changing mindsets takes time and can only be achieved through dialogue, education, and public pressure. If openness does not become institutionalized, everything can revert to “factory settings” with a change in leadership. The only solution is to accept this simple truth: the modern era is an age of replication and free circulation of data—not locked chests and classified knowledge.

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— One of your defining traits throughout your career has been “openness.” You also have other notable qualities, such as a “strong memory”—a trait often praised by history professors. Dr. Rahmanian always said, “Anyone who studies history needs to have a strong memory.” “Industriousness” is another one of your qualities. But perhaps your most important trait is your “open approach to books and librarianship.” Wherever you’ve worked, you’ve created open environments where resources were made publicly accessible. Unfortunately, such openness is rare in many archival and library centers. So please tell us, how did you arrive at this approach? What can be done to ensure others continue on this path? And if you leave a place like the Parliament Library or another institution, how do we prevent everything from reverting to “factory settings”? Why have we always been so restrictive with our resources—so much so that we didn’t want others to see them and practically blocked their access? I read a note you wrote about how even our libraries in the past were structured like “chests,” meaning books were placed on wall shelves, but the mindset remained one of closed boxes. Where does this restrictive approach toward books and documents come from?

Historically, our perception of knowledge—without directly comparing it to aristocratic or non-aristocratic societies like the Sasanian era—has been that knowledge belongs to a particular group, a group deemed “deserving of knowledge,” while others are not.

You can find a similar attitude in the hierarchical structures of Sufi traditions, where there is frequent mention of “secrets” and “mysteries.” Perhaps Mr. Omid Hosseini-Nejad, who is here, can recall: Is there any verse in the Quran where knowledge is said to be exclusive to a specific group? There is the verse fa-s’alū ahl al-dhikr (“Ask the people of knowledge”), which pertains to religious matters. But later, the idea emerged that not everyone deserves knowledge and that teaching it to everyone could be “harmful.” Harmful for whom? This way of thinking has been the source of many delusions and restrictions. I suspect that this mindset is not unique to us—it is probably part of a broader traditional human mentality.

Certain fields of knowledge such as alchemy and sīmiyāʾ (occult sciences), which were full of symbols and mysteries, reinforced this idea. Even the concept of “asceticism for the sake of understanding” stems from this mindset—the idea that knowledge requires spiritual and ethical qualification. One friend told me that he spent years pursuing the “science of jafr,” not out of materialism, but because he believed that if he could access the “unseen backstage of reality,” he would both make money and uncover the truths of the universe. He said he spent 15 years of his life on this. Consider what that reveals about how the path to knowledge was envisioned.

Now contrast that with the modern world—a world that, for better or worse, has democratized knowledge. The example of “chest-style libraries” you mentioned is a good one. Books used to be kept in chests, not on shelves. Knowledge was locked away until it was moved onto open shelves—visible and readable by all. The classification of sciences also contributed to this shift, placing books from the same field side by side and clarifying study paths. I first encountered this model of librarianship in the 1980s at the Foundation for Islamic Research. Before that, at “Rāh-e Ḥaqq,” there had been some efforts at book categorization, but the Foundation approached it more scientifically. For example, materials on Nishapur were lined up in order; the same with Khorasan. And this is a distinctly modern model: expanding and democratizing knowledge. It’s also one of the major reasons for the modern world’s success.

Now imagine—just a hundred years ago, no one would say, “Literacy is obligatory for everyone.” But today, that is obvious. In our traditional system, knowledge had a limited circle. Later on, some interpreted the hadith ṭalab al-ʿilm farīḍah (“Seeking knowledge is a duty”) as referring to literacy alone, whereas in the medieval period, the concept of ʿilm (knowledge) was not understood so broadly. Jalal Matini has a detailed article on this in Iran-Nameh, where he analyzes the scholars’ understanding of the concept of knowledge.

All of this shaped my own thinking—especially from around 1989–1991—when I became aware of the idea of “disseminating knowledge.” Later, when I began working on the concept of knowledge in the Islamic world, especially around the early 2000s, I grew increasingly sensitive to the importance of promoting knowledge, ensuring open access, and fostering leniency—or as you put it, generosity—toward those seeking books.

– You have traditional seminary training and were raised in an environment built upon a hierarchical view of knowledge. So how did you arrive at the conclusion that we must adopt such an open approach to knowledge?

Perhaps the reason is that I encountered and became familiar with modern tools for research and writing relatively early and more easily. In the early 1990s, I worked at the “Noor” Computer Center, managing the History Department. That exposure had a deep impact on me. The traditional world differs significantly from the modern one. Often, we forget the transformations we go through, even though we are deeply affected by them. There was a time when we had lithographed books. Until just four decades ago, our seminary textbooks resembled lithographs.

These books had their own unique spirit. Just a few days ago, I was reviewing Brinkley Messick’s book The Calligraphic State: Textual Domination and History in a Muslim Society. Calligraphy here does not mean elegant writing in the usual sense, but rather the emphasis on handwriting and textual formalism in legal and jurisprudential works—meant to preserve authority and control. The book describes how Zaydi Shiʿas and Shafiʿi Sunnis in Yemen engaged with jurisprudential texts. For them, the text had become “sacred.” Attention to knowledge and content appeared secondary.

The script of traditional textbooks—especially in jurisprudence—is fascinating. The focus was on the text. But the modern world dismantled these layers and said: this is a legal system. The difference is similar to that between “Indian-style” Persian poetry (with its tangled metaphors) and the simple, flowing style of early poets like Rudaki. In the Indian style, everything is twisted and abstracted, whereas the first-generation Persian poets recited poetry with the clarity of flowing water.

The content of these jurisprudential books is indeed useful knowledge in legal discourse and is important alongside other viewpoints. But before any of that, what mattered was the script, the form, the text itself, the constraints, and the visual structure. The transformative agent here was printing.

In that traditional society, the teacher–student relationship was often formed through marginalia. Once those margins disappeared, many of those relationships also changed. For example, Lumʿah—which we studied in the beginning—was full of marginal notes. It was as if a whole world existed behind the main text, and the appearance of the writing, its structure, and combination were all sacred. One of the last examples of this tradition was the literature of the Bābīs. All their writings were marginal, full of obscure words, strange terms, and made-up expressions—yet they preserved a certain graphic style in their calligraphy. These very features became tools of their power.

The modern world broke down these structures and said: “It’s the knowledge itself that matters”—and for everyone, unfiltered. In the new era, these patterns have unraveled. Let me speak from personal experience: since 1989, I’ve had access to a computer. Back then in Qom, very few people worked with computers. Everyday experiences—like typing, using floppy disks for storage, and similar actions—began to change the way one thinks.

The first major shift was realizing that a text was now reproducible. That concept transformed the dissemination of knowledge. Later, software like Zarnegar made things even easier. For the first time, I brought home the 110-volume Biḥār al-Anwār on 30 floppy disks. That was a defining experience for me: knowledge that could be copied was alive—whereas the physical book was fading.

The world was opening up. During my time at the Parliament Library, this mindset was present. The late Master Ḥāʾirī, if he knew you, would easily give you the manuscript. But if he didn’t know you, he would naturally be cautious. This same attitude existed at the University of Tehran. These behaviours stem from an ethical code shaped over a long time, and melting the ice of that mindset takes time. These behaviours become a kind of epistemic gene—just as genes are passed on in natural sciences, so too do these “cultural genes” seem to transfer across generations.

– This question can be both a critique and a genuine inquiry. Our country is often described as one of “individuals,” meaning that tasks tend to depend on specific people, not systems. In your case as well, people sometimes say that if Aqa Jafarian is not there, many things will come to a halt. So how can this approach be transformed into a structure? What should be done to ensure that if you leave the Central Library of the University of Tehran tomorrow, the next person won’t return everything to its previous closed state? Have you reflected on this?

This issue, this mindset, this practice, functions like a paradigm. It’s the same everywhere. Until society is confronted with serious questions and feels the urgency for change, sustainable transformation won’t happen. Part of it is the behavioural aspect I’ve explained, and part of it requires ongoing dialogue aimed at a paradigm shift. Some university officials don’t even enter these spaces or critique them.

Let me share an interesting point: even I sometimes fall into that same mindset. A few days ago, I was parking my car when one of the staff members called. He said someone had come and was insisting on receiving images of some manuscripts we had already shared with a few others. He asked, “What should we do?” I said, “What do you mean, what should we do?” He replied, “These images are sensitive.” In just a few minutes, I found myself affected too and said, “He doesn’t have the right to make such a demand.” I was slowly starting to block the request. Then I paused for a moment and thought—Europe has made thousands of exquisite Islamic manuscripts available online, and here we are debating a few pictures? I said, “Send it to him right now.” So even within me, this ownership mindset occasionally emerges.

In many libraries, rare manuscripts are kept separate, and they say, “Don’t make them publicly accessible.” They offer another justification: that if the manuscripts are shared widely, they may be distorted or “damaged.” But the core issue is that they lack a modern view of knowledge. They don’t see knowledge as something that should be accessible to all. Today, we see literacy and computer literacy as basic necessities, but in traditional environments, this is not the case.

Shahid Motahhari, in one of his lectures, discusses the question: “Does piety help a person progress in knowledge?” and he clearly says no. But in our traditional circles, people still think “religious ethics” is intertwined with knowledge. This issue, of course, is not limited to us.

Let me mention another issue: After World War II, skepticism toward science also developed in the West. Scientific advances had led to the creation of weapons that killed millions during the war. There’s virtually no precedent in history for that scale of massacre. This led to a distrust in science. Science had brought about conditions that facilitated corruption. Even some advancements in biology sparked waves of violence fueled by racism. Worse yet, some scientific findings led to more violence against women, such as the “discovery” that women’s brains are smaller than men’s. Many traditional societies have developed a hatred for the kind of science that led to social disintegration. And when someone holds that view of science, they are not very enthusiastic about its dissemination.

Nonetheless, science, through the simple language it has adopted for dissemination, continues to progress. Some countries truly believe in open access. Believe me, I once went to the Berlin Library and directly entered its manuscript section. You cannot even imagine experiencing such openness in our libraries. Of course, here, if you have connections, you can get anything you want. But if they don’t know you, they’ll frown at you and ignore your request.

As for your question—how can this problem be solved?—the answer lies in time. Just as many other cultural issues change over time, this too will eventually be resolved. A different world will take shape. Sometimes, we just have to wait for generations to change. Government administrators with closed mindsets need to be replaced. Eventually, this change will happen. Our problem is that many of our administrators aren’t researchers themselves and don’t even know the true value of a book.

– How can this perspective be transformed into a “sustainable structure” so that with the change of managers, everything does not revert to the closed state of the past?

This is a very fundamental question. The truth is, until the academic community is confronted with foundational questions and accepts the necessity of open access to knowledge, no lasting transformation will occur. This requires dialogue, education, discourse-building, and the pressure of public awareness. Some of the actions already taken—such as digitizing theses or increasing access to manuscripts—are important steps, but we are still far from a “structural transformation.”

The intense resistance from certain institutions and administrators is undeniable. For example, for years universities refused to provide theses to IranDoc. Even today, many libraries prevent the sharing of their data with national or global systems. Some of this resistance stems from a traditional mindset, while other reasons are rooted in legal or security concerns. Some may even be driven by financial interests for their own organizations—because they have issues.

Another problem is that change in our traditional systems happens incredibly slowly. For example, the copyright law for authors and publishers was passed in 1969. Since then, no serious effort has been made to revise it or to smooth the path for learning and the dissemination of knowledge. Those in charge think the modern world progresses at the same sluggish pace as the old one. In this law, which initially provided copyright protection for 40 years after publication or the author’s death, they extended it to 50 years—instead of reducing it to 5 or 10 years. Today, knowledge becomes outdated very quickly. Texts are now transferred electronically, not on mules or pickup trucks.

We have made efforts in our own capacity to ensure accessibility of resources. Currently, 105,000 theses from the University of Tehran are readily available. Also, 17,000 manuscripts, tens of thousands of texts, books, and photographs are accessible. Many other centers are doing even more than us.

Today, the idea of open access to texts is no longer a joke. Artificial intelligence now searches, analyzes, retrieves related data, and helps expand the scope of your thinking from even a simple input. If you ask what we have done in the Central Library, I’d say: nothing substantial. We’re still just uploading PDF files. Perhaps the only notable effort is using AI to convert printed books into audio files—a process we’re accelerating.

– What can be done to promote a culture of reading and its development?

When it comes to reading culture, I must say: at the grave you’re reciting a fātiḥa for, the deceased is long gone. Sometimes I feel that inviting people to read traditional books is akin to inviting them to backwardness. We must find new ways to disseminate knowledge. Does anyone in the world still publish academic journals in print? Everything is digital and accessible everywhere. So why shouldn’t books be the same? Books may still be useful for leisure reading, but even that is unfair to nature—cutting down beautiful trees to make paper, which then pollutes the environment, just to read a few lines? A person today has a phone, tablet, and laptop, all of which can hold more files than their neighbourhood public library. This is what should be encouraged.

The main problem is that we still haven’t understood that reading habits have changed. People today spend hours reading books on their phones. Yet we continue to insist on “paper books,” while many academic journals have already stopped printing. Reference halls are empty. Everyone turns to the internet. And now, centuries after the Western encyclopedia movement began, we are suddenly obsessed with compiling encyclopedias. So why are radios still broadcasting interviews every day, asking how we can improve the culture of reading? Instead of that, pour knowledge—through various languages and genres—into people’s phones. In my opinion, IBNA (Iran Book News Agency) can play an important role here: through dialogue, reports, raising awareness, and legal follow-ups on publishing issues. People need to be told that knowledge isn’t just “on paper.” People’s phones are now their main reading space. We need to recognize this behaviour—not deny it.

– Well, if paper is removed, what will happen to author royalties?

Look, I’m being honest: only about 10% of books bring income to their authors. Most of them are wasted efforts with no profit at all. They don’t even have real print runs anymore. If 200 copies are printed, and the author gets 10% of the cover price, what can you do with that? The world today is pursuing other methods to ensure royalties and protect authors’ intellectual property. We need to start thinking about implementing those methods. Of course, that takes effort.

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A Strange Claim: A Critique of Rasul Jafarian’s Remarks on Traditional Book Reading

By Ali Asghar Seidabadi, a writer, book promotion activist, and researcher on Iranian children’s literature.

Professor Rasoul Jafarian is a respected figure in historical research of the Islamic and contemporary periods. In cultural management, too, he has a distinguished record—particularly in digitizing major libraries and making these treasures publicly accessible. In an interview with IBNA, while emphasizing the importance of the digital world, he stated that “calling for traditional book reading is a call to backwardness.”²

Some time ago, a government official wrote to his superior—by pen, on official paper—saying, “The era of printed books is over.” This person was so out of touch that he didn’t realize the irony: making such a claim in a handwritten letter on paper is a contradiction in itself.

If such a statement came from someone like that, one might have ignored it. But when it’s said by a researcher who is deeply immersed in the world of manuscripts and printed books—and who is also engaged in digital publishing and library work—naturally, the audience assumes this judgment is based on solid research and observation.

I understand that the professor may have used this phrase to underscore the significance of the digital space, but an incorrect statement—even if made with good intentions—is still incorrect. To evaluate the accuracy of this claim, all one needs to do is look at comparative statistics of printed vs. digital books in developed countries—nations no one would label as backward.

Global Market Statistics: Print Still Dominates

• United States: According to the 2024 report by the Association of American Publishers, about 72% to 75% of the book market revenue comes from printed books. Digital formats (including eBooks and audiobooks) only account for around 25%, and eBooks alone make up just 11%. That means printed books outsell eBooks by 6 to 7 times.

• Japan: One of the most digitalized publishing markets in the world—43% of the market is digital, while 57% remains print. Even here, print still leads. And much of the digital share comes from manga, which skews the numbers.

• European Union: Based on Eurostat data and publishing reports, digital formats (eBooks and audiobooks) comprise 25% to 40% of the market, while 60% to 75% is still held by printed books. Even in online purchases, physical book buyers outnumber eBook buyers by nearly 2 to 1.

• South Korea: According to WIPO data, 88% of commercial publishing revenue comes from printed books. Only 11% to 12% is from digital and audiobooks—again a 7 to 8 times difference in favor of print.

• China: In 2023, the retail market for printed books was around 91 billion yuan, while the digital reading market (eBooks, online literature, and audiobooks) made about 56 billion yuan. That’s roughly 60% print vs. 40% digital. National reading surveys also show that 70% of reading is still via printed books.

Social and Cultural Factors

Moreover, in all these countries, reading promotion groups, book clubs, literary salons, and public reading circles are highly active. And in most cases, books are read in printed form—even when digital versions are available.

Ironically, I myself am not among the devotees of printed books. I read more digital books than printed ones. There are many reasons why one might prefer digital over print—and these reasons are valid, even if some may be debated. But no reason can justify calling interest in printed books—or invitations to traditional reading—a form of backwardness.

The most reliable global statistics show that even the most advanced digital economies still consider printed books the main pillar of publishing and reading. Digital formats are not its rival; they are its complement.

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