EPA photo
Getting the visa took four months in total: the embassy could not say exactly when it would be issued or what the waiting time depended on. “We have sent your documents - everything is decided in Tehran,” embassy staff replied. At the same time, my requests for interviews and meetings went missing several times.
Finally a call from the embassy: the visa permission had been granted, and work was underway on my itinerary. But they did not say from which date the visa would be opened. Another call: they were giving me a ten-day visa. But the program had been planned for two weeks, I wondered. Don’t worry, the embassy told me, you will easily extend the visa in Iran. On D-day I go to the embassy. They ask me to postpone my departure by about eight days - there are celebrations in Iran, and there will be no one to deal with me and my program...
Meanwhile, my passport got lost somewhere in the back corridors of diplomatic channels. Upset, I allowed myself a tone that is not customary in Iran. And the consulate worker points this out to me. Moreover, he adds: “You can simply not go to Iran. We do not talk in that tone here; maybe you are used to it, but it is not acceptable here. And anyway, no one is waiting for you there!”
Welcome
At Tehran airport, a friendly female border guard, looking approvingly at the strictness of my clothing, said: “Welcome!” Some pilots advised me where to change money. When I handed the cashier two hundred-dollar bills, he smiled and returned one hundred-dollar bill. And a minute later he gave me such a heavy wad of rials that it barely fit into my handbag. “Got it!” I said and started looking for someone holding a sign. Everyone was being met except me. Taxi drivers were standing with dignity by their cars, not at all pestering me with offers to take me anywhere. Well, let’s go.
The Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance, called Ershad, was the place where I hoped to be a long-awaited guest. It was there, as the embassy had assured me, that my itinerary was being drawn up. At the hotel they wrote down Ershad’s address in Persian. A multi-storey building with security at the entrance. The official I am looking for is not known here. A crowd of sympathetic officials decides together who could help me. Two girls who speak excellent English escort me to a hall and seat me by the air conditioner. “We have found what you are looking for!” one tells me soon. They write down the address and see me to a taxi. On the second attempt I managed to reach the office that deals with foreign journalists. They show me that I need the second floor (in our reckoning, the third). Anticipating how I am expected, I go up the stairs.
The correct Mrs. Eghbali throws up her hands: she has no idea about my itinerary, but she will gladly process my accreditation. While I, puzzled, fill out new paperwork, Mrs. Eghbali says there will be no problem extending the visa, and my itinerary will be handled at such-and-such an address. It is, she says, a private agency. But she will put in a good word, and the prices will be moderate. Strange, in Moscow I was not warned about fees. “Everything will be fine, I will call,” the courteous Mrs. Eghbali sees me off.
Having become the happy holder of accreditation, I rushed to this agent. A beautiful office, an attentive secretary, a charming gentleman invites me into his office. It seems, if my memory serves me correctly, he even wanted to shake my hand. But I did not let him. Shaking hands is not customary in Iran; I knew that even in Moscow. They bring a delicious sherbet.
Beaming radiantly, the gentleman explains to me that all foreign journalists use the services of such agencies. It is not that he was expecting me, no, he did not even know of my existence until I walked into his office; he had never seen my itinerary. But he immediately sets about carrying it out. So: $150 a day for interpreter services and $25, well, at most $40, for a car.
No, no, no political topics, no nuclear program!!! Museums, bazaars, conversations with ordinary Iranians - at your service! No, Mrs. Eghbali did not call and did not ask for a discount. Yes, these are our rates. And, by the way, you must pay us for accreditation if we are to handle you. No, there is no point in going back to Ershad; they have already finished work for the day...
It seems the stern consulate worker in Moscow had spoken the plain truth: no one in Iran was waiting for me.
Be vigilant
I stood in the middle of Tehran with no idea where I actually was. The embassy did not answer. There was no city map at newsstands. I could not find one in stationery stores, bookstores, souvenir shops, lamp stores, fireplace supply stores, or pharmacies. Nor was there a map in auto parts stores, of course. I had ended up in the auto parts district and walked through it for an hour. Finally I came across a café. At the café they encouraged me - there is a museum nearby, you will find what you are looking for there.
Museum of Applied Arts. “Do you have maps?” - “Oh, yes!” From a pile of options they chose the most reliable one for me - the names are written in Persian and English. “Would you like a guidebook?” the museum worker serenely suggested. Of course! I chose the thickest one, compiled by a couple of Australians about four years earlier. “And aren’t you going to visit the museum?” The temptation to go to the museum without a guide for $150 was great, but I overcame it.
A park, fountains, shade. I sat down to study my purchase. The guidebook grimly described the country I had arrived in. The book warned me against having conversations about women’s dress codes, about Salman Rushdie, about Islamic laws, about political sympathies and politics in general. Do not photograph government buildings. Do not go to cafés in the company of men who are not my relatives. Do not sit on a bench in an unfamiliar area.
I returned to the hotel (which, by the way, had been recommended at the embassy - “most journalists prefer to stay there”). “No, madam, no one has called for you”...
I personally called all the journalists I knew and didn't know in Iran. Some were at funerals, some were away, some were sick, others were preparing for broadcasts. I was given a bunch of phone numbers, with the warning that officials wouldn't answer anyway if the number was unfamiliar and if Ershad didn't intercede. But Ershad didn't intercede. The circle closed.
The main thing is not to hurry
Out of melancholy, I decided to wander around the Internet space. In this grand hotel there were three giant dining halls, stunning lobbies, vast meeting rooms. A TV with a rich selection of world channels (except American ones). Three computers under a sign saying "Internet" were located... on a stair landing, in a nook of about five square meters.
This was the only place where the air conditioners didn't work. All three computers greeted me with messages saying they were infected with viruses. "Viruses appeared? That's what it says? I guess our antivirus subscription expired," the porter calmly responded. "I'll call tomorrow, or the day after, or after the weekend." And he went off for tea.
An American woman looked into the sweltering room. She had been there for a week on some computer business. To my astonishment, she reacted to the situation with complete serenity: "Don't worry, after the holidays he'll fix everything, everything will be fine." Another woman, an Australian, came to work at another computer. Of course, she also showed no signs of concern. She was transferring something from one flash drive to another. "Don't worry, everything will be fine. Viruses? Yes, they need to be checked!" — and she waved her hand at me.
To jump ahead, I'll say that nothing changed after the first Friday, nor after the second. Perhaps — I understand this now — in the Islamic space it's generally better not to rush, not to worry, and not to make plans. What will be, will be. But then I didn't know that yet. And I was quietly simmering. By the way, my guidebook told me that Iranians don't value time, especially if it's yours.
Sesame Opened
The joyful porter runs up with a phone in his hands: "You have a call, madam!" Sesame opened to me as unexpectedly as it did for Aladdin. He was literally a God-sent person. His name was Idris, he studies at Tehran University. "I was told that you came and that no one is taking care of you," I heard on the line. "I'll try to help you as much as I can. I'll come now."
Thinking that Idris might be the person with whom my program had been coordinated for four months, I cautiously asked him about it.
"No, no," he was surprised. "You called the embassy, they called the cultural center, they called the student council — we're often asked to translate for delegations." How Idris, as a student, manages to arrange meetings, trips, and interviews while also passing his exams, accompanying a Kazakh delegation, and watching the World Cup, I no longer wondered.
"No need to worry!" he said every time we came up against a locked door. Doors opened, people appeared. And they appeared precisely when I was overcome by total apathy and hopelessness. And then I remembered that I needed to extend my visa. "Nothing could be simpler!" Idris said joyfully. And we set off for the police station.
There, a stern old woman told us that she was already very tired. And we needed to talk to that officer over there. And the officer confidentially told us that everything depended only on the old woman. Negotiations went on for another half hour, my passport was passed from hand to hand, each time they started flipping through a calendar and counting on their fingers. That's when they explained to me that in Iran the main calendar is the solar one. To correlate its dates with the European one requires considerable mental effort.
"Yes, you need to extend your visa!" the old woman said with deep satisfaction at the work done. "Not here, but at the ministry. After all, she is a journalist. They extend visas at the main passport office. About seven days are needed for that."
"If only there were no Afghans there!" Idris muttered. I already knew that 2 million refugees live in Iran. If they all came to extend their visas, I'd be in trouble, I thought. There were significantly fewer than two million Afghans at the ministry. Officials hid behind glass, spoke reluctantly. Women shuffled through huge piles of documents and methodically stamped them. Some looked at the calendar and counted on their fingers, like that old woman. In short, work was in full swing. What prevented these people from spending two seconds on me to extend my visa?
"In our country, you can give a bribe and they'll do it for you! Maybe they want money?" I said angrily. And I saw Idris's eyes go wide. It was the only time someone was truly frightened by what I was asking. "If someone tries to do that, they are deported from the country within 24 hours," he said. "They can even put you in prison! Don't even say such words!"
"The boss has come, go quickly!" officials came running to us, who had seen me shed a tear in desperation. "A crying woman, a foreigner – that is simply a nightmare for Persians," said Idris, who had done his best to explain to the police why I was so upset.
After looking at my documents, the boss said sadly: "Even if Allah himself came to ask for a visa for her, I could not extend it without a letter from Ershad." I didn't believe it and decided to ask again, taking out a notepad. "Yes, even if Allah himself," the boss said, shaking his head sadly.
And we went to Ershad again.
The Work Begins
Mrs. Eghbali met us with undisguised curiosity: "You didn't make use of the agency's services? That's why you have to run around yourself!" "But for $150 a day?" I protested. "They didn't want to lower the price, they didn't want to arrange meetings according to my plan. And I can go to museums myself." Mrs. Eghbali began to explain to me at length that she had warned me that I should approach them for such a letter. And Ershad should not be involved in my program under any circumstances.
I swear, last time she didn't say a word about the letters! But it was useless to try to prove anything; precious time was running out. Mrs. Egbaly allowed me to write a petition to her boss so that he would send a letter to the Ministry of Internal Affairs. «He will consider your request and give an answer,» said Mrs. Egbaly. «The answer won't be today?» I asked in horror. «Wait,» she replied.
A secretary came out: «Mr. Khoshbakht asks if you could leave earlier so as not to extend your visa?» Lord, only He kept me from making remarks about this brazen attempt to get rid of me as quickly as possible. «There are no tickets to Moscow!» I found myself saying, especially since it was the absolute truth. «Okay!» And the secretary disappeared.
«Yes, Mr. Khoshbakht has reviewed your application and will send a letter to extend your visa,» the secretary reappeared, radiating goodwill.
Mrs. Egbaly turned her gaze to me: «Can you write down what you want to get, what interviews?» I couldn't believe my ears, but my hand was already writing a list of names on paper. Growing bolder, I asked for some more phone numbers. They gave them to me.
And the work began.
Why Ershad was stringing me along
A couple of days later, serious people came to my hotel, who actually started working on my program. «You see, journalists who come to Iran then write only lies about Iran,» a French journalist told me. «I write a report about how girls were not allowed into a football match. From the material, only one thing remains: Iran, whose president wants to destroy Israel. And two sentences about the event that I described over a page. That's why Ershad doesn't want to help.»
I also remembered a couple of reports by my compatriots. The first focused on two points: how cleverly the correspondent and his friend were drinking vodka in a car while driving around Tehran, and how Iran resembles a «sovok» of the era of stagnation. Another report was entirely devoted to describing how Iranian girls made eyes and sought to give themselves to the author.
Well, I thought, if that's the case, then they're right to charge them 150 dollars a day. But why did they promise me some interviews?
Ahmadinejad: Loves - Loves Not
The taxi driver is taking me, as it turns out, at three times the price to a neighboring street. Literally: instead of one toman ($1), he wants three. He looks like a retired hippie. «Oh, I traveled to Russia under Yeltsin! It was very cheap, now everything is so expensive with you. Under Yeltsin cheap, under Putin - expensive, right?» He not only speaks English, but also remembers a few words of Russian.
I ask in vague terms how he is doing under the new president. «No, I don't like Ahmadinejad. What is he saying? He doesn't understand that a president must speak thoughtfully and in a way that develops contacts with other presidents. We will end up in isolation because of him.»
I ask if he is not afraid to speak so openly about the authorities. I introduce myself as a journalist. He drops the steering wheel, turns to me, thankfully it's a red light. Gesticulating furiously, he explains how little I understand the Iranian character, and at the same time curses a passenger who got out of a neighboring taxi: «What are you doing, how can you behave like that? (This to a passerby). We have a free country - we openly say what we think. (This to me). No, what are you thinking, dear, you scratched my door, who will be responsible, huh? (To a passerby). In our country, no one is persecuted for thoughts or words, and whatever they write about our country is on their conscience. That's why I don't like Ahmadinejad - he gives them food for slander.»
The poorer people are, the more likely they are to support Ahmadinejad. But beyond that, the options can vary. I tried to talk about this without interpreters, using the simple set of Persian words that is enough to understand each other.
Not everyone who supports the president has a good attitude toward the spiritual leader Ayatollah Khomeini. This is expressed as follows: «Mullahs - bad, Qom (the capital of the clergy) - bad, Ahmadinejad - good, he (a hand gesture indicating opposition) - against the mullahs, he is for us (that is, for the people).»
«Ahmadinejad - good, Khomeini - good, the rest - bad,» I talk to the sellers in the fast-food place, waiting while they make me a rather slow hamburger.
«And I voted for Rafsanjani,» a gentleman of intelligent appearance responds in English. «Under him it would be all the same, we would continue our nuclear program, but he would speak cunningly, not bluntly.» «Rafsanjani is a millionaire, his children are millionaires, why do we need such a president?» The polemic heats up.
The same intellectual acts as a translator, while making corrections: «They have been propagandized like this. Ahmadinejad had such propaganda. Rafsanjani is a simple man, his children - yes, the children are millionaires, but he himself would be a good option for Iran.» «We voted for Ahmadinejad because everyone is tired of the mullahs. And millionaire mullahs - what more could we wish for?» That is what those who are tired of the clergy in power think.
I ask, is religion also tiresome? But Iranians don't see the connection. Religion is a norm of life. You pray - that's your business. You don't pray - that's also your business.
One businessman explained to me: «I am a Muslim, I am a Shia, I am an Iranian and I love my country. But I will not get up for prayer along with officials when the call to prayer sounds. That's why I, an excellent manager, will not go into state service. They invite me. But there you need to pray together with everyone at lunchtime. And I don't want to be together with everyone. I know many people - they believe ostentatiously, they don't care how they do their work, their main thing is to place relatives and to have the bosses be satisfied. Why do I need all this?»
Many simple village mullahs are good people. When they say they are tired of mullahs, they mean those in parliament, in power, who broadcast on television. What I like about Ahmadinejad (I did not vote for him, I did not go to the elections at all) is that he speaks the way ordinary people think. But he is alone. He has no team. Except perhaps people in the Foreign Ministry and the Security Council are his like-minded people. He understands that good managers are needed, they exist in Iran, they do not need to be invited from anywhere, but a system has developed in which a good manager cannot get to his place. And Ahmadinejad understands this. That is why he is so sad", - this businessman was quite a young guy when the revolution happened.
He did not fight on the Iraqi front - civil servants went only as volunteers. His children will not serve in the army either. Iranians whose relatives live abroad can officially pay €5,000 and receive an exemption from the army.
Qom
You cannot understand Iran without visiting its religious capital. Qom is the capital of the province. Qom is 120,000 theologians, many academies, centers, madrasahs, the giant Fatima Mosque, to which pilgrimages are made.
An eight-lane highway of European quality leads here from Tehran, laid through a bare mountainous desert. A toll highway, by the way (though the fare on it is cheap. By the way: gasoline in Iran costs 10 cents per liter. There are 3 million cars in Tehran).
Under the Shah's rule, Qom was the main center of opposition. Mullahs and ayatollahs, who were seized by the secret police, died in dungeons. For this, the people paid them with loyalty and devotion. Shia clergy was always in opposition. This is the secret of its popularity and authority. Over the 27 years that have passed since the revolution, many have grown tired of the clergy becoming part of the government. The intelligentsia and bourgeoisie have grown tired of the clergy's speeches and sermons on TV.
Ahmadinejad's success is largely explained by the fact that, unlike his election rival - Rafsanjani - he is a secular, simple man. Not a mullah speaking in a thunderous voice, nor an ayatollah speaking barely audibly.
Even back home, Muslim acquaintances assured me that I would not be able to get into Qom. And if I did get in, then certainly they would not let me into any madrasah. An English-language guidebook bought in Tehran urged not even to try to get into the Fatima Mosque - forbidden for non-Muslims.
The first person we talked to in Qom, Mr. Ghafouri, turned out to be responsible for the relations of Iranian theological centers with Islamic educational institutions in the world. With a fairly high position, he walks on foot and has a very modest house. "I wanted to have two children, but there are already four of them!" he exclaims, looking around his family with a happy glance.
The female part of the family ran off to preen. In the Iranian understanding, this means to put on black chadors and sit next to their mother. Like the grown-ups. Meanwhile, the host of the house is setting the table. The more Islam, the more rights women have. This rule, enshrined by the revolution, originated from here. In Qom it is strictly observed.
The house in which Imam Khomeini lived in Qom before the revolution and exile has been preserved. It differs little from other houses - both in size and construction. This building least of all resembles a museum. In the covered courtyard there is a fountain with red fish. Couples sit by the fountain and drink sherbet. Rare photographs from the time of the revolution are hung on the walls. All the living quarters are offices of Sharia judges, to whom people come for legal consultations. There is also a law library. In the farthest little room there is a small display case with Khomeini's books.
In Qom, all women wear chadors. And the majority of the male population are mullahs. Therefore, the feeling that you have landed on another planet is persistent. During the day the streets are empty and absolutely everything is closed - the heat is such that it is impossible to be in the sun at all.
Read the continuation in the next issue.