The recent distressing events in Iran remind me of working there in 1969, 10 years before revolutionaries took over the American embassy and held the staff hostage.

I’m still mystified about why my employer, the United Nations Industrial Development Organization, sent me, a lowly editor, to discuss an agreement with the Ministry of the Economy to participate in a month-long international trade fair in Tehran. My only related experience had been serving as a press officer and general assistant at a similar fair in Budapest.

My primary Iranian contacts were two former UNIDO employees, one a friend named Ali. They guided me through hours of meetings (all in English) on well-made plans. My clearest memory is of lunch at a restaurant that served kabobs—Iran’s are the best—with rice, saffron, a yogurt drink, and Pepsi (a mark of American influence in a Coke-dominated world).

A free afternoon included a visit to Ali’s home in a neat suburban neighborhood. It was a charming traditional-style home—reminding me of contemporary adobe homes in New Mexico—with a lovely little garden within the compound walls. It blended tradition with modern furniture and conveniences and was cool despite the heat outside. As I recall, Ali’s Iowa-born wife served cookies with hot tea and cold Pepsi.

The city of three (now 10) million sprawled out over the flatlands and extended into the foothills. I remember large new monuments, old mosques with beautiful tiled domes, and street stands loaded with melons and pistachios. Traffic on the wide downtown streets was dense and undisciplined. Most cars were Iranian-made sedans, an indication of sophisticated manufacturing. The urban neighborhood around my hotel looked much like a Midwestern city, and a majority of the people wore “European” clothes. I also noticed stylish dresses partially hidden under loosely draped black chadors (long cloaks), a style that brought arrest and death in custody to a young woman a few years ago.

My limited shopping gave me hints of the rich Persian heritage. I admired a plethora of carpets but limited my buying to jewelry and other small items with hand-painted reproductions of historic art. I also chose several tile squares in classic geometric patterns (typical in mosques). The tiles adorned my dining room table, and held hot dishes, for decades. I returned to Vienna determined to research Iran’s history and culture before I returned for the fair. And, of course, I found an English-to-Farsi phrase book so I could learn key words and expressions.

Everyone I encountered that brief trip spoke English. Everyone was friendly. I saw no signs of hostility toward the United States or toward me though, in my ignorance, I broke custom by wearing a sleeveless dress.

During the trade fair months later, I shared workspace and duties with congenial and competent Iranian men and women, including a young Baha’i couple who confided that their faith put them at a disadvantage in jobhunting. Since the revolution, thousands of followers of that peaceful, egalitarian religion have faced limited educational and employment opportunities, imprisonment, and death. I’ve often wondered if the couple survived.

In work and social situations, I heard complaints about Shah Mohammed Reza Pahlavi not moving fast enough to change the old ways. Some credited Empress Farah, his young, well-educated third wife, with pushing for more rights for women. Certainly Iran appeared to be ahead of most other Middle East countries I had visited. Many Iranians, including members of the military, had attended American universities or received advanced training here. Most spoke of the United States with affection but without desire to leave Iran.

I don’t remember anyone grousing about the United States undermining Iran’s elected leader to put the more malleable shah on the Peacock Throne in 1953, an act experts say contributed to the 1979 revolution.

One weekend, the Ministry arranged for the UNIDO staff to go to Isfahan, for centuries a great trade and cultural center called “Half the World.” You see Isfahan in the news now because Iran has stored uranium deep underground nearby. A driver took us across mostly desert terrain and into the city’s greenery. (Any time we had a driver, he would ignore the women and ask the man for instructions.) We stayed in a centuries-old caravanseri—a motel for caravans. Built in a high-walled, gated square, it had dark but comfortable guestrooms around the courtyard where camels and their precious loads used to spend the night.

We spent Saturday afternoon in Maidan-i-Shah (Maidan Imam), one of the world’s largest and most beautiful squares (actually a rectangle). From the open walkway in front of the second-floor shops, we had a wonderful view of the maidan and its two magnificent mosques. their domes gleaming in the sun. (For visuals, look up the maidan and its mosques on YouTube.)

My friend/colleague, a Jewish Austrian, and I cautiously approached the busier one. We had worn skirts, jackets, and scarves to comply with dress code, and we joined others in leaving our shoes outside. Keeping quiet and inobtrusive as we would in cathedrals, we were ignored or welcomed with nods.

The maidan’s assorted shops, several featuring artisans, were interesting, but the grand bazaar at one end was the major attraction for foreign and Iranian tourists. For me, the little shops and open booths resembled a living museum more than a mall. English was less common here than in Tehran.

I returned to Iran as a tourist a year later. From the time I landed at the Tehran airport, I saw stares verging on glares rather than the expected smiles on numerous faces. The serious change of attitude toward Americans came home to me in Isfahan when I approached the mosque. I sensed such hostility that I put my shoes back on and went to the more welcoming bazaar.

I don’t know whether a specific incident or American policy prompted the new antipathy. Perhaps Islamic conservatives began to focus on, and fear, the influential United States and blame it for the shah’s “western” policies. I wasn’t surprised when Iranians drove out the shah, but I was shocked by the attack on our embassy in 1979 and the continued casting of Iran’s former friend as the Great Satan.

For years I hoped for substantial reforms in Iran and a reconciliation with the United States. With memories of Iranians I met and the beauties I saw in 1969 flooding back, each day I dread the news of more death and destruction. On both sides. In this war, I fear, everyone loses. I hope—against reason?—that those controlling the negotiations acquire the good sense to work out a mutually beneficial peace.

—Carolyn Mulford