Loud Whispers from Tehran
In the shadows of Iran’s regime (GPT)Final month of our backpacking expedition around Asia. Just disembarked from an interminable bus journey across Iran. The ride itself was smooth, the highway impeccable — even featuring lane markings, but spoiled by a ridiculous number of checkpoints. The police seemed to single us out as the only foreigners. Time and time again we were made to get out of the vehicle, show our luggage, hand over our passports, explain the reasons for our visit — and all that in the absence of any common vocabulary. Arrival in the bustling streets of Tehran came as a relief.
It was January 17, 1995. Before the next leg of the journey, we sat down for a bite at a small restaurant at the West Terminal Bus Station. It didn't take long before we saw the owner of the place ambling towards us. Middle-aged, blind in one eye — the only person around who spoke any English.
He asked where we were from and we replied: “Europe.” Experience had taught us that anything more specific only led to confusion.
After asking for permission, he sat down at our table and began to whisper, his voice tense and agitated.
“Please,” he said, “when you get back to Europe, tell everybody we live in a dictatorship. People of Iran want freedom! Tell everyone in Europe, please.”
I'll never forget the frightened, loud whisper of that man. We nodded, moved and unsettled, and promised to pass his message to the Europeans.
...
Not that the sentiment was entirely surprising. Even obtaining a transit visa for Iran had been difficult, and since entering the country we had felt ostracized at every step — watched, tolerated, but never welcome.
And just two days before, we ourselves had a sobering encounter with the cold claws of the regime.
On January 15, 1995, we crossed the border from Pakistan into the Iranian city of Zahedan. We hadn't planned to stay, but there were no more buses to Tehran that day, forcing us into an unplanned overnight stop. Fortunately, we had the address of an acquaintance.
We called Mohammad from a payphone. True to expectation, he arrived promptly in an old car and drove us through the dusty streets to his home. Inside, relieved, we removed our shoes, and began settling in. The prospect of a meal and a place to sleep in an exotic home — simple comforts that felt almost luxurious after days on the road. Mohammad was incredibly friendly, generous, and hospitable.
Then came the banging on the door. Immediately, it sounded like bad news. Mohammad opened to reveal a policeman astride a motorcycle.
It was a specimen of questionable intelligence. Full black beard, little eyes improbably close to each other. The man radiated suspicion. Without greeting, he demanded to see the foreigners.
We were surprised but, of course, we jumped back into our shoes and stepped back out of the house. The policeman asked to see our passports. We obliged, though cautiously, holding onto them as he inspected each page. We had heard enough stories... once a passport leaves your hand, it doesn't always come back on your terms.
Was that what irked the bearded luminary — or had we already crossed a line by our very presence? Whatever the reason, his demeanour hardened further. He spoke into his handheld radio, and within minutes a police car arrived. Three more uniformed apes stepped out, their faces unreadable but intimidating.
At that point we did let them leaf through our passports. It made no difference either way.
The policemen kept talking wirelessly with their superiors while we stood there in the evening chill. Mohammad tried to convince them we were his friends and guests for the night. His voice carried both politeness and strain, but nobody seemed interested. As he explained to us, the police were suspicious of foreigners staying in a private house.
In about an hour, another bearded figure arrived in a pickup truck. That one was dressed in civilian clothes. At last someone who knew some English.
But instead of a clarification he offered only a blunt ultimatum.
“You have only two choices," he said. "Either you go to a hotel, or you go to jail.”
Speechless, we exchanged a glance. There was no room for negotiation. Even Mohammad seemed visibly rattled. We had no doubt as to what our preferred option was.
We collected our luggage without so much as a word of protest and climbed into the back of the pickup truck. A ride through the dusty, empty streets felt longer than it was. We only hoped it was clear that we went for the first of the two choices.
Eventually, the vehicle stopped.
The police dropped us at the bus station and then disappeared without any further exchange.
It was cold. We had no plan, no place to stay. But standing there, under the feeble lights of the Zahedan Bus Terminal, one thing mattered above all else — our passports were back in our possession, tucked safely into the pockets beneath our clothes.
...
For all we went through, I still have a soft spot for Iran. It is impossible to ignore the presence of a rigid authority rooted in Islamic fundamentalism — it shapes behaviour, limits expression, and hangs over everyday life. And yet, beneath it lies another Iran entirely. The threads of a rich Persian history are woven deep into the fabric of its places and objects, its traditions and poetry, its warm hospitality.
And above all, the enduring defiance of its proud people — older than the current stifling regime, and set to outlast it.
ENGLISH ARTICLEJANUARY 15, 1995 ~ APRIL 24, 2026