‘Where do you come from?’ before even ‘Salam’ (good day): this is the way Iranians approach foreign people in the street, on public transport, all the time. If we should linger on the way somewhere for a few minutes, the unavoidable question ‘what do you think about Iran?’ comes up for discussion.

A lot of Iranians are English speakers or German speakers. This facilitated contact. Educated and cultured, lots of them have spent a few years abroad and are really open to the outside world. We understood that the perception about Iran abroad bothers them. They love their country and wanted to give us their version: ‘what the occidental media say about Iran is not the truth, we are not terrorists’. About their president who is widely talked about: ‘He is an agitator, a liar’.

Our cautious silence did not prevent people telling us their little secrets. Mahmoud*, who picked us up hitchhiking, was coming back from his honeymoon. He was really proud to be in love with his wife, when he showed us her veil: ‘I don’t like that but they force us’. And in fact, not all the women wear the veil in a voluntary way. In Bandar Anzali (seaside resort on the Caspian Sea) and in some districts of Tehran, we thought sometimes we had got lost in Italy. Some women wore light and colourful veils simply hung on their hair buns, like a provocation. These women had a refined elegance; one would almost think their veils are fashion accessories. Of course, there are also those who wear the long black chador that covers them from head to toe. They glide along like ghosts in the alleys of the bazaars. 

            Iranian tourists in Yazd

For boys, it is different. Except for a few rare mullahs, all the men are dressed in an occidental manner. A lot of young people have (unfortunately) adopted the same tektonik hairdo as people wear in Paris. They pay great attention to their look, and sometimes even wear coloured contact lenses. We discovered that men do not have to be as modest as women, and we could not avoid being amazed at seeing hugging and kissing between men in the street, sometimes even on the mouth. There is however no possible ambiguity since there are no homosexuals in Iran…according to the authorities.

                          On the bus in Tehran

There are no homosexuals, and no alcohol either, except in the Armenian and Jewish minorities (about 400,000 Christian Armenians and 25,000 Jews live in Iran). Muhammad* however, when he learned we were French, told us about his pronounced taste for Burgundy wine (of which his cellar is full…). ‘Isn’t alcohol forbidden in Iran’, we asked innocently. He burst out laughing: ‘It is authorised as long as we are not caught, otherwise…’. The appeal of alcohol did not seem exclusive to lovers of great wine. In a collective taxi, on our way back from a walk, a passenger offered us local ‘vodka’. Same innocent question, same bursts of laughter…  

Actually, the strict restrictions imposed by the Islamic Republic on its citizens in order to keep them on the ‘straight and narrow’ seem to have an opposite effect, especially with young people. Marjane* and Zohreh*, two golden blond haired sisters, welcomed us at their parents’ house. The eldest has her own flat in town, she has decided she would never marry. They are unanimous in their rejection of the regime and they dream of going abroad. Their mother approves but unlike her daughters, she kept her veil on in our presence, probably out of modesty…it is not all that simple.

Cyrus* also wants to go abroad. We had promised ourselves to keep our distance from people wearing uniforms in order to avoid bad encounters with religious militia that are over zealous. However, when a hesitating soldier decided to approach us with extreme kindness, we engaged in conversation with pleasure. He intends to fly to Austria as soon as his military service is over to join his brother who is an engineer there. In the meantime, he appreciates his good luck to have been posted to Tehran, while other conscripts fall under the gunshots of heroin traffickers at the borders with Pakistan and Afghanistan.

The conversation went on in the bus, he and I on one side of the central gate, Gabrielle on the other side. Because in buses, men are at the front and women at the back. It was not always practical to consult each other when we did not know exactly where to get off, especially during rush hour. In the collective taxis, things were much easier. Everybody crammed into it without asking any questions, seven of us sometimes squeezing into a modest Renault 12: conviviality and encounters were assured. On the night trains, some carriages are reserved for women, who can also choose mixed ones…except that when we had booked our tickets, we had not specified that. It allowed us to meet Reza*, an Irano-American, who helped convince the conductor to let us travel together.

             A Friday in Esfahan

The next day, we joined Reza for a long walk along the river. Like every Friday, numerous families picnic in parks. Reza spoke about the exceptional nature of the Iranian sense of hospitality: ‘In Iran, we can even ask to be invited, no problem!’. We had an example in situ when he approached a family to ask them for tea. Without further ado, we were warmly welcomed on the familial blanket, a cup and sweets put down in front of us. A bit further down, Reza repeated the experiment with a group of female students. Their regulation veil does not stop them from being clothes-conscious, it just gives them a well-behaved look. We did not understand much of the talk Reza started with them in Farsi. We could only see it made them laugh a lot and many times. After a few souvenir photos, we left them to continue our walk. Reza translated for us the naughty jokes that had just had so much success…not so well behaved it appeared.

             Iranian students

Iranians easily invited us to their places, with no fuss. Once, we were eating in front of the television that was tuned to an Irano-Californian satellite channel. Maybe the religious authorities did not react fast enough when the satellite dishes arrived in Iran. Be that as it may, numerous Iranians are today equipped to receive the kind of musical programs we were watching: music videos in which half naked female singers dance in suggestive poses. Our host explained to us that female Iranian singers have to expatriate themselves, because in Iran women are not allowed to sing.

Javad* sings in a band. We met this dishevelled teenager in the street, and he decided to walk a bit with us. He told us about his passion: hard rock and metal music. Life in Iran is hard for this misunderstood artist. He confided to us, with the blasé air of people his age, that in Iran the majority of people have no interest in hard rock and do not even know Rammstein. We did not know what to answer to that…we must have gotten a bit old.

We left each other in front of the ‘Coffee Net’ where we were heading. Iranians are big Internet users, despite the censorship: it was impossible to access the website that manages our newsletter. By cause and effect, Iranians have become professional hackers, and the codes to ‘crack’ the security locks are tagged on the walls. And, if we go by the searches made on Google by the previous users, we can see that the authorities haven’t censored all the ‘immoral’ websites.

However, there is another side of the censorship that cannot be avoided. Ali*, with whom we had taken ‘mixed’ photos (unmarried men and women, only some of whom are Iranians), begged us not to put them on our website. He has already been rapped over the knuckles when photos of him were found on the holiday blog of European tourists…this is Orwellian.

Maybe that is the most disconcerting thing. We had a feeling of ‘normality’ and many times one would have thought we were in the south of Europe. However, our interlocutors reminded us that there is a regime behind the scenes that checks and controls their private lives. All these rules and prohibitions seem to be stuck to a society that has not really internalised them, and that’s putting it mildly! There was something a bit artificial in the air, in this country that did not appear to us particularly religious or traditionalist.

However, even if numerous people confided to us their rejection of the Islamic regime, some others also told us about their deep commitment to Iran. On one side, a nougat seller, who showed us the Ayatollah Khomeini on the 10,000 rials note we gave him: ‘It’s the Devil!’. On the other side, our neighbour at table in a restaurant, commenting on a propaganda video on the television about the threat of an Israeli attack: ‘We are ready to defend ourselves’. The Iranians are very patriotic and do not confuse their country with its regime. For Nasser*, this waiter who gave us a brief account of the past splendours of Persia: ‘One day, Iran will be free’.

Francois
(Translation: Yolene Dabreteau)

* Every name has been changed