Istanbul 2021: Part 4

7th August:

Two days behind now, it’s not looking good. Thursday a few of us went to the Grand Bazaar, a great structure maybe 20 minutes away from the hostel. Some of the people I visited with had been there before, so I was in safe hands for my first visit. The atmosphere was reminiscent of Camden Market, particularly the Stables area. The interior was an eclectic mix of old and new: food and metals, carpets and lamps, crumbling mosaics and mobile phones, and an endless parade of “friendly” shop owners ready to pounce on your politeness. Even my attempts to deflect by speaking French didn’t work, since they all spoke it better than me.

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8th August:

Still going too slow, let’s speed things up. We wandered around the bazaar for a good while, discovering all there was to see, yet finding it rather repetitive after a while. Unit after unit of carpets, sweets, t-shirts, and jewellery. Hardly the ‘Grand Bazaar’ I envisioned. Despite this, the interior of the building was impressive enough for me to mention here. You could see (behind the renovation works) where there used to be a fully decorated ceiling, but now there appears to be few preserved parts, and what is left of those is fading fast. Then again, they’ve lasted hundreds of years already, who’s to say what remains won't last a few hundred years more? When we moved to the next section, the experience changed drastically. The smell of rows and rows of spices gave the air a terrific smell that carried through the entire section. We stopped at a Turkish Delight stall to try any that caught our eye, and I discovered just how simplistic the Turkish Delight at home really is. The simple cubes of jelly were the cheapest ones, and the ones most in stock. The others were so enjoyable that we spent much longer there sampling every single one. The colours spanned the whole spectrum; some had additional pistachios on the exterior, others had dried raspberry dust, and all were available to taste. It was only after we’d left that I realised that the exact same offerings were being sold at every other sweet stall. Apparently, every single one was homemade, despite them all looking the same and coming in the same branded packaging. It slightly undercut the novelty, but then again why wouldn’t you expect there to be a lot of Turkish Delight in Istanbul?

One thing I did wonder about the availability of spices was why Turkish food was not spicier. If everyone can buy spices in bulk, why is the food (that I’ve tried so far) not exploding with exotic flavours? You think they’d be less frugal. The food has been mostly excellent, so it doesn’t matter to me either way. I just thought it was an odd observation.

A legitimately cool part of the Bazaar was the antique section. The room was darker than the others, but there was a shaft of sunlight beaming through the roof high above. The antique stalls were overflowing with knick-knacks, so much so that more than one owner had to sit outside the shop instead. There were swords, statues, bowls, guns, anything you could imagine. It would have taken me all day to look through all the inventory. Can (pronounced ‘Jaan’) had informed me that the selling of antiques was in fact illegal in Turkey, which meant that what these people were selling were either extremely dodgy or straight lies. We moved on. Gage spent an eternity picking out a ‘breathable’ shirt, since the one he was wearing had begun to rot off with sweat, after which he wanted to try and find a specific shop he had visited the last time he was here. He didn’t find it, which makes its inclusion in this account redundant, in hindsight. We headed back to the hostel.

In the evening, a group of us returned to Süleymaniye Mosque to watch the sunset, and then went for dinner at a place called ‘Palatin’, near the Hagia Sophia. The food was good enough, the cats were better, and the sangria was amazing, but I never thought I’d be drinking it above the Imperial Palace! This restaurant was built on top of the ruins of the old Roman Imperial Palace, which you can partially explore if you go to the basement. You can walk down a staircase and then be inside the place that Roman and Byzantine emperors lived like it’s nothing special. Istanbul is crazy.

After dinner, a group of us headed out to the Asian side of Istanbul to get drinks. Jenya had intended to meet a friend there, and since it was the first time for most of us to be on that side of the strait, we followed her lead. Jenya's meeting place was much further away from the bars than we'd hoped, which meant a lengthy walk through entirely unfamiliar and mostly deserted streets. It was like we'd left Trafalgar Square to go to Canning Town, such was the shift in surroundings. It was another side of the city altogether; local, late night, the equivalent of an A-road, and for some reason swamped with wedding dresses. It became a crescendo of wedding dresses in shop windows, on street level and several floors above, for some inexplicable reason thanks to our limited understanding of Turkish culture. Perhaps we'd simply been walking through the Wedding District? I have absolutely no idea.

Once we did arrive, the bar was bad. Not a single drop of rum. All that effort for naught. One of our party was so tired that he fell asleep shortly after we sat down, and the rest of us were thinking similar thoughts. Gage, bless his heart, unwittingly trapped Rebecca in the bounds of social etiquette and was treated to a lengthy one-way conversation that sounded quite serious for an introductory exchange. once he'd shifted to Jenya, Rebecca and I played a silent game of "Rock, Paper, Scissors" across the table, which I'm proud to say I nearly won. Before too long we were exhausted, and after being scammed out of extra lira by a savvy taxi driver, we arrived home to end the day.

Istanbul 2021: Part 3

6th August

It was entirely too hot on Wednesday during the day, so most of us stayed inside until the afternoon. Once it was cooler, Gage, Mike, Luiz (a new addition to the gang) and I went out for some food before taking the boat tour around the Bosporus. The kabab place we found had only one item on the menu: pork kebab. The menu was more of an illustration of what to expect, and the staff took it away immediately and told us we would be having “four kebap (sic).” In fairness, it was pretty damn good. The spit was a massive mass of meat slowly rotating above a fire pit. Our meat was shaved off and crisped up a little bit more before it was served to us with a few accompaniments, including salad and yoghurt, and more than enough flatbread. It was exceptional.

The boat ride came next, and I pointed out the places I’d seen with Amin the day before. Taking a boat gives you a whole other perspective on the city. I hadn’t really noticed before as I’d been a bit distracted, but Istanbul is big. REALLY big. The bridge that connects the two continents is long and high, understated from afar but overwhelming from underneath. Ancient walls and towers peeped out from behind trees, co-habiting with new developments on the shoreline. There are palaces with ocean waves practically crashing against their gardens. Harshly angled hotels sit next to classical architecture with no care for constructive consistency. The opportunity to travel further up the strait made for a visual treat. Unfortunately for me, I was only able to see so much before the onboard photographer decided to talk to me. Normally this wouldn’t be an issue, but he took a oddly targeted interest in that fact I’m English.

“I love England! I want to marry English girl!” he told me proudly.

“That’s cool!” I replied, wondering where he was going with this.

“You can tell me what to do for English wife?” Oh dear.

“I don’t know really; all girls are their own person. I can't really generalise.”

“English girls are faithful and work hard!” Oh god.

“Sure, I guess.”

“After work here, I go to Antalya. Many English girls visit for holiday. I will find one to make her my wife.” Jesus Christ, it’s one of these guys.

“Look, I don’t think any relationship will work out if you're just dating her because of her nationality. You need to find a girl you like, get to know each other, and then decide if marriage is what you both want.”

“Yes, yes, yes...”

“OK great.”

“...so, what you say to English girls?”

This back-and-forth went on for far longer than it had any right to and made me miss much of the view on the ride back. He was pushy about staying in contact, which didn’t improve my enjoyment of the situation. Aside from that, the ride was as pretty on the way back as it was setting out.

As we arrived back at the dock, the sun had just set, but we weren't ready to go back to the hostel. We chose to wander around the area instead and see if anything caught our eye, and before long something did. We picked a mosque in the middle distance that stood higher than anything else around it, thinking it would at least have nice views of the city. The route was by no means direct however; we were four city strangers with no internal map except the knowledge that we needed to “go up.” Thanks to this stunning logic we found ourselves walking fast down side streets full of broken glass and ill-intentions, and passed by less than friendly-looking restaurants. At one point a car drove over a bottle that exploded glass shards at us, and we could see people picking through bins and throwing out a day’s worth of rubbish for some unknown reason. We didn’t hang around to ask.

Yet soon enough we were out of the unknown and moved into stonework streets, before a swift arrival at our improvised destination: Süleymaniye Mosque. The courtyard was magnificent, it really was incredible. There were high walls and elevated colonnades which could act as a seat if you looked towards the centre. Stretching up to the sky was the dome of the mosque flanked by minarets that were slightly too far apart for a group shot. All of it was illuminated by powerful lights that cast a chiaroscuro effect so grand that I had to lay on the ground to appreciate it all. I, along with my friends, had to pause out of respect for whomever designed such a brilliant building.

A Syrian woman pushing a pram came up to Mike and Gage for a conversation I was too far away from to hear, but I got the gist of even so. She clasped her hands together pleadingly, and they shook their heads apologetically. Then it was my turn. I couldn’t tell if she was being genuine when she said she was a refugee, since I’ve been trained to be cynical from years in London. Had I had any lira on me I would still have given some, but I did not. And so, I once again experienced guilt so strong I felt I had to justify my inability to help when discussing it with the others.

In any case, we next flirted with the idea of heading inside the mosque, which despite their assumptions we were allowed to enter; shoeless, of course. Almost as soon as we entered, we were approached by a volunteer that spoke immaculate English. He was Palestinian, and from the hour or so conversation about Islam that proceeded it was clear that he was extremely passionate about his faith.

He was eager to share it with others what started out as a simple explanation of some of the finer points of Islam, but developed into indiscreet proselytizing. Mike made it clear that he wasn’t interested in Islam on any level other than academically. Luiz was barely spoken to which was uncomfortable for everyone. By the end, the volunteer said that there was still “potential” for Gage and I, but that Mike was a lost cause. Again, Luiz was forgotten. We thought it was a little odd to use the word “potential” considering he’s meant to help everyone reach the faith. Maybe Mike didn’t fit into the grand scheme? Who knows. Mike didn't seem to mind. Once we’d extracted ourselves from what had admittedly been a very interesting philosophical discussion, we took in the sweeping view of a late night Istanbul from the gardens and headed back to end the day.

We were starving by this point, and it was getting late enough that few places were open anymore. Mike decided he couldn't wait any longer and bought a takeaway that was clearly comprised of the last of the day's food. His review was summarised in a regretful smile after the first bite, swiftly followed by a quiet "this is awful." The rest of us meanwhile discovered perhaps the best part about nightlife in Istanbul: corn on the cob. There's nothing quite like walking around Hagia Sophia with a freshly grilled cob of corn, which is a sentence I never thought I'd write in my life. You would have thought that late-night kebabs would be the food of choice for street vendors here, but no. A shocking last-minute twist.

Escape From Iran

The following is a narration of my interview with Alam Hamidi, organised by topic into a more readable format. I have taken certain liberties with language where the translation was unclear, but otherwise have tried to stay as close to the translation as possible. All relevant material from the interview will be included at the bottom of the article.

Image by Rahim Ahwaz [Middle East Monitor]

I first meet Alam in our room at Heraklion Youth Hostel. He is asleep in the middle of the day, turned away from the open window to avoid the strong Cretan sun. In a dormitory that would normally fit twelve travellers, only two of us are resident. Coronavirus has hit the business hard and overall occupancy is barely a third of what it would usually be in July. Yet here we both were. Once I unpack my essentials and lock my valuables in the safe, I slip away as quietly as I can.

Now much later in the evening, I am sitting on the patio that connects the dormitories to the roof, on a tiny table opposite a tall potted plant and an outside sink. The heat has reduced considerably. A few small bugs circle around the overhead light, and I can hear the dull rumblings of cars moving closer to and further away from the hostel.

I am writing the next entry in my travel journal, which I was hoping to complete before the night grew too late for me to focus. I begin the passage on Hersonissos when I am joined by the man from my room, finally awake. He sits down next to me, and we both introduce ourselves. His name is Alam, and he has fled here from Iran.

Over the next hour and a half, and entirely through Google Translate, he tells me his story of physical abuse, his flight from the country, the family he had to leave behind, and his hopes of a final sanctuary in Europe. I let him guide the conversation, interjecting only for clarification or for follow-up questions. This is an account of that conversation.

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When he reported the irregularities, he was threatened by the Guards to ignore it, and when he refused to ignore the issue, he was beaten.

Alam lights a cigarette before he begins. Two years ago, he was living in Ahwaz (Ahvaz), in the Khuzestan region of Iran, with his wife and three children. He was the Head of the Department of Inspection for the Revolutionary Guards, a position he earned after a twenty-two-year career starting at nineteen. This position was well-paid, affording him and his family a house better than other families in that area and bringing him close to such high-profile figures as Qasem Soleimani,who he shows me a picture of. But his lifestyle was not without caveats. Though ethnically Arab, he was promoted in part for his unwillingness to speak Arabic at work, as well as his refusal to wear Arabic clothing outside of his home. He could enjoy a privileged position only so long as he ignored his cultural identity. He was monitored outside of work to assess his continued compliance to this end.

One day at work, he noticed inconsistencies in the accounts that indicated theft of funds by the government. “They did not like when you find and report (irregularities) to the government, but I did,” he tells me through the translator. When he reported the irregularities, he was threatened by the Guards to ignore it, and when he refused to ignore the issue, he was beaten. He points out exactly how they broke his thumb, his leg, and which ribs had been kicked hard enough to crack. “I wore Arabic clothes outside the office. I should not have worn Arabic clothes. I spoke Arabic in the office.” He was fired after over two decades of service. Whilst he was still in Iran, he was harassed because he was unemployed. “My government did not want me to succeed,” he says. He was scared enough to flee Iran with the help of his brothers, even though it meant leaving his family behind.

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I ask him about his family. He breathes deeply on his cigarette and blows smoke up into the air before he stubs it out in the overflowing ashtray. He shows me pictures of his remaining family in Ahwaz; his wife Zynab, and his three grown children Nagin, Faezeh, and Hussein. Together, he and his family are just some of the numerous Iranian Arabs hoping to escape to Europe. He shows me images of life in Ahwaz, of the poverty that exists there among the Arab population. He makes a point of informing me again that his family lived better due to his job. Now that he was gone, his wife was working odd jobs, including selling printer cartridges (this may have been a mistranslation). He does not mention what his children do, only that all of them are looking to leave Iran as well.

“How long has it been since you’ve seen your family?” I ask.

“Two years,” is the reply. “I cannot talk to them because their phones are being tapped.” I offer him my phone instead, but he declines to use it. “The government checks everything. (It is) becoming like North Korea.” He has been stoic throughout the conversation so far, never betraying his feelings outside of a few pauses. However, it is clear the conversation about his family has reminded him of better times. I offer to give him a hug that he accepts, and he lights a second cigarette before we continue.

It looks as if the children are sitting on the edge of a pond of black sludge perhaps less than a hundred metres from their homes.

I ask him what his plan is now; where was he going and what was he doing? He was certainly not comfortable in Greece, though he has managed to find a job selling cars and houses.

“I want to go to Toulouse, to Paris, and into Germany. Germany is better than Greece, but England is the best. I would like to go to England, but it is too hard for refugees to enter. Greece is too poor. Not a good place to bring my family.” He takes his time typing out the next line into the translator as he tries to find the right words. “I wish I could have gone to France tonight. For two or three years I have tried to go to France, Italy, anywhere.” He plans to send for his family once he has made it to Germany and established himself there, which may take another year or so. “I need to get a car, and a big house for my wife.”

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At this point Alam chooses to change the subject to Iran itself, and the reality of living in Iran as an ethnic Arab.

He describes Ahwaz as a beautiful place that is being destroyed by the Iranian government. “One hundred years ago, Ahwaz was its own country. Sheikh Khazal was the ruler. Then Reza Khan Pahlavi invaded for the oil.” He shows me pictures of Arabs living in beside what I assume to be oil fields. It looks as if the children are sitting on the edge of a pond of black sludge perhaps less than a hundred metres from their homes. The next picture he shows me is of flooding in the streets, and he explains that they have no more access to water than what the government allocates to them. “95% of Iranian oil is in Ahwaz. South Iran is bad. Iran sells oil to help Syria/ Yemen/ Hezbollah. The Iranian government are terrorists.” I ask him if he believed they were terrorists even whilst he worked for them. He replies, “my family is harassing me because I worked with the military.” In this instance, the intent was certainly lost in translation as he does not seem to agree with his own reply. He repeats that his family loves him, and the government is bad. Either he has dodged the question, or the translation (of my question or his response) was poor enough that neither of us understood each other. Whatever the case may be, he moves onto his next point.

“Iranian Arabs do not have freedom of expression, or a state – and companies do not hire them. The government is trying to disperse the Arabs in Ahwaz to other cities. (It’s) because we are the neighbours of our brothers Arag (Iraq). We both speak Arabic, and both our second languages are Persian.” I ask him if the Arab population has tried to change their circumstances over time, through political or social movements. “Arabs are fighting against the government, for one hundred (years, on and off again).”

“It’s sad how little I know of Iran, only the bad things,” I say. Alam nods in acknowledgement; he understands the publicity his country has in the West is not positive.

“Only China likes Iran because of the money. (It is) Iran’s humiliation (that) the money does not stay in Iran to help Iranians. That’s why young people leave the country. The people are good, (it is) the government (that is) bad.”

Alam then lights his third and final cigarette. By now we have been talking for the better part of two hours, and I can understand that he has exhausted all he wants to say about his personal situation.

“I wish I could have gone to France tonight. For two or three years I have tried to go to France, Italy, anywhere.”

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The rest of the conversation takes the form of a list of facts, rather than an interview. He shows me things unconnected to his individual experiences, trying to convince me of the cleverness and good nature of the Iranian people. I need no convincing, which I tell him; my own experience of Iranians has always been positive, but I understand what he is trying to say. I understand the distinction between the government and the people quite clearly by this point.

“My brothers helped me escape; they can help you enter. You should visit. The people are hospitable.” The last comment on the state of Iran is to do with coronavirus. He explains that no Iranians have been vaccinated or have been helped by the government during the pandemic. We end after this, as Alam says he has nothing left to talk to me about. I thank him for talking to me about his situation and ask if I had his consent to publish our interview. He gives his consent, and even insists that I should not alter any of their names. “The government already knows who I am.” I agree that this is a fair point.

After this, he goes up to the balcony to finish his cigarette. I finish my notes before I go to bed for the night. The next morning, I see him packing his bags and stripping the bed; he is leaving for another hostel in a different town. Before he leaves, I thank him again for the interview, and then with a wave and a smile, he disappears out the door.

It is remarkable to think how varied the people you meet on the road can be. I had never heard of the Ahwazi Arabs and the situation they face in Iran. I came away from it wishing we had had more time to talk. His recent history has taken a tragic turn that may not be fully understood by most of us, but understood all too well by far too many others. It saddened me to hear that he aspired to bring his family to the UK, but that he knew it would be too difficult to ever achieve. More than anything I hope he can see his family again. With his resourcefulness, I have no doubts he will.

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I found myself with little context for some of the points he mentioned during the interview. I felt the obligation to do further research into his story for the purposes of this article. I have included below sections of the story with relevant material from a variety of sources. For anyone interested in learning more, I would highly recommend following up as it gives more information about the events in Iran he referred to:

Map of Iran, highlighting the Khusestan region (Wikipedia)

Middle East Monitor: https://www.middleeastmonitor.com/

He shows me pictures of Arabs living in beside what I assume to be oil fields... “Iranian Arabs do not have freedom of expression, or a state – and companies do not hire them. The government is trying to disperse the Arabs in Ahwaz to other cities.”

The Hidden Side of Iran: discrimination against ethnic and religious minorities – International Federation for Human Rights (2010) (pg13-14): https://www.fidh.org/IMG/pdf/IrandiscrimLDDHI545a.pdf

“One hundred years ago, Ahwaz was its own country. Sheikh Khazal was the ruler. Then Reza Khan Pahlavi invaded for the oil...Arabs are fighting against the government, for one hundred (years, on and off again).”

Tribal Politics in Iran: Rural Conflict and the New State, 1921–1941; Cronin, S. (pg52-5)

Ahwazi Democratic Popular Front: http://adpf.org/en/

Iranian Arab Groups Who Oppose the Islamic Republic; Iranwire: https://iranwire.com/en/features/5552

The last comment on the state of Iran is to do with coronavirus. He explains that no Iranians have been vaccinated or have been helped by the government during the pandemic.

WHO Report on Iran’s Coronavirus Response: https://covid19.who.int/region/emro/country/ir

“95% of Iranian oil is in Ahwaz. South Iran is bad. Iran sells oil to help Syria/ Yemen/ Hezbollah. The Iranian government are terrorists.”

Ahvaz- Bangestan Oil Field: https://www.gem.wiki/Ahvaz-Bangestan_Oil_Field_(Iran)

Iran’s Islamist Proxies; Wilson Center: https://www.wilsoncenter.org/article/irans-islamist-proxies

Counter Extremism Project: IRGC: https://www.counterextremism.com/threat/irgc-islamic-revolutionary-guard-corps

“I want to go to Toulouse, to Paris, and into Germany. Germany is better than Greece, but England is the best. I would like to go to England, but it is too hard for refugees to enter. Greece is too poor. Not a good place to bring my family.” He pauses as he tries to find the right words for the next sentence. “I wish I could have gone to France tonight. For two or three years I have tried to go to France, Italy, anywhere.”

Migratory Map; Frontex: https://frontex.europa.eu/we-know/migratory-map/

Europe’s Unauthorized Immigrant Population Peaks in 2016, Then Levels Off; Connor, P. and S. Passel, J. (2019) (pg1-3): https://www.pewresearch.org/global/2019/11/13/europes-unauthorized-immigrant-population-peaks-in-2016-then-levels-off/

He shows me images of life in Ahwaz, of the poverty that exists there among the Arab population... It looks as if the children are sitting on the edge of a pond of black sludge perhaps less than a hundred metres from their homes. The next picture he shows me is of flooding in the streets, and he explains that they have no more access to water than what the government allocates to them.

Iran’s Plans for Ahwaz: Exploitation and Expulsion; Hamid, R. and Tsukerman, I.; https://www.dusc.org/en/drasat/9989/

Ahwazi Arab villages in south west of Iran forcibly confiscated by Iranian regime; Ahwaz Monitor (Youtube): https://youtu.be/e6qykQN3mHE

How Iran's Khuzestan went from wetland to wasteland; Tehran Bureau correspondent (The Guardian): https://www.theguardian.com/world/iran-blog/2015/apr/16/iran-khuzestan-environment-wetlands-dust-pollution