by Stephen Orth
The rooms are full of odds and ends, the largest room being dominated by a ping-pong table on which there is a laminated hand-drawn map showing nearby Internet cafés, food stores, and subway stations. The atmosphere is more like a backpacker hostel than a private apartment. In a small storeroom I discover a camp bed; otherwise, there are only a few cushions there. Without your own camping mats you have to sleep on the stone floor—a point that Reza makes absolutely clear in his profile.
Soon the host comes down, and we sit on garden chairs and chat about couchsurfing in Iran. “Until six months ago I could let guests stay at my parents’ home,” says Reza, who studied electrotechnology in Tehran and philosophy in Toronto. “My mother made strict rules: they had to leave the house by nine in the morning and not return before nine at night—to sleep. Now I have a whole floor for my guests; my parents live on the top floor.”
I ask him about his job.
“I give private English lessons, but apart from that, I don’t work much.” He has plenty of time to organize meetings. A hell of a lot of meetings. Saturdays: Hafiz evening and poetry soiree; Sundays: Ferdowsi meeting; Mondays: recitals of Saadi Shirazi poems; Tuesdays: Reza cooks a vegetarian lunch using his own recipes and holds free English conversation lessons (“We talk about subjects that aren’t usually raised, such as women’s rights or Labor Day”); Wednesdays: Arabic; Thursdays: hiking and collecting litter in the north of Tehran; Fridays: Omar Khayyam poetry. And sometimes Reza takes foreign guests to a school for Afghani refugees or just plays ping-pong with a couple people.
I ask him whether he ever has problems with the authorities because of his many guests and meetings. “Once I was contacted by a couchsurfer from Israel. We had a lively exchange of posts, and I gave him a review. The staff at the Ministry of Tourism found this suspicious. They asked me what it was all about. Actually, they weren’t against couchsurfing, rather they were trying to find a way to make this kind of tourism acceptable to the police. Our idea was to set up a website where the host could register the guest just like hotels do. Then no one would suspect us of concealing foreign spies.” This hasn’t been implemented yet. He has often been hauled in front of the police but is pretty relaxed about it. “I always explain that I like having foreign guests and that seems to be okay.” His certificate as a tourist guide makes things easier. “In Tehran much worse things happen than couchsurfing. There are private orgies and illegal parties. The police are also considerably more interested in secret political events.” I think of Atefeh in Kerman, whose guide license was revoked because she had foreign guests. There seem to be considerable regional differences as to which breaches of law are punished.
It’s Friday, so in the evening I go with Reza to Laleh Park, to the Omar Khayyam event. Some fifteen people have come; many are students. Among them is the twenty-seven-year-old designer Setareh, who contacted me saying that she was interested in my travels because she also dreams of seeing more of her country. We sit in a kind of amphitheater, with people around playing volleyball or badminton. Doing the rounds, each gives a short account of himself or herself. One is an engineer who now studies sociology. Another is an Islamicist who now works in the theater. There is an artist who gave up studying for his economics degree years ago. An author working on a book about deliverance from the cocoon of religious constraints. An agronomist who recently changed to study Western philosophy. And a programmer who would rather be a singer. Of course, he is immediately asked to give us a song, and with a mellow voice he sings an Omar Khayyam poem:
Life’s caravan is hastening on its way;
Brood not on troubles of the coming day,
But fill the wine-cup, ere sweet night be gone,
And snatch a pleasant moment, while you may.1
“Bravo,” says Reza; the rest clap. A crowd of people trying to follow their true passions, instead of fitting the norms. “That happens a lot,” explains Reza. “Social pressure forces young people to pounce on a profession that doesn’t really reflect their interests.”
Setareh is on a slightly different path. She has a bachelor’s degree in graphic design but now studies tourist management because the job prospects are better. After about two hours the introductory round is over, and we stroll a while to the Khayyam statue, to read out some of his poems. The stone likeness of the poet and mathematician is leaning on a thick tome, a bottle of wine at his feet. Sternly, but not without benevolence, he looks down at us. It is truly wonderful to witness the enthusiasm of the students for the 1,900-year-old hedonistic poetry; the language sounds like music. I feel as if I’ve landed in a Persian version of Dead Poets Society.
“The big difference between Khayyam and the Islamic mystics was that the mystics were always thinking of the ‘beyond,’ while the poet was celebrating the ‘here and now,’” says Reza. To put it another way: faced with a decision of whether to have a good wine in this life or seventy-two virgins a little later, Khayyam would always go for the drink.
From: Setareh
Hi, one of my friend is planning a party tomorrow around 5pm. Do you want to come?
To: Setareh
Hi setareh, sounds great, i d love to join you! see you tomorrow!
COUNTRY OF SURPRISES
NEXT MORNING I meet Setareh near Tehran’s bazaar for a tour of the city. She takes me to Mr. Rezai’s poster business, where she often worked. The diversity of motifs is immense: deer in the forest, alpine chalets, Jesus at the Last Supper, squiggly Quran verses, Khomeini at prayer, 3-D pictures of ayatollahs Khomeini and Khamenei, where, depending on the angle, you can see one or the other’s head.
Setareh shows me a London picture, bright red double-decker buses against a black-and-white background. “I did that one,” she says. Somehow the image seems very familiar. “Okay, I found the image on the Internet. It’s an easy job and well paid.” In Iran there are a multitude of very strict laws covering many aspects of life but not copyright. A couple stores farther on there are software programs costing hundreds of dollars in Europe, and here they virtually give them away. Photoshop for $2 and Microsoft Office for $1.50.
“I have a surprise for you,” says Setareh at lunch in a small restaurant serving gheymeh, a delicious meat and lentil dish.
“What?”
“I’ve organized an interview for you. Donya-e-Eqtesad, one of the biggest dailies in the country, wants to do something on your travels.”
“How did you manage that?”
“One of my profs has a contact there; it was easy. When will suit you?”
“Tomorrow afternoon?”
“Okay, I’ll call them.”
The thought of getting to know such a media concern from the inside appeals to me. Of course, I will have to leave out plenty of details so that the story can be printed. As she telephones I notice that my Persian has improved. I understand a number of words and courtesies. And the word Spiegel.
“Tomorrow afternoon’s fine, at five,” she says after hanging up.
“Did you tell them that I work for Der Spiegel?”
“Of course; they were very interested.”
“Did you also tell them I’m writing a book about Iran?”
“Yes, was that wrong?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the interview isn’t such a good idea.”
Before we go to the after-work party in the afternoon, two other strange things happen. On the street a man in his fifties suddenly shouts: “Stephan! Salam! How are you?” I recognize his face, but at first I can’t place it. Then I remember. We met in the border town of Hajij, in the evening after our interrogation. Hajij is 260 miles away, and Tehran has a population of 10 million—an incredible coincidence.
Two hours later Setareh shows me a park, where we want to relax a bit. “Hardly any tourists come here,” she claims. We sit on a bench and promptly see a couple on a blanket some 150 feet away who even from this distance look like foreigners.
“Look, tourists!” I say.
She seems seriously surpri
sed. A few moments later there are some drops of rain, and the couple get up and walk toward us.
“Stephan?!” says one of them.
“Clemens?!” I reply. He is a travel blogger touring with his girlfriend, Annette. We know each other from Hamburg. Hamburg is 2,300 miles away, and Tehran has many parks—another incredible chance meeting. Their plane landed this morning, and they plan to explore Yazd, Shiraz, and Isfahan on a two-week vacation. A coincidence like that just has to be celebrated with a beer, so Setareh invites them to the party this afternoon. We buy a pack of candy as a present, and then she takes us up to an office on the fourth floor of a faceless office building. The company sells security cameras. Five cheerful people between twenty-three and thirty greet us with a poster in the colors of the German flag on which is printed Welcome—Love Stephan Iran—and with the music of Rammstein from an MP3 player.
I rather like the imperative implied in the lines. “Actually it should read Dear Stephan, welcome to Iran,” explains Setareh, as I tell her of its meaning. “It’s much nicer as it is,” I insist.
Two of the people present work here. Now they have called it a day and invited a circle of friends to the office to drink some beer. On the table there are Cheetos and pretzel sticks, on the walls various display models of security cameras, which lend a slightly paranoid atmosphere to the proceedings. “Don’t worry, they’re not on,” says Ashkan, amateur brewer and office worker, on observing my worried look. “Would you like beer or tea?”
His dark beer, served out of a Delster soft drink bottle, is excellent. “Quaffable and full of flavor,” pronounces Annette, who on the basis of her place of birth is the best judge of hop juice of those present—she comes from Franconia. “Every month I make two hundred pints of the stuff. It is a bit stronger than normal beer, about 10 per cent,” says Ashkan. Incidentally, the next party is tomorrow, at the house of Jafar, a bearded engineer who retrained as an architect. He plays piano and is a big fan of the bands Dream Theater and Porcupine Tree. We are all invited.
Suddenly there is a terrific crack, like a shot, and the sound of breaking glass falling to the floor. A windowpane is broken, and some of the slats of the blind are destroyed. For a moment, total silence. Ashkan inspects the damage. “The wind blew a tile from a neighboring roof through the pane,” he says. It is now pretty drafty, so we move the chairs and drinks to an adjoining room. The women disappear to the kitchen and bring back a couple plates of pasta and tomato sauce.
Jafar, the architect, worked for five years for the defense ministry and knows all there is to know about spying and intelligence work. I ask him what he thinks about my forthcoming newspaper interview. “It could be dangerous for you,” he replies. “And for us, as you are coming to us after the interview, and we are having a party. Somebody could follow you.”
Oh yes, I had forgotten: rogue state. There it is again, the fear of getting into trouble with the authorities. I had managed to blank it out. It only came back for one day in Mashhad, when I was applying for my visa. The travel experiences, the happy-go-lucky days on the road, the normality of the daily life with exceptionally warm-hearted people make it easy to forget the dangers.
“You have no idea how professionally the secret services work here, better than in almost any other country in the world. They collect the data of tourists in hotels, bug telephones, and check text messages. Your interview is with one of the biggest newspapers, so a member of intelligence will definitely be listening in. Maybe, directly afterward, you will be invited to another interview. That is not an experience that I would wish on you. Think carefully about it.”
“I don’t think there’s a lot to think about. I’m going to cancel it.”
“That’s very wise,” says Jafar.
HAPPY ENDING
A GALLON OF RAISIN schnapps for ten guests may appear to be a bit extreme, but the dealer didn’t want to sell smaller quantities. Additionally, there are two four-gallon plastic containers of Jafar’s home brew beer in a storage room off his hall. Nobody’s going to die of thirst. My flight to Hamburg is arranged for tomorrow, so this is a kind of leaving party.
A clear segregation of genders takes place between the front door and the living room. The men enter and head, more or less directly, for the schnapps container, and the women disappear to a side room for ten minutes to dispose of their headscarves and coats, only to reappear in spectacular dresses.
Jafar has an expensively decorated penthouse apartment, with a stone floor and a magnificent view of the Milad Tower in the evening light.
Dark gray clouds hang above the skyscrapers of Tehran, and on the horizon you can see the flashes of an approaching thunderstorm. From a rooftop on an adjacent building a man appears to be watching us. I quickly redraw the drapes. A number of images of Jesus and crucifixes are arranged on tables and closets. “I am the only person in the clique who is religious,” says Jafar. “But I’m a Christian, not a Muslim.”
He sits at his Korg electric piano and improvises expertly on a rock song. He hands me an electric guitar, and soon we are all singing Adele and Guns N’ Roses songs and a couple voluptuous-sounding Persian tunes. We drink and dance, men with men (“But we’re not gay!”), women with men, women with women—a relaxed circle of friends. It would be easy to forget where we are if there weren’t moments when a sudden melancholy mood descends on the gathering like a dark cloud.
Ashkan is here with his girlfriend, Nazanin. They have been together a couple years. He says that he dreams of being able, once in his life, to take her to a bar and order her a cocktail—in public, in front of everyone. “Is that too much to ask?” I notice that he is close to tears.
Shortly afterward, Jafar returns to the subject of surveillance. He suggests storing all my photos and text files on his computer. “Just in case they are confiscated at the airport. It would be even better if you trashed all photos of parties, military posts, and nuclear plants.”
While I’m transferring forbidden and innocent pictures onto Jafar’s computer, Setareh sits down next to me. “I want to show you something.” She sets up a VPN connection to access blocked websites and types the search term “Happy Tehran” into YouTube. What you can see on the clip closely resembles what is happening in the living room behind us: six young people, three men and three women, are dancing happily to Pharrell Williams’s upbeat hit, F minor, 160 bpm. On the staircase, in the living room, on the balcony with a view of the Milad Tower. Sometimes alone, sometimes man and woman together. Headgear includes hats and headbands but no veils or headscarves. The song’s lyrics talk about freedom and ask you to join in clapping if you feel that happiness is the truth. These words are an invitation to seize the moment, similar to Omar Khayyam’s: “But fill the wine-cup, ere sweet night be gone, and snatch a pleasant moment, while you may.”1 The poet understood it all nine hundred years ago. At the end of the video clip the names of the “happy” troupe are superimposed, in some cases with last names together with a short message: Happy was an excuse to be happy. We enjoyed every second of making it. Hope it puts a smile on your face.
This simple appeal didn’t please all viewers. “They were all arrested,” says Setareh. The police only took six hours from the beginning of their investigations until the arrests. They were accused of violating Islamic morals and customs, and they spent three days in prison. A few days ago, while I was touring northern Iran, they were freed on bail. Later they were sentenced to six months in prison and ninety-one lashes, albeit on probation. Tehran’s chief of police, Hossein Sajedinia, used the publicity as a warning to Iran’s youth, as if to say: “The police are alert and always ready to act against those of you not conforming to the social norms.” The video was suddenly no longer available on YouTube. “Iran is a country where being ‘happy’ is a crime,” tweeted the well-known journalist Golnaz Esfandiari.
Young people are in the majority. Forty-four million Iranians, 60 per cent of the total population, are under thirty. I have met only a few dozen of the
m. My travels are not a representative survey but encounters with a select group, a group who speaks English, is interested in travel and life in the West, and striving for more freedom. A group who has developed a remarkable routine of breaching laws despite the threat of draconian punishment. Never in the thirty-five years of the Islamic Republic have there been so many of them.
Their social revolution takes place behind closed doors. And in the digital world. Flirting on Viber, putting their headscarves aside on Facebook, posting scandalous clips on YouTube. The Internet allows more freedom than reality does. It is still an escape from the public arena, but at some stage, testing the boundaries online will appeal so much that they can no longer accept being contained offline. “The change in Iran must come peacefully and from within,”2 wrote the Nobel Peace Prize winner Shirin Ebadi.
I have the impression that the young Iranians haven’t yet realized the power potential provided by sheer numbers and that they have a real chance to transform their country.
I go to the window. Behind me the party is in full swing, but I block it out for a short while just to observe the cardboard-box skyline of the city. Tens of thousands of apartment blocks, with shuttered windows and locked doors, visual barriers behind which the craziest and most normal things in the world take place every day. Maybe somewhere a flight dispatcher plays Flight Simulator, a dominatrix binds her slaves, a graphic design teacher visits friends for an evening meal, a fishing boat owner sings a melancholic song, an engineer hops around in the kitchen trying to catch a bird, a war vet plays backgammon, a prince treats himself to another glass of wine, a nature boy sorts saffron blossoms, a pretty student has a date in the living room, a truck driver listens to Modern Talking, an English teacher types into his computer the invitations to the next Dead Poets Society meeting.
Midday tomorrow I will board a plane. TK875 to Istanbul, back to the future, 621 years forward. I will show my German passport, check my backpack, and drink my last bottle of Delster. Then I’m out, back to a world where no one has to be afraid of being arrested for a trifle, where no one is forced to follow a particular religion, where normality isn’t a game of hide-and-seek.