by Lois Pryce
10
I Fought the Law
I HAD BEEN in Tehran for over a week and it was time to hit the road once again. I was not yet halfway through my journey to Shiraz and although I had managed to extend my visa, the bulk of my miles were still ahead of me. Omid and Tala offered to escort me out of Tehran. Not wanting to put them to any trouble, I protested, part ta’arof, part English politeness, but was secretly relieved when they insisted. The route across town to the start of the main southbound road out of the city was complicated and although travelling in convoy would have me sitting in miles of traffic jams rather than ducking and weaving through the gaps, it would make the navigation simpler, easing me back into the routine. And I was reluctant to say goodbye to these dear friends who had taken such good care of me; I wanted to squeeze out every last minute of our time together.
The sun was baking the streets by mid morning, the density of traffic and pollution already at oppressive levels. Overheated and uncomfortable, wrapped up in my Islamic motorcycling get-up, I longed for the open road and the clean desert air that awaited me beyond Tehran. In any other country, it would have been a jeans and T-shirt day, but this was only an option for the men who whizzed past me on their mopeds, cigarettes and mobile phones in hand. Some of the older men sported suits or formal jackets on their motorbikes, looking incongruously smart amongst the chaos of their surroundings. Tehran had a relatively new and efficient Metro system as well as the battered public buses, antiquated and segregated, and an endless stream of savaari taxis that plied regular routes. But most Tehranis preferred to run the gauntlet in their own wheels, whether it was the ubiquitous Paykans, the Iranian version of the 1960s Hillman Hunter, or the latest SUVs, shipped in from Dubai with an eye-watering one hundred per cent customs duty. To tackle the Tehranis’ love affair with the car, the authorities had introduced a system whereby only certain numbered plates could enter the city centre on certain days, but it made little difference – people just bought a second vehicle. As I plunged into this anarchy for the last time, eyes pinned on Omid’s rear bumper in front, I felt a pang of sadness about leaving Tehran. I had become strangely fond of the city, with its layer upon layer of intrigue, double dealing and whispered stories. It was dirty, noisy and chaotic but it was also subversive, creative and truly alive, a testament to human ingenuity and the Iranian spirit.
The midday heat was rising off the tarmac as we negotiated Tehran’s jungle of freeways. I noticed a few cars and small groups of people had pulled over on the grassy motorway junctions and verges, and assumed their cars had overheated, but then realised I was mistaken. I had seen similar scenes in the more rural areas in the north of the country, but I hadn’t expected to see the same phenomenon here in the capital. Iranians had clearly not been schooled in the same motorway reverence that is drummed into us in the West, and these ‘breakdowns’ were in fact people having picnics – on the central reservations, roundabouts and hard shoulders. Sometimes it was just a couple of guys lounging on the grass smoking a qalyān, but as lunchtime approached whole families emerged, laying out rugs and tablecloths, brewing tea and breaking open the Tupperware. In my slightly anxious state it was reassuring to see these gentle scenes, the simple pleasures of life being enacted with such contentment amongst the seething madness of Tehran’s streets. I recalled Freya Stark remarking on the ‘charming trait’ that everyone she met in Persia understood the pleasures of a picnic; it was something that connected deeply with the British psyche. As I surged in front of a dented Paykan that was trying to squeeze in between me and Omid, I thought of a line from one of Hafez’s poems: ‘Bring all the bottles of wine you own to this divine table – the earth we share’. The Islamic Revolution may have put paid to that idea being taken literally, but the sentiment lived on throughout Iran and this shared Anglo-Iranian love of picnicking gave me a much needed flush of optimism and a warm feeling about the rest of my trip. All different, all relative.
Then the car drove into me. It was a gentle but definite bump against my rear wheel. I glanced over my shoulder briefly but I was so focussed on keeping Omid in my sights that I didn’t give it much thought. All part of the rough and tumble of Tehran traffic, where nobody gives anybody an inch. The four lanes were gridlocked, everyone bumper to bumper, horns honking, radios blasting out new music and old propaganda, the midday heat rising off the tarmac, shimmering between the cars, noxious gases and fumes lying heavy in the hot air. Street sellers dodging through the gaps, hawking chewing gum, flowers and fruit, pedestrians taking their chances with typical Tehrani fatalism. Then it happened again; the car behind rolled into the back of me, bumping against my back wheel and jolting me forward. And a third time. This time I felt some resistance as I tried to move forward and I realised that my number plate had become caught under the front bumper of the car. Now I felt slightly annoyed. I looked behind, unable to see the car’s occupants clearly through the tinted windscreen, so I made waving and pointing motions. There was no response. I was entangled with their car and if I pulled away I would rip my licence plate off.
Flicking down my sidestand and dismounting from the bike, I went to the driver’s window to explain my predicament, assuming they had been careless, probably distracted on the phone. The car was a big, solid Mercedes, and when the electric window made its steady descent it revealed four middle-aged men with neatly trimmed beards in open-necked shirts and suit jackets. They were laughing, the two in the back seat sprawled across the leather seats, condescension and arrogance oozing from every pore. I had spent enough time in Tehran now to have gained some sense of the subtleties and signifiers of people’s appearance, and I knew immediately and instinctively that these men were not on my side.
Omid, who had been keeping an eye on me in his rear-view mirror, was out of his car and next to me right away.
‘What’s happened? Are you OK?’
The men were still laughing, heads cocked back, legs spread wide, confident and untouchable. Omid spoke to them in Persian as I released my bike and checked for any damage.
‘They’re saying that it was your fault,’ said Omid, ‘that you rolled your bike backwards into their car. Fucking bullshit,’ he muttered as an aside.
It was the most pathetic school-yard defence, it wasn’t even worth engaging in the debate. I could barely touch the ground with my tiptoes, so the idea that I could forcibly push my loaded bike backwards was just silly and we all knew it. The men were calling out of the window, words I didn’t understand, but their tone was taunting. Omid was in there like a bulldog, snarling back at them. Then everything escalated. All the men were out of the car, crowding around him, posturing, threatening, everyone shouting, ten arms waving in the air, index fingers jabbing at chests. I didn’t need to understand Persian. They were pointing at me, sneering, angry and dismissive.
Omid turned to me. ‘I know who these guys are,’ he said, ‘they’re security service.’ He came closer, eyes flashing with fury, whispering. ‘These fuckers, I know from the rings they’re wearing, see those signet rings. Look, with the inscription from the Quran on them!’
I caught a glimpse of their hands, big lumps of gold, the Quranic lettering glinting in the midday sun. This was a new layer of detail to the dress code, one that I would be watching out for in future.
‘I know these bastards!’ Omid said under his breath. ‘They’re basiji commanders, they report to the Revolutionary Guards. These are Ahmadinejad’s men!’
By now everyone was out of their cars to watch the spectacle. The street sellers had stopped their hawking, passers-by on the pavement had propped their bicycles up against the railing, forming an audience, and women were shouting messages of support for me from their cars. Even Tala, normally such a gentle, soothing presence, had steamed in. She was shouting at the men too. They turned on her now, harassing her about her headscarf not being worn correctly. This was the last straw for Omid, and I thought a fight was about to break out. Tala turned to me and gripped my arm, her beautiful face
riven with anger and fear.
‘Oh Lois! Do you see? Do you understand? This is why we have to leave this country, this is why we must get out of Iran! I hate this place, I hate these people!’
The crawling traffic had come to a standstill as we blocked the lane; some of the drivers had abandoned their cars, joining in, some just watching. The heat was merciless but I couldn’t remove my helmet and risk exposing my hair, not in front of these men. I tried to remain calm, but my heart was racing, adrenalin coursing through my body. Omid was alternating between shouting at the men and translating their accusations.
‘They’re saying they’re security … you damaged their car. They’re saying … call the police if we want, or they will! They’re going to call the police on you!’
I sat motionless on the bike, trying to still my heart and breath while Tala looked as though she was about to burst into tears.
Then Omid exploded. ‘We’ll fuck them up! Fucking Islamists!’
The traffic roared past on the other side of the freeway, horns blasting non-stop, shouting voices I couldn’t understand all around me; fear and anger, a barrage of white noise.
‘We’ll fuck them up!’ Omid’s voice cut through the racket.
He turned back to the men and in a fast and furious stream of Persian, I heard him mention the name of his friend who we had met yesterday, the top guy in the security services. The mood changed instantly, from shouty playground bullying to something more sinister and threatening, the men’s eyes narrowing, teeth bared, nose to nose. Omid took his phone out of his pocket, ready to make the call. Suddenly they were trying to placate him, their voices now unctuous and wheedling.
Perturbed by this unexpected turn of events, the most aggressive of the men marched over to me and jabbed a finger in my face. He was attempting to speak English.
‘You damage my car! You drive into me! Yes?’
He was trying to force a confession out of me. He used intimidation, then he tried cajoling, then back to the threats. Ah, so this is how it happens, this is how they do it. I remained silent. I stared at his face, looking into his eyes, feeling the full force of his loathing; his entire demeanour and tone emanated disgust, disgust at me and everything I represented. He despised me. It occurred to me that I felt exactly the same about him. If this trip was supposed to be an exercise in cultural understanding, of open-mindedness and trying to see the world from another’s viewpoint, then right now I was failing. But I didn’t care. Until now I had kept quiet, remained calm and purposely not engaged with the situation. But now I felt a shift inside me, a physical sensation of something rising up, boiling over. Ha! Mr Basiji, I didn’t grow up in 1980s anarcho Bristol for nothing! My anti-establishment blood runs deep. An ingrained, lifelong mistrust of authority and hatred of bullies in uniform found its way to the surface right there on the baking streets of Tehran. I could not have stopped myself if I tried. And I didn’t want to.
So I looked him in the eye and told him to fuck off.
No matter where you are in the world and what language you speak, everyone understands this instruction and sure enough he flinched and recoiled. For a moment he was lost for words; I watched the shock pass over his face, before it quickly turned to confusion, then fury. I wondered if a white western woman had ever spoken to him like this. I was enjoying myself now. The genie was out of the bottle.
‘Fuck you! You’re fucking lying and you know it.’
The others were staring now too, silenced.
‘Fuck you! You drove into me on purpose, now why don’t you just fuck off and leave me alone!’
His shock was replaced by anger, real fury now. The threats were in Persian and they were coming thick and fast.
Omid rushed to my side, trying to calm me down. There was a miniature crisis meeting between the men and Omid, heads together, shooting me glances as if I was some hysterical banshee that needed to be brought under control. I sensed they were telling Omid to take command of his unruly guest. They threw patronising glances my way, as if they had decided it was my time of the month.
‘OK, OK. We all need to calm down,’ Omid said quietly at my side. ‘They’re going to let it go, they’re going to drop it. Let’s just take it easy, let’s get out of here.’
They couldn’t back down that easily, so there was some more muttering and snarled, underhand threats, making out they’d done me a favour by letting me off my crime. I heard Omid mention the name of his friend again and eventually the men skulked back to their car, pride wounded but still seeping arrogance, tossing insults our way as they slammed the car doors. The crowd dissipated gradually, with some of the women showing their support with pats on the arm and knowing smiles and thumbs-ups from their cars. No doubt many of them had suffered this Gestapo-style intimidation themselves over the years; it was all part of life in the Islamic Republic. The traffic jam began its steady grind back to the normal Tehran speed and I fired up the bike and followed Omid and Tala down a side street. Omid bought us all cold cans of Zamzam and we stood on the pavement, simmering down, Omid repeating his pledge, ‘I’m going to fuck them up.’
Half an hour later Omid and Tala deposited me at the start of Highway 7, the Persian Gulf Highway and the fastest route through the southern outskirts of Tehran towards Kashan, my next stop. Before we said our goodbyes, Omid checked his phone for messages.
‘Ha! I sent their licence plate to my friend in the security services. He just sent me a message, he says he’s tracked them down and they have made an official apology to you. Oh, and he’s confiscated their car.’
He grinned. I felt bad for Omid. He had made such efforts to ease my passage through Iran, looking after my every need, translating for me, ferrying me around Tehran, putting me in touch with his friends across the country, all way beyond the call of duty. But as ever, he saw the amusing side.
‘Well, at least you can say you’ve had an authentic Iranian experience,’ he said, laughing, as he and Tala bade me farewell at the toll booth.
We had made our clandestine hugs in the privacy of their home before we set off, so we waved each other goodbye with promises of future plans and meetings. There was a little lump in my throat as I watched their car turn around and disappear, swallowed up in the stream of Tehran-bound traffic.
I relived the incident over and over as I headed south. The riding was easy, a wide empty road with nothing much of note among the barren wasteland except scrappy industrial estates and unappealing truck stops. I was grateful for the opportunity to ride in a slightly mindless fashion, but I could not escape my unease. I feared that telling a member of Iran’s security services to fuck off was not my wisest move, and as I moved into more remote country, my paranoia took hold. I was pretty certain I was the only British female on a UK-registered motorcycle in Iran at that moment. I wouldn’t be hard to find with an APB to all checkpoints and patrols within a hundred miles of Tehran. The Basij commanders reported directly to the Revolutionary Guards, and they certainly had the authority and means to organise that; their power was far-reaching and, frankly, terrifying.
The very idea of a government-organised militia was alien and intimidating to me, coming from a society where the army and police force have clearly defined roles. In Iran the grassroots militia, the Basij and the more official Revolutionary Guards occupy a murky position somewhere between the two, and the latter do what it says on the tin – they guard the ideals of the regime, their full title being the Army of the Guardians of the Islamic Revolution. But in the years since the revolution, and following the Guards’ involvement in the Iran–Iraq War of the 1980s, their numbers had swelled to over 125,000 troops across ground, air and sea, and under the last government, their powers had extended into social, economic and political areas of Iranian life.
This is what Omid had meant when he had shouted ‘These are Ahmadinejad’s men!’ Under the former president’s hardline rule, the Revolutionary Guards’ powers had spread yet further into all aspects of Iranian society. They
had their own media division, they owned and controlled universities, construction and engineering companies, they provided elite protection for top clerics and security at Iran’s nuclear sites, trained troops in Lebanon and Syria and, of course, were involved in crushing any deviant uprisings at home. The Guards report directly to the Supreme Leader and their logo – a bold, geometric design comprising a fist grasping a machine gun in front of a globe and a sheaf of wheat, managing to combine Nazi terror with Communist puritanism – is enough to strike a chill into the heart of any liberal westerner. Only the Quranic motto gives it away as Islamic – ‘Prepare against them what force you can’. They are untouchable. It’s no wonder they thought it would be fun to mess with me in the traffic jam. Discovering that I was travelling in convoy with a man who had their boss’s phone number on speed dial must have really spoiled their fun.
Among the public the general view of the lower-ranking Basij tended towards a wary but dismissive loathing: a bunch of young boys given a uniform and the authority to harass their neighbours at will did not seem to worry the average Iranian; maybe they had got used to their presence, like the persistent irritant of a buzzing fly. The real fear was reserved for the Revolutionary Guards, whose power was most definitely genuine and growing all the time. But their image as moral guardians was considered a farce. Despite their official task of upholding Islamic values, their less official ventures had gained them a reputation as a corrupt organisation profiteering from decidedly un-Islamic activities including the smuggling of fuel, booze and drugs and running prostitution rings. In 2008, when General Reza Zarei, a former Guards brigadier turned police chief in charge of Iran’s anti-vice campaign, was arrested in a Tehran brothel with six naked women, the Tehranis were amused rather than shocked. From the conversations I had had with men and women of all ages and backgrounds during my journey, the Revolutionary Guards’ suspect operations were common knowledge; a bust in a brothel or a truckload of booze coming over the border on their ticket was simply business as usual. Blind eyes were turned by all, but you crossed the Revolutionary Guards at your peril.