Iran 6: Would I be able to leave?

The previous post in this little series of informal recollections makes it obvious that I did, indeed, manage to leave the Islamic Republic of Iran.  But, of course, that could also have been deduced from the fact that I’m currently teaching at Brigham Young University, which is located in Provo, Utah.

My friend Professor Louis Midgley reminds me, though, of one other thing that I should record in this connection:

When I had agreed to go to Iran, I was put into contact with a person in Montreal, an Iranian living in Canada, who would coordinate travel arrangements, visas, and so forth.

Eventually, I received my airline ticket, which took me from Salt Lake City to Minneapolis/St. Paul, from Minneapolis/St. Paul to Amsterdam, and from Amsterdam to Tehran.  But there was no return ticket.

I called him.

“Is this a joke?” I asked.  In still very much living memory, certain Americans had experienced unexpectedly long stays in Iran, and I was hoping to be able to return to my family, friends, neighborhood, and job in somewhat less than two or three years.

“Oh,” he responded.  “Don’t worry!  You’ll receive your return ticket while you’re there in Tehran.”

I decided to believe him and, in fact, things worked out really well and just as he had said they would.  Somehow, it cost the Iranian government or the conference organizers less money to do it that way.  Or something.  I have no idea, actually, but that’s what the person said.

The person with whom I dealt while I was in Iran was a youngish woman (in full black chador) who had been in charge of all of the practical details surrounding the conference that I was attending.  I had several conversations with her, and I came to like her very much.

She was extremely candid.  And she was openly unhappy with some of the things that had gone wrong at the conference, which she blamed on the clerics for whom she was working.  “I told them that this wouldn’t work,” she said several times.  “But would they listen to me?  Of course not.  I’m a woman.  What do I know?”

I’m pretty sure that I’ve heard several similar comments outside of Iran.  Possibly from one or two Relief Society presidents.  (It reminds me of something that I read yesterday:  “‘You’re not even listening!’ my wife said.  And I thought to myself, ‘That’s a funny way to start a conversation.'”)

Anyway, she’s the one who finally gave me my return ticket, and an apology for the weirdness of the arrangement.

I actually had a great time in the Islamic Republic.  Almost everybody with whom I had any dealings was pleasant, even kind.  Still, I discovered that dictatorial anti-American fascist police states make me nervous.  When I disembarked from the plane in Amsterdam, I briefly felt a curious urge to kiss the ground.