I had been trying to get into Iran for months. Finally, I got the visa. Ordinarily, we travel in teams to cover stories. Reporter, producer and cameraman. For this maiden voyage to Iran, I was told by my man in Tehran, I would have to go alone. They wanted to establish a level of comfort with my work, so the story went. Or wanted to exercise more robust control over me, maybe. In any event, I signed up for the mission, and arranged to pick up a local crew upon my arrival in Tehran.
The day I arrived was a warmish day in November, 2005, it was Ramadan, or Ramazan, as Iranians call it, the fasting month, as well as the anniversary of the hostage taking at the old U.S. Embassy.
I arrived at six in the morning, having taken an overnight flight from London. Bleary eyed, I donned the obligatory coat women must always have in Iran. The minimum body cover. Other option is the all-enveloping chador which is what the more conservative women wear. Oh, yes, and the headscarf.
I got whisked to the bowels of the airport to get finger printed, a practice Iran calls a reciprocal deal, as Iranians entering America get the same treatment. The uniformed man, whom I took to be a Revolutionary Guard, but who may have been just a sort of police man, had a hard time finding the ink jar. Apparently, it had been a while since he’d had to use it.
When he finally dug it out, we made a real mess together. All 10 fingers fully smeared with black ink. My man in Iran, the one who helped me organize that trip and subsequent ones, Mahmood, had forewarned me. I was carrying baby wipes. But the ink was stubborn.
As I made my way back upstairs to meet Mahmood, the man who had taken my prints started to bark that my headscarf had slipped. So with inky hands, I tried to slide it back up, from the back of my head, an akward move, which always ends up displacing more offending hair.
Mahmood met me in the Commercially Important Persons lounge or CIP section. A CIP I am not. But it was Tehran’s version of a fast track service through customs, which, several usages later, I have determined is actually the slow way to go, but nevermind.
Desperately thirsty now, this was Ramazan, so water would have to wait. Theoretically, being non-Muslim, I could have had something. But this being a sensitive trip, I figured best not to risk antagonizing anyone.
A small army of cameramen and soundmen and soundmen’s assistants joined us. Off we went to the old U.S. Embassy, otherwise known as the Nest of Spies, for the demonstration held each year on the anniversary of the hostage taking.
Because the event was segregated, my camera crew deposited me on the women’s side. They went off to the male-only side.
American flags were on fire, but the crowd hardly was. It was not overwhelming in size. And did not look like it could explode into a riot or anything more than a chant-in.
The women in my section were all in chadors, with green headbands. They were mostly students. They just stared at me.
“Death to America!” the crowds, which I estimate were in the hundreds, shouted. It's a well-rehearsed refrain for this crowd, most of whom, it is said, were bused in for the event. You get brownie points at University for supporting such state-sponsored events.
The girls kept staring at me. Finally, one approached. “Where are you from?” she asked, in halting English. I just pointed to a U.S. flag in flames. She smiled, her face lighting up.
“Really? Welcome in Iran!” The young women did not see the contradiction an American might feel between the event, and a greeting of welcome. Smiles quickly spread through the crowd. They were clearly happy to see me, for whatever reason. I do believe the reason is that Iranians genuinely seem to like Americans, despite the fact that many take issue with U.S. foreign policy. Then again, many don’t like Americans and the U.S. form of government.
I got a few lectures about bullying Yankees, and injustices in Iraq and Palestine. And then, “We really hope you have many successes in our country.”
It was surreal. The party ended. The assembled crowds packed up and left. That was it. No after party. No street skirmishes. It all felt stage managed.
During that first trip to Iran, impressions were many and strong. A day later, I went to a fancy restaurant with a buffet that had a row of flags from all countries in the world as a decoration, as if to welcome international visitors. Absent, however, was the American flag. I was with my Iranian crew and Mahmood. The manager came over to ask where I was from, because he wanted to plant my country’s flag as a centerpiece on the table. We joked that my flags had all been burned. I felt compelled to make it into a bit of a joke, because I knew that man would be mortified when I told him I was American, and that he didn’t have my flag in his restaurant. And he was. As I knew he was happy to have me in his restaurant, I didn’t want to make him feel badly. It wasn’t his idea to burn flags. And my sense was, he has never gone to one of those anti-American demonstrations.
Turns out lots of nice restaurants in Iran embrace the flag theme. So it became a recurring episode of awkwardness. M’aitre d’s asking me where I was from. Me saying America. They being embarrassed they did not have my flag to plant on my table. At one place, when I told them I was from the U.S., the waiter brought out a little plate of caviar from the Caspian Sea for me. I am pretty sure that is also a well-practiced routine, acted out for all foreigners. But to me, being an American and being served a bit of precious caviar as a gesture in Iran, meant a whole lot.
Article Sourcefoxnews.com
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