Stephan Orth: Couchsurfing in Iran: Revealing a Hidden World

WHEN YOU’RE SCARED,really, really scared stiff, when you think, “This, this is it,” then your perceptions become doubly keen. The brain switches to red alert—only the here and now count. There’s no room for peripheral things. I know that I’ve reached this state when I cannot even recall my zip code when questioned by the police.

I’m sitting in the interview room of the Iranian police. The furnishings consist of a large desk with a Samsung computer, a lower glass table in the middle of the room, and seven chairs with the plastic wrap still covering the brown leather upholstery. A small door leads to the entrance area and another door to a corridor with further offices. The light green wall is adorned with the national emblem: four crescent moons and a sword. Next to it hang the obligatory portraits of the dictators. Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini looks on, sinister as ever. Supreme Leader, Grand Ayatollah Khamenei, however, has a broad grin—I have never seen him look like this. Maybe it’s because he is in his element in places like this.

“Two years ago two spies were jailed here,” says Yasmin, [i] The majority of names have been changed, and last names have been omitted to protect the people described. my companion. “They’re still in jail, in Tehran.”

“What did they do?”

“I don’t know.” But in Iran it’s child’s play to be considered a spy. A couple souvenir photos of the airport or a government building are enough. Or the fact that you travel a bit too close to the border with Iraq. We are in Nowsud, in Iranian Kurdistan, and it’s only six miles from here to the neighboring country.

“We received a tip-off that there were foreigners here,” says one of the two officials. He is wearing baggy trousers and a khaki shirt. “Actually, today is our day off,” he adds as an explanation for the lack of uniform. Tough face and bulging biceps. He seems to have spent a lot of time at the gym. His colleague, dressed in pink, appears mellower, more sympathetic. He has the beginnings of a paunch under his broad waistband, and he conveys the impression that the whole procedure is somewhat embarrassing. “Bad Cop” and “Good Cop”—the roles are clearly defined.

My zip code?

Panic induces me to give the wrong code.

Good Cop asks whether we want some tea. A little while later a young man in a military uniform brings in a tray. On drinking I notice that my hand is shaking. Damn. It really would be better not to show any signs of nervousness.

“Have another look to see if you can find your passport,” suggests Yasmin. Previously, I had only shown a copy, claiming that the original was at the hotel. In fact, I haven’t spent a single night in a hotel for weeks.

I rummage around for an appropriate amount of time in the various backpack pockets before producing the required document with feigned surprise. An official in a suit appears from behind me and takes the passport to an adjoining room.

“He’ll make some copies and call the immigration authorities to check that everything is okay,” explains Yasmin.

On with the interrogation. Cell phone number? Marital status? Father’s name?

“Khaki Man” holds on to the printouts and photocopies. Yasmin translates the questions and answers.

“Profession?”

“He’s a student,” she lies, without consulting me. On my visa application I wrote “website editor,” which is nearer the truth.

“Age?”

“Thirty-four.”

“What are you studying?” translates Yasmin.

“English and American literature,” I answer. That was eight years ago. I chose not to mention the subsequent studies in journalism. Foreign reporters are not too popular among Iranian officials.

“What are you doing here?”

“What is your relationship?”

“He’s a friend of my family. He’s spending his vacation here,” replies Yasmin.

A soldier gathers our luggage from the trunk of the cab and leans them against the glass table in the middle of the room.

“Unpack everything,” demands Khaki Man.

On the wall the grin on Supreme Leader Khamenei’s face seems to widen. Good teeth for his age—he’s over seventy. While extracting the first bags of clothing and a damp towel that smells like a wet dog, my mind goes through everything I have with me.

“Guidebook and Iran books?” Nothing critical in my luggage; the only forbidden book, Persepolis: The Story of a Childhood , by Marjane Satrapi, [1] Satrapi, Marjane. Persepolis: The Story of a Childhood . New York: Pantheon Books, 2003. I left in Tehran. Luckily, I don’t have any Western news magazines or glossy mags of women without veils.

“Drugs, alcohol, pork?”

“No.”

“Notebook?” Very suspicious. I’ve already filled 2.5 Moleskin notebooks. Conspicuously, on the first page of each booklet I’ve written: Iran 1 , Iran 2 , and Iran 3 .

“Press card?” In my wallet. What a bonehead! I should have left it at home.

“Camera?” That could be tricky. Military installations, a nuclear power station, young women without veils, parties with alcohol—everything’s there. I could even put a few of my friends at risk. At least a number of particularly sensitive photos are on a smart card that isn’t in the camera but hidden in the camera case.

The first article of interest is my toiletry bag, with my first aid kit for travels. The official with baggy pants minutely inspects each pack of pills: Imodium, GeloMyrtol, Aspirin, acetaminophen, Iberogast, Umckaloabo. I’m evidently not a drug smuggler. Then my netbook: turn it on. No suspicious files on my desktop; they are all concealed under innocuous-sounding names. I’m allowed to shut it down. Interest turns to my e-book reader. Handling it clumsily, Khaki Man drops it on the floor, apologizes, and browses through my DuMont Iran art and travel guide. Very touristy, very harmless, very good.

He finds a notepad, this time an Iranian one that a host gave me: In the name of God, presented to Mr. Stephan during his travel to Lorestan Province, 3.2.1393. The policeman leafs through all the pages. Apart from the dedication at the front, only blank sheets. I have never received a better present. Luckily, he doesn’t find the other notebooks crammed between admission tickets and invoices.

Finished. Pack everything together. I have to restrain myself from taking a deep breath. It wouldn’t be such a good idea anyway, as the interview room smells like a particularly nasty damp cloth. I tighten up my backpack straps, sit down on the plastic-covered chair, and reach for my glass of tea. My hand is no longer shaking.

“And now show me your camera,” says Khaki Man. And on the wall behind him the Ayatollah Khamenei laughs into his huge beard. He laughs and laughs and laughs.

“BEWARE OF TERRORISTSand kidnappers!” says a friend.