Suffocating in the Islamic Republic of Iran — huffingtonpost.com

This pody is an amalgamation of stories taken from several different conversations in Iran. Special thanks to Alex Thayer, India Morgan and S for their help. For security reason all names and places in this report have been invented. The only thing that is true is the story. On the evening before the 35th anniversary of the Islamic Revolution in Iran I was with Giv somewhere between Rasht and Bandar-e-Abbas. We had driven out through the dilapidated suburbs of the city and on to the desolate plains. Although Giv was speeding, the mountain range on the horizon, which was tinted purple by the same setting sun that gave everything in the car a strange clarity, was static. We had entered a vacuum, a pocket of monotonous emptiness, soporific scrub and dull winter sky, the yellow smog of the city in our wake; we were free from the grasp of the Islamic Republic. Giv lit a cigarette and sunk back into his seat to fish his phone from his pocket. In lieu of a seatbelt I had my hand on the dashboard. I was keeping an eye on the road, feeling as though if I did it would make up for the fact that he wasn't, but the land around was featureless and the car was swirling with heat from the air vents. My eyelids started to droop. In an effort to stay awake I decided to strike up fresh conversation; I had to ask Giv's opinion on whether I should photograph the demonstrations marking the anniversary the following day -- I had received conflicting advice so far -- but before I had a chance, he turned the car down a slip-road and pulled up to a pit-stop diner. I'll ask later, I thought.

Read More