A State of Fear (27 page)

I was not too disturbed by this, as in the two weeks I had been out, such checks around Tehran had become familiar. Those outside Evin and Gohardasht just lived in a bigger prison, and the border of Iran was its perimeter wall.

As we drew nearer to the border, security checks became more frequent and rigorous. Now we were all ordered out, questioned – children included – and the whole car searched. Each checkpoint was more thorough than the last. At the town nearest the border, the last was the worst. It was a large brick building, sitting right in the middle of the road, at the centre of a roundabout. Guards armed with Kalashnikovs stood at each junction, stopping every car. Sandbagged machine-gun nests looked down every road.

We were all ordered out. One young guard checked the car, took up the back seats, and looked underneath the car. Another went through our bags, strewing their contents over the road in the search for guns, subversive literature or who knew what else. Anyway, whatever it was, he didn’t find it.

We were asked the purpose of our journey. ‘Where are you going, Haji Aghah?’ one asked, his use of the deferential title thankfully indicating that I looked suitably religious and respectable. I showed our invitations: ‘We’re off to a wedding, brother.’ They always like you more when you call them brother (I hoped).

My stomach was knotted and tense at this last hurdle. Anything could go wrong. I knew from bitter experience that we could be derailed if a guard took exception to the look of one of us. The 15-minute search crept slowly on before we were told to pack up our stuff and be on our way. Even then guards still watched from the windows. We took our time, not wanting to seem nervous or hurried in case we were pulled back for further questioning. No one did, and in another ten minutes we were on the road again and heading towards the border town.

It had been a long drive, with frequent interruptions, so by now it was almost midday. We were all hungry, thirsty and tired. The family stopped off at a village cafe. ‘Eat whatever you like,’ I announced. ‘I’m picking up the tab for us all.’

I left with one of the small children, who was about six or
seven, telling the rest of our group that I was going to buy him a toy, and would meet them later. We wandered through the bazaar together, where we bought what caught the boy’s eye. I was keeping a sharp eye, meanwhile, on those around me, to make sure we were not being watched or followed. Being a border town, security was very tight.

Satisfied that things were all right, we walked to a busy street corner, where people queued for a number of telephone booths. The queue inched slowly forward. I eventually got to a booth and tried to look busy; dialling, redialling, putting more money in and talking to no one on the other end, waiting for someone to approach me, as had been arranged.

No one came and eventually I had to put the phone down and leave, in case the length of my apparent calls attracted suspicion. We went to a nearby cafe for a tea, with sweets for my nephew. We then took another wander through the bazaar, buying souvenirs, and then returned, loaded with unwanted handmade crafts, to the booths to try my luck again.

Again I queued, and again eventually wound up in a booth, pretending to make phone calls. Again, no one came. I left, complaining to those around me that I could not get my connection, so that it would not be thought suspicious if I turned up later.

So, to another cafe, more sweets, more tea. My nephew was having a whale of a time. ‘Let’s go and buy some souvenirs’, I said.

‘But Uncle,’ he said, ‘you’ve just bought a lot. How many do you want?’

‘Well, I think you need some too,’ I said, trying to sound enthusiastic. ‘Let’s go and see what we can find.’ And off we went again. We must have been the bazaar’s best customers that day.

By now it was nearly 3.30pm, and my rendezvous had been set for 1pm. I was beginning to get very edgy. Thoughts elbowed
their way, uninvited, into my mind, like drunken gatecrashers. What if this was a trap? Even if it wasn’t, I might be picked up for behaving so suspiciously and sent back to Evin.

I had not seen my family for nearly three hours. They would want to know where I was, so I would soon have to get back to them. So back we went, me and the boy laden with souvenirs. We ran across one another, as the rest of the family was driving slowly through the streets looking for us. I told them that I was expecting to meet someone, but that he hadn’t turned up. I said that I would go and look for him again, and if he couldn’t be found we would begin to make our way to the wedding. They were quite surprised, as I had not mentioned a word of this before.

This would be my last run round the town. It was getting too dangerous to keep going over my tracks. If I did not find my contact, I would return with the family to Tehran. It was not wise to attempt to get over the border by myself. The freelance middle men who could be contacted to get you over the border could just as well lead you into a trap. Your journey over the border could turn out to be a walk into Evin. I had met enough of these unfortunate victims in prison.

So off we went once more. Through the bazaar, collecting more souvenirs, and again by a winding, hopefully leisurely looking, route to the phone booths. By now I was despondent and nervous. It felt like all eyes were on me. Hopefully anyone on the lookout would now understand my plight in failing to connect with my fictional party on the other end of the line, or shifts had changed, and I would be a new face to the next lot.

Kept going on hope, I queued, and again went into a booth. I wasn’t looking at what I was dialling, but instead my eyes travelled around the area, searching for someone who looked like they might be looking for me. But there was no one, and after a fruitless 10 minutes, I left the booth with the heaviest of hearts.
For the last time, I took a slow walk round the 20 booths, telling myself if no one showed up, I would go straight back to Tehran.

The circuit of the booths was almost complete, and I began to head off with my, by now, very frustrated young nephew in tow. He knew something unusual was going on, but couldn’t figure it out. As I passed the last phone booth, looking for some sign of recognition from the man inside, someone tapped me on the back. I felt sick. The security forces! How could I lie my way out of this? I turned.

The man before me smiled and asked, ‘Have you finished your shopping yet?’

A wave of relief lifted me. This was my contact’s introduction. But I had to make sure: ‘What do you mean, my shopping?’

‘I know I’m late’, he said apologetically, ‘I was supposed to be here at one o’clock. We don’t have much time, I’ll explain it all later.’ He told me to take my nephew back to the family and make my excuses one more time, in such a way that none of my family would become suspicious.

This done, I was told to walk down the right-hand side of the main street, where I would be picked up by car. I handed back my confused nephew to my family – along with armfuls of bric-a-brac – and told them that I had run into an old friend, and that I was stopping with him for a few days.

‘Go home, and I’ll see you in Tehran soon.’

We said ‘Goodbye’ briefly and by now the family had become suspicious. Our driver wanted to know why I was rushing off with barely a word. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘No time to explain. But you’d better leave soon.’ Which, again, did little to quieten them.

I waved off the family car, crossed the road and walked down the right-hand side of the road. About a hundred metres down, a car pulled up, the door opened and I jumped in, turning to find myself sitting next to Ali, with whom I had made the arrangements in Tehran. I knew I was in safe hands. Still, they could see that I was tense and upset. I complained at the
nerve-racking 
delay and the laxity of their security arrangements. Ali explained that the man who was supposed to contact me had also had to drive in and he’d had a flat tyre on the way to the rendezvous. He had been stuck without a spare and was towed back to his starting point.

All in all, it had cost three hours of wasted time and a
near-nervous
breakdown for me.

We drove to a village nearer the border, where I was taken to a house. This turned out to be that of Ali’s family, and we were given a good welcome: provided with food, tea and some friendly chat. I was introduced to a rather frail looking Kurdish man with three children of four, five and seven; two girls and a boy in between. The guides were going to take me and this family across into Turkey. The man’s wife, he told me, had made it to Sweden, and he and the children were trying to join her. The children already had United Nations refugee status, but there was no official way to get them out of the country.

After finishing our meal of country bread, yoghurt and other village produce, Ali told us to dress warmly, as it would get very cold in the mountains at night. The children had barely anything to wear. Their plastic sandals with no socks would not do to traverse the Kurdish mountains, and the rest of their clothing was not much better. I gave them my spare socks, so both the girls had on two outsize pairs, and the boy one. Ali maintained that the journey would be impossible for them in their sandals, so their father gave one of the other men in the house enough money to go to the village and buy three pairs of wellington boots. This meant a further half an hour’s wait while we hung around for his return.

Looking at these children, with their new boots, huge socks and thin, threadbare clothing, I had real doubts. It was going to be a long trek over the rugged Kurdish mountains which were covered in snow and swept by the November winds. We had an
enemy this side of the border, while the Turkish state security forces on the other side would hardly welcome us with open arms. Yet here we were, with a four, five and seven-year-old, as if we were about to go on a country picnic.

I raised my doubts with their father. ‘Don’t worry’, he told me. ‘These kids have been on the run from the Islamic regime through the mountains since they can remember. They’ve had to escape from one village to the next away from ground troop attacks and air raids. It’s second nature to them. We’re Kurds: we’re used to these mountains. You just worry about yourself.’

Dusk was descending when we left the house. We clambered into a WWII covered Jeep, the transportees squashed in the back, with Ali driving and a relative of his, Kalan, acting as a guard in the passenger seat. He cradled a sniper’s rifle in the crook of his arm. Kalan was in his mid-20s, tall and strongly built. He didn’t really look like he needed the rifle. He sat hunched against the door, ready to fire, should the need arise. Once more we drove towards the border, this time on our final leg.

As we headed upland, the only signs of life were children driving flocks of sheep in the opposite direction. The occasional farmer’s Jeep would pass us going the other way, its occupants waving as they went. As we went on, even these encounters became rarer. The track was now so rough and steep that any less hardy form of vehicle would have ground to a halt. The drive continued in silence. We surveyed the bleak slopes around us, scanning them for people – particularly troops. It was a
stop-start
journey. When we approached the crown of each mountain, we would stop and Kalan would get out, run to the other side, and look for danger. He would sweep the way ahead with his binoculars, gun by his side. If he wasn’t happy that the way was clear, then we would wait down the far slope until it was considered safe. Then we would drive along until we
reached the next mountain peak, where the same security ritual would be repeated.

Some of the route was too much even for the Jeep. At the bottom of the valleys we would face a stream. Ali would follow it downstream until a suitable place to ford could be found. All but Ali would get out so that our Jeep was not too weighed down. We splashed after it, wading through the icy waters.

On the mountain tops we had a similar problem. Often it was too icy, too steep or both for the Jeep to get over with us in it, so we would follow on behind, bags slung over our shoulders. By now four or five hours had passed. It was the middle of the night, and we were in one small Jeep, surrounded by the huge sentinels of the Kurdish mountains. The midnight cold dug its nails into us. Kalan and Ali were used to it, as was the old man. I had the clothes for it, but the children were freezing and miserable. They had on their single items of clothing, thin and so worn and dirty you couldn’t tell what the colour used to be. I dug into my sack and handed out the clothes I had. Two got a pullover each, the elder girl my jacket, the arms falling down past her knees. The two smallest got a hat each. You could hardly see them under the rolled up clothing and pulled-down hats.

Finally, we pulled up at a small, dried-mud hut, right on a peak. The moon illuminated the mountains as far as we could see, stretching out in every direction. Here we met our other guide: old, tall, with a face as craggy as the country in which he lived. He was called Raíse: a name for a tribal chief. He and a young couple were waiting in the hut for us. This desolate outpost was where they lived.

Inside, sheltered from the piercing wind and snow, we relaxed. In the centre of the hut’s floor was a hollow in which a fire was built up, where they baked bread. We sat, surrounding the fire, toes stretched and waggling, blissfully defrosting. The floor was covered with woollen army blankets and where the
chief usually sat, a kilim, woven with Kurdish designs. He offered this prime position to all of us, and wouldn’t sit until one of us had occupied it; the old man and his three children sat there, as they were so cold.

We were served from a teapot, heated over the fire, freshly baked bread, and cheese made with milk from their sheep. There was no lavatory. If you felt nature’s call, you answered it by melting the snow outside.

Raíse had to make the decision as to whether it was safe to continue. After eating, he went outside with a pack of cigarettes and his binoculars to scan the mountains; looking east for the Islamic guards, and west for the Turkish border patrols. Every now and then, he would come in and report movements. He finally decided that it would be safe enough between 2am and 3am; a rising mist concealing our progress from unfriendly eyes.