Iran has been in the news over the past few days due to the release of Nazanin Zaghari-Ratcliffe and Anoosheh Ashoori. They are both Iranian/British dual nationals, and it seems those with dual national status are at particular risk of arrest and imprisonment in this scary political game of hostage taking.
I am not a dual national. I am British, nevertheless, It was no less scary and I was no less worried when I found myself under interrogation in an Iranian police station.
I visited Iran in 1996, not the best time in Anglo/ Iranian affairs. The Rushdie Affair was a recent memory and Rushdie still had a death sentence on his head. The story of Satanic Verses was still news and remained something the Iranians were very interested in. This was something I was reminded of when entering Iran from Turkey. The Iranian customs man leafing through my passport looked at me with a mischevious glint in his eye and asked “Do you know Salman Rushdie”
I smiled, shook my head, and replied “only from the news.”
I had been in Iran for just under a fortnight. It felt like a privilege to be able to explore such an ancient and isolated land, a country where few British people visit. Indeed, travelling through Iran alone is a solitary experience, a place to meet and interact with local people, which, fortunately, is very easy because the Iranian people are amongst the friendliest and most hospitable people in the world. However, foreign visitors are rare creatures. Iran is not a place to visit if you crave the company of other travellers.
That suited me, I like my own company, I’m not very sociable and I love travelling alone. I enjoy nothing more than immersing myself in the local culture and I love meeting local people.
In fact I was actively avoiding someone. In a country with a handful of visitors, I kept bumping into this incredibly irritating and needy Austrian guy called Peter who seemed determined to be my travel buddy and who followed me around like a lost puppy and who had no respect for my repeated entreatments that I wanted to travel alone. He couldn’t handle the isolation. Too bad for him but not my problem and not a problem I was going to allow spoil my trip. It got so bad that I found myself actually lying to him. I told him I was heading to Tehran and instead bought a ticket for Shiraz, hoping to put an entire country between us. Yes, he was that bad.
So, after a week of exploring the beautiful and historic city of Isfahan, there I was, hiding behind a newspaper in Isfahan’s bus station, ticket in hand, looking forward to seeing Shiraz which hosts the ancient city of Persopolis, the remnants of one of the greatest cities of classical antiquity and a UNESCO recognised site of artistic and historical import.
Then I saw him, Peter, my annoying Austrian friend, the shadow who I just couldn’t shake. He was striding around the bus station purposefully, It was obvious, he was looking for me. My little rouse about heading to Tehran had clearly failed and he was on my trail. I slid down in my chair and held my newspaper higher, hoping he wouldn’t see me.
Half an hour or so passed and my Austrian friend seemed to have given up and left, at least I couldn’t see him anymore. I checked the departure boards My bus would be leaving in two hours. Two hours, then I could relax. I would be glad to be on the bus and rid of this irritation forever.
I smoked in those days and needed a cigarette, the bus station was a no smoking zone so i grabbed my bag and headed for a little outdoor grassy area just outside the station. They had a little stall that sold coffee and sandwiches and a few Iranian families were sitting at picnic tables enjoying the sunshine. Ashtrays on the tables indicated I could smoke
I bought a coffee and carried my little plastic cup to a picnic table near the entrance so I could keep an eye on the departure board and lit a cigarette. Isfahan was a fantastic and beautiful city but I was looking forward to moving on. Shiraz sounded lovely, not only for its historic legacy but, as a student city, it sounded young and vibrant and I was looking forward to meeting some young educated Iranians and perhaps making a few friends.
In the distance I could see a group of revolutionary guards in their dark green uniforms, AK47s hanging from their sides. They are ubiquitous in Iran so I gave their presence no second thought. They were chatting amongst themselves and smoking. One officer in particular seemed very animated and he seemed to be arguing with other officers in brown uniforms and pointing in my direction.
Wait, was he pointing at me? No, why would he be? I shifted in my seat feeling a little uncomfortable, sipped my coffee and smoked my cigarette. Then, one of the group, a man in a brown uniform, he seemed to be some kind of higher officer, broke away from the group, walked over to me and started speaking in Farsi.
His expression was more curious than hostile and he spoke quietly. I wasn’t particularly worried. All my papers were in order. I had a valid visa. I was perfectly respectable and had nothing to hide. I don’t speak a word of Farsi, so I had no idea what he was asking me. I indicated that I didn’t speak the language and I think he understood.. He indicated I follow him, so, grabbing my backback, I stood up and followed him inside.
I followed him through a door into a local police station where various officials looked up from their desks and typewriters and files and regarded me curiously. He walked me past the desks and into a side room where he indicated I sit down, then he turned and left the room.
I sat down and looked around. The room was bare but for a desk and a desk lamp, the kind that you can bend and manoeuvre to adjust the light. A blackboard with some papers pinned to it hung behind the desk and another chair sat next to the desk. The compulsory framed photograph of Khomeini hung on the opposite wall
After what seemed an age but was probably about 15 minutes, my interrogator returned holding a paper file which he opened and read silently while standing at the door.
Then he walked over to me and held out his hand “passport, papers, visa” he said quietly. I handed him my passport and he flicked through its pages. It was new and almost empty so it didn’t take him long to find my visa.
Satisfied that my papers were all in order, he turned to my backpack and indicate I empty it. I pulled out my luggage, clothes, toiletries, camera etc, all the stuff a young backpacker carried,. I remember being a bit embarrassed when I pulled out a particularly stinky bag of dirty laundry which filled the air with the pungent smell of damp, dirty clothes. Disinterestedly he flicked through my wallet then turned to my money belt
Suddenly, he stopped and stared at something with interest. In addition to cash, I had an emergency collection of travellers cheques worth about $1000 dollars stashed in the back of my money belt. He stared at them, seemingly fascinated. He turned them over in his hands and held them up to the light.
They were American Express so they had a picture of the Statue of Liberty and various other symbols of American iconography on them. It had never occurred to me that American Express Travellers Cheques could be considered suspicious but he clearly did.
He lifted one out of the money bag and showed it to me, a look of accusation on his face, like he had discovered some proof of nefarious intent.
“Oh, god, how am I going to explain this” I thought. I spoke no Farsi and here was this revolutionary guard waving a travellers cheque in my face, having seemingly discovered some evidence of secret American espionage.
“Money,” I said, “same as money”. He looked at me uncomprehending. “I don’t speak Farsi” I stammered. “It’s for the bank.”
“Oh, bank” He seemed to understand. Then he left the room taking one of the cheques. Being arrested for espionage aside, my next fear was that he was going to confiscate them. I never feared theft. Iranians are scrupulously honest people, but confiscation out of a misunderstanding of what they were, yeah, that was possible. I could lose $1000.
Eventually, he returned and handed me back the cheque. “Bank” he said again, nodding and seemingly satisfied. I assumed he had taken the cheque to colleagues and finally figured out what they were.
“He pointed to my luggage, which was strewn across the floor and desk, and indicated that I put it all back and I hurried to pack everything away. Then he escorted me out of the police station, back past the staff at their desks, who, again, took the opportunity to look up from their work and stare at their unusual western visitor who had added a bit of variety to their routine.
Finally he took me back to the bus station. I offered him my hand which he shook, then he turned on his heel and left, presumably satisfied that I was who I was, just a scruffy backpacker visiting his country, and not in fact a MI5 spy plotting to overthrow the Iranian state with my American Express travellers cheques
I was a bit shaken. What had just happened? I know the reputation of the Iranian state. I knew how easily that could have gone the other way. It was probably in such a banal manner that many of the dual nationals who today are sitting in prison were initially arrested. I was still a bit unsteady as I took my seat in the bus station. Then I saw him, my supremely annoying Austrian friend, at the other end of the bus terminal, still running around, still, I assumed, searching for me. Normally, after an experience like that, I would have been desperate for some company, desperate to share the story of what had happened and to get someone else’s perspective on what I had just been through.
It is a testimony of just how irritating and annoying Peter from Austria was and of just how badly I wanted to avoid him, that instead of waving to him and trying to get his attention, I hid behind my newspaper and chose to avoid him until my bus arrived and whisked me away.
Notes From Nowhere 