Afraid of the Dark

Given how muted this year's presidential race has been, Iranians are disproportionately aware of the imminence of election day. Not because of any sudden flood of campaign posters or last-minute attack ads, but because of the resurgence of armed Basij (volunteer Islamic militia) checkpoints around the streets of Tehran. The Basiji style of moral policing — interrogations and aggressive and indiscriminate searches of cars — are the sort of unofficial interference in private life that most Iranians have come to associate with a harsher past. But historical and political turning points — from New Year's celebrations to elections — inevitably inject fear and uncertainty back into Tehran nights. For Iranians, the memories of the bad old days are still acute.

"There's no way I'm leaving the house after dark until after the election," a friend said to me the other night.

"Stop being so neurotic," I scoffed. "You know things are better now."

Having arrived in Tehran two years into President Mohammed Khatami's tenure, repression remained an abstract concept to me and being afraid of the dark seemed silly.

But driving home last night, I approached the square near my house and thought there must be some sort of bomb threat. Cars were pulled along the side of the street, and everywhere there were men in commando fatigues with kalashnikovs. Inching forward I realized it was a Basij checkpoint. Anyone potentially suspicious — those driving expensive cars, long-haired men, mixed gender couples — had to pull over and submit to verbal interrogation and possibly a search of their car. Being young, having a member of the opposite sex in my car and a thin line of hair showing under my veil made me a beacon of immorality. "Pull over," growled a bearded man.

I glided my aunt's grey sedan onto the side of the road. "How exactly are you related," the man demanded. I explained I was a journalist working with this (male) photographer. We showed our official press cards, on which the word "America" appeared. Our bearded interrogator became enraged. "We have nothing to say to an American magazine but 'Death to America,'" he yelled. Soon his fellow militiamen chimed in, and in the middle of this suburban avenue, I was surrounded by angry men chanting 'Death to America!"

"You realize the Iranian Ministry of Culture has issued me this press card," I reminded him.

"We don't accept our culture ministry," he replied.

Ten minutes later, we hadn't budged so I tried to make small talk. "So, who are you going to vote for?" I asked. He said he didn't know. When he asked me the same question, I said I too was uncertain.

"What do most people say when you ask them?" he inquired.

"Well, most of them say they're going to vote for Khatami," I replied.

"Hey, listen," he began yelling. "She says she's voting for Khatami. She's propagating for Khatami, out to collect votes. Take them in."

As I sputtered a denial, the back door of my car opened and suddenly I saw an angry face in the rear view mirror ordering me from the back seat: "Drive."

We drove through the balmy night to an apartment project for retired military men. The twin towers bore immense murals of Ayatollahs Khomeini and Khamenei. Not a single question — Where are we going? Why? What are you charging us with? Whose in charge here? — got an answer. We arrived at what looked like a Basij barracks, and the scattered shoes outside — dainty sandals amidst Adidas track shoes — attested to the presence of other hapless young people somewhere inside. We were placed in a room reeking of dirty socks, lit by a glaring fluorescent light. We were ordered not to talk. Every five minutes, a man would enter and confiscate something. Within half an hour, my notebook and my companion's camera were gone.

"Can you tell me what's happening," I pleaded.

"We're taking you to the Intelligence Ministry," replied an unshaven man with angry, bloodshot eyes. It was one o'clock in the morning. He sat in front of us, dialing the Intelligence Ministry.

"If you're going to take us somewhere, you have to tell us first," I insisted.

"Should you know where the Intelligence Ministry is? Do you know where CIA headquarters is?" he said. "Actually, you probably do."

My nervousness turned to panic, and I reached for my mobile phone. "Take out the SIM card," he ordered. With shaking hands, I removed the tiny chip, my life-line to the outside world. We waited for another half hour.

Finally, a more senior Basij member arrived and took over. He seemed reasonable, and unlike the others took no petty, sniggering pleasure in our fear. "I swear, I wasn't out promoting Khatami. That man put words in my mouth," I explained.

"President Khatami is the light of our eyes," he replied. "This will be sorted out."

From outside the room I heard his voice crackling over the walkie-talkie: "No, they have press cards. She's covered properly, her veil is simple." Within a few moments our belongings were retrieved, and I was left explaining only why I jotted "globalization" down in my notebook. Another search of the car produced nothing incriminating, and our moderate savior asked a parting question: "So, who do you think is going to win?" I nearly choked. "Well, opinion polls conducted by impartial observers suggest Khatami," I replied.

Leaving the barracks, the shoes of other less fortunate detainees were still outside. For ordinary Iranian teenagers, the evening could have been far worse. I was picked up because I was an Iranian, but released with no scars more lasting than shock because I was a journalist. As counter-intuitive as it might seem, I had the weight of a government Ministry and a foreign publication behind me. The "crimes" of the others there — playing music, showing hair, consorting with the opposite sex — sometimes carry fines, whippings and always humiliation.

As we drove away, I asked my companion whether it was a relief that under Khatami, such run-ins happened four times a year instead of every weekend. He gave me a searching look. "However infrequent, I do not find any consolation in the fact that my fate is determined by the whim of an armed 16-year-old," he said.