Few events in modern history have arrived more unexpectedly than the 1979 Iranian revolution. In the United States, agencies of observation and prognostication, including academic circles, newsgroups, and the Central Intelligence Agency, were caught almost entirely by surprise. The Soviet Union was equally unprepared. Daily clashes between security forces and Iranian demonstrators caused the whole country to spiral into a state of madness. In 1978, riots became horrifically common, and hundreds were killed by militant forces.
Those living in Iran, such as Nariman Farvardin, born to a small family in a poor, remote town in Iran, had better foresight than Western spectators on the impending chaos and devastation. “For about a year and a half prior to the revolution, the whole country came to its knees through daily demonstrations and strikes and, toward the end, a lot of violence,” Farvardin said in an interview.
College studies
At the time, Farvardin had started his senior year of college. He was determined to finish his undergraduate studies in Iran, earn his Master’s and Ph.D. in the United States, and eventually become a university professor. But frequent clashes between students and armed soldiers — some brawls had turned deadly — led to the inevitable shutdown of his university and paused his undergraduate studies. Nobody could enter his campus, as it was barricaded by armored vehicles and tanks, and quickly completing his degree in Iran would prove impossible.
One evening in October 1978, midway through what would have been the Fall semester and only three weeks after the Iranian government declared martial law in Tehran and 11 other cities, Farvardin’s father called him. As Farvardin remembers, “He told me, ‘Son, you are not staying in this country anymore.’”
Farvardin, who wanted to study somewhere in California, applied to four American universities: Stanford, next to Palo Alto; U.C.L.A., in Los Angeles; U.C. Berkeley, across the river from San Francisco; and Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, in Troy, New York. All had admitted him into their graduate programs, but — with growing tensions in Iran, his family’s wish for him to travel to America immediately, and incomplete undergraduate studies — he had around two months to enroll in an American undergraduate program. That Fall of 1978, he asked the four universities, which had already accepted him for an advanced program, to enroll him as an undergraduate transfer student rather than as a graduate student.
“All four of them said yes,” Farvardin said, “but U.C.L.A., U.C. Berkeley, and Stanford said that if you want to come as a transfer student, we only accept transfer students once a year, and that was Fall of 1979. My dad said, ‘Don’t wait until next fall, because a lot of bad things could happen.’”
R.P.I., however, said yes, he can transfer and — more importantly — start in January. “That’s why I decided to attend R.P.I.,” he said. “It was that simple.”
On January 5, 1979, two weeks after about 1.5 million people demonstrated in peaceful marches in Tehran and other major Iranian cities, Farvardin, with $3,000 in his pocket and two suitcases in hand, arrived to the United States and headed to Troy, New York, roughly three hours north of New York City.
Troy, the home of R.P.I. and 56,638 people according to 1979 U.S. Census records, was known by locals as the “Collar City” for its rich history in shirt, collar, and textile production. The western edge of Troy, along the Hudson River, is flat. Further east, the city slopes to higher terrain and hills of forestry. Cultural events were limited to annual traditions, including Flag Day, Troy Turkey Trot, and other family-friendly affairs. The pastoral reality of R.P.I. was far from Farvardin’s original dreams of California life. (“If I knew where R.P.I. was located, I would have never gone there,” he said.)
Shortly after school began, he took his undergraduate transcript to his academic advisor to determine which courses he needed to take to get a bachelor’s degree from R.P.I. It appeared that Farvardin had satisfied all technical requirements from his time in Iran but still needed credits in the humanities and social sciences.
“I remember I took Psychology 101, and it was the toughest course of my entire life,” Farvardin recalled. Taking a social science course as someone who couldn’t speak English was much more difficult than taking, say, circuit theory, he added. “Fortunately, I was very smart. R.P.I. allowed us to take two courses on a pass or fail basis. I took that course pass/fail, and I had passed. But I think I got it by the skin of my teeth.”
By August, Farvardin had satisfied all requirements to earn his bachelor’s degree. (His other humanities courses included Daoism and pottery.) But difficulties still made the transition into American life troubling. Having no friends stateside, limited ability to communicate with others, constant reminders that his country and family were in peril, and little money — the $3,000 lasted him from January to August — he felt challenged by the academic rigor and cultural shock of America. “That first year was hell,” he said, with a bleak look in his eyes. “It was really, really, really tough.”
Becoming a professor
As planned, between 1979 and 1983, Farvardin earned his master’s and Ph.D. in Electrical Engineering from R.P.I. Within the next year, he secured a job at the University of Maryland as an assistant professor. He rose quickly through the ranks after arriving at Maryland, eventually being offered the chair of the Department of Electrical and Computer Engineering in 1994.
Administrative work suited him and, when the dean of the engineering school left six years later, Bill Destler, provost at Maryland at the time, chose Farvardin to fill the role because of his dedication to teaching, integrity, and high personal standards.
“He’s basically got it all,” Destler told The Diamondback, the Maryland student newspaper. “I’ve known him for many years, and my relationship with Nariman has been one of the closest I’ve had at the university, one of the most rewarding. I’ve learned from him and he’s learned from me, and you can’t ask for more than that.”
Creating a culture of entrepreneurship in the Washington, D.C. area and, more specifically, at Maryland, was critical for Farvardin during his tenure as dean.
But Farvardin was not one to idly preach about entrepreneurship. In 2001, he, along with three of his Ph.D. students, founded a company called Zagros Network. They focused on semiconductor technology to make network hardware faster and more efficient. The company, which secured $6.3 million in first-round venture funding, was Farvardin’s way to promote technological advancements and foster an entrepreneurial spirit at Maryland. He served as chair of the company while still remaining in his post as dean.
Though deans rarely taught courses, Farvardin still ran a first-year engineering class called “Dialogue with the Dean” and regularly shared his entrepreneurial message. The Washington, D.C. area, he said at one class, once had its own culture of entrepreneurship, one that led to its own technology boom in the 1990s. But what Washington lacked was the technical brilliance and willingness to take extreme risks, and reforming this apparent issue in culture was Farvardin’s next step as dean.
Farvardin’s vision of Maryland’s engineering school transforming academic research into commercial enterprises — which he did himself with Zagros — led him to craft an ambitious plan to turn the engineering school into an engine of cultural change. His goal was to fill students with the “fire in the gut,” as he called it, to take ideas from their schooling and build companies.
His efforts were adopted slowly in the academic culture at Maryland. “There was initially a certain amount of caution at the beginning. I think there was a wait-and-see attitude that many people had,” said Herbert Rabin, Associate Dean of the College of Engineering at Maryland, to The Washington Post. “Now they actually see that it works, and it’s considered very much part of the landscape.”
In 2003, shortly after getting married to his wife Hoveida Farvardin, his impressive feats as an academic, dean, and entrepreneur inspired The Washington Post to include him in their list of “Five to Watch in 2003.” “All in the same year, he decided to get married, was offered the position of dean, and started his own company,” said Tom Scholl, a venture capitalist in Zagros, to The Washington Post. “The amazing thing about Nariman is that tremendous energy. It’s just mind-boggling.”
His frenetic pace and dedication to his work greatly benefited the Maryland engineering school, but, describing himself as “obsessed with work,” it often presented challenges to his wife Hoveida Farvardin, who is also an engineer and an Iranian immigrant.
“It’s a challenge [to find time]. Sometimes we really need to sit down next to each other in front of our schedules to find a weekend when we can go away or just take a night to go to a movie,” she told The Diamondback in October 2003. “But he still surprises me when I do not expect it at all. It’s the romantic side of him. He hides flowers in the trunk and gives them to me at the end of the night or something.”
Coming to the Mile-Square City
In 2011, while serving as provost at Maryland, a rockier, more severe situation was happening up north at Stevens Institute of Technology. A civil suit filed by the state attorney general questioned the $1.1 million salary of Harold J. Raveché, the president of Stevens at the time, and accused the university of maintaining different sets of books to hide its shaky fiscal state. The suit also said the school had given Raveché $1.8 million in illegal, low-interest loans for vacation homes.
Mired in controversy, Raveché was removed from his role as president and Farvardin was offered the position. He had to have a serious conversation with his wife to see if this opportunity was one he could take. After all, she had a successful career in Washington, D.C., where she is an executive for the World Bank. If Farvardin took the position, she would commute to and from Washington to see her husband while maintaining her career.
“I remember we had a good discussion about this, and I told my wife, ‘Are you comfortable doing this?’ She really gave it serious thought, and she said, ‘I’m completely ready to do it,’” he said. “The fact that my wife had to accept this level of commute was a conscious decision that was not easy to make.”
Farvardin was appointed to help Stevens turn the corner on “an embarrassing period in which its former president’s salary and the financial stewardship of the college, in Hoboken, N.J., came under harsh scrutiny,” said The New York Times in a 2011 clip about his presidential appointment.
Farvardin hoped to position Stevens to address some of the most pressing problems confronting the world, like climate change, cybersecurity, and the energy crisis. Stevens, he said, “has the ability and the responsibility to marshal its intellectual resources to understand these big problems” and devise solutions.
Moving to Hoboken was not a tough transition for Farvardin. His new home, Hoxie House, which has traditionally been the residence for Stevens’ presidents, let him have an incredible change in lifestyle. No longer did he have to drive, as was the custom for suburban Maryland living. Instead, he had the option to walk anywhere and everywhere.
“The fact that our home is in the middle of campus, it creates a very different dynamic. On the one hand, access to work cannot be easier. On the other hand, access to privacy could not be more difficult,” he said.
When walking around campus, Farvardin is conscious of his outfit choices and rarely picks shorts, even in summer. He was worried, when he first moved into Hoxie House, that people would knock on his door with all kinds of requests or general tomfoolery. “None of that happened,” he said. “People have been absolutely terrific.”
He walks to get his haircut. He doesn’t venture to Hoboken restaurants too often but, when he does, prefers Amanda’s. He shops for groceries locally; Aspen Marketplace on Washington Street is his favorite. Walking his dog around campus usually invites students to say hello or ask about Martini.
“Students like Martini a lot more than they like me,” said Farvardin. “I think Martini is more well known than I am.”
“Two years ago, we had Accepted Students Weekend,” he said, while holding back a giggle. “During the activities of the day, I brought Martini outside, said hello to families — some wanted to pet him. Martini is a cute, little dog. In that one day, I met hundreds of people and, of course, you cannot remember each of these people. Two to three months later, it was move-in day, and I was walking around campus. A lady approached me, and clearly she was the mother of a student moving in. She came up and said, ‘How’s Whiskey?’”
Soon after arriving, Farvardin, as he did at Maryland, proposed and enacted a strategic plan that has guided Stevens. From the start, sweeping changes, including creating the Gateway building, the University Towers, and increasing undergraduate enrollment, were all part of his vision. His ambitious dream of a better Stevens is based on the rationale that all the goals would fuel local and global economies, improve the university’s reputation, strengthen Stevens’ financial profile, and address the increasing demand for STEM education.
Farvardin’s legacy at Stevens is still being written. He’s been here for a tad more than eight years and, so far, has accomplished goals listed for himself. He expects and hopes to remain at Stevens for years to come.
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