Oh, why Iraq, my son?

by Petar Brkovic (Croatia)

A leap into the unknown Iran

People do crazy things, said someone some time ago. Last year in April when I told my parents: “I’ve just bought the tickets. I am going to Iran. Alone.”, I did a crazy thing too. My seemingly cold announcement was counterbalanced by my boiling inner feelings and a tense room atmosphere. The initial shock I produced metastasized into a bundle of questions: Oh, why Iraq? Aren't the terrorists there? Isn't it dangerous? Bla. La. A. As the time slowly passed, their words became dumb sound signals that were interrupted by my explanation that Iran is not Iraq and that an 'N country' is actually safe (even now, I feel driven up the wall by all this repetition). A few months later, amid an arid European day, I was ready to leap into the unknown. Will I survive, will my body be complete when I return or will I come back as a fundamentalist ready to blow up innocent in the name of 72 virgins? Questions made up in silly conversations with the close and far ones rolled and the time laid me closer to the answer. Trying to sleep in the air came only to that point. Trying. The microscopic space of cheap airlines didn’t help either. When we finally touched the Iranian soil, the moon was still bright. Well, this is the same as in my country, I thought. Jokes aside. After a lengthy wait at the clerk’s desk who hadn’t asked me anything, I officially stepped on the territory of the 18th biggest country in the world. With a backpack on my shoulders and a smaller bag in front of me, I looked like an ideal bait for dealers/exchange offices who lurk for lost fish known as tourists. With advice from some Iranians, I accepted to change my first euros with those predators. Naturally, I did not know that I would be doing that at 4 AM in the dark and suffocating garage of Imam Khomeini airport. After the first (cultural) shock, for which I came here, a man with a suspicious look on his face walked me to a stand where I could buy my SIM card. Partly because I suck at math and partly because I was in the country with the most confusing currency in the world, I cannot say how much I paid for the SIM card. Those financial addle-brained days lasted only for ten days. Out of fifteen. Because of the time pressure and my host who had told me that he goes to work at half-past 7, I had to quickly decide what transport to use to come to Tehran. As the city was 50 km away, the fastest thing was to use a taxi. Boy, oh boy, did I not know how fast it would be. A dusty old yellowish cab with a turned-off taximeter drove me to the city populated by probably 10 million people. Lowered windows, at least 150 km/h and dawn that smoothly spread its colors over Damavand, welcomed me in a way I could have not imagined. The taste of freedom was clothed in a windy draft. Iran was waking and I felt like I was the one waking it up. The entrance to my host’s street was crowned with my generous transaction to a taxi driver. He undeniably took advantage of my ignorance. - Hellooo, my brother - my amiable host Keyvan greeted me with a warm hug while opening the door of his flat, what was to become my home for the next couple of days. Intoxicated by the ride that I had just experienced, I was energetically trying to inform him about my first impression of this land. We shared a couple of laughs before he left the apartment. We’d known each other for only one hour and this guy was already ready to leave me alone in his apartment. Through adrenaline shot that was still running my veins, there was no way that I could have gone to sleep. Rationally, I decided that sleep would be good for me and that it would help to process this ‘landing’. Good morning.