Three men, large knives strapped to their hips, jumped out of the car. They all seemed to be wearing identical, olive drab outfits. One, a tall, burly man with a crude Persian accent, ordered Modarress to switch off the motor, open the trunk, and hand him the car keys. Even in the dark, I could make out an ugly, pockmarked, unshaven face. He took my suitcase. Another disheveled man snatched my carry-on bag from the front passenger seat. The third got into the backseat beside me. In the semidarkness he looked sinister. Slivers of light glinted on his rimless eyeglasses and bald head. Astonishingly, he was grinning as he examined the contents of my handbag. “Take everything, but leave my passport and plane ticket,” I managed to say. “I am traveling tonight.”
He paid no heed. Still grinning, he took both my American and Iranian passports, my plane ticket, and my purse. He inched his way closer to me and thrust his hand into my coat pockets. The ridiculous thought crossed my mind that, in the Islamic Republic, strange men were not allowed to sit next to or look at women they did not know, let alone search their coat pockets. I pleaded again for my passport and plane ticket but to no avail. I kept praying for a passing car to stop. None did.
I heard Modarress’s voice outside the car, followed by the trunk being slammed shut. The burly man, who clearly was in charge, reappeared at my window. “Did you find everything?” he asked the man sitting beside me. The man nodded. “Okay. Let’s move.” I heard him order Modarress to sit behind the wheel and put his head down, then change his mind and order him to lie down on the front seat. Modarress meekly complied. “If you raise your head, I will break your neck; I will beat you to death. I will kill you,” he told him. He ordered me to get on the floor. “There is no room,” I said, eyeing the narrow space between the front and the back seats. “Get down, you bitch,” he said, “or I will smash your skull; I will kill you. Do as you are told.” In minute, they were gone. As I raised my head, I noticed that the license plate on the Peugeot was splattered with mud—I couldn’t read a single number.
Modarress raised his head from the seat. “We were robbed,” he said. His voice was shaky. “We have to report this to the highway police.”
“We don’t have a phone,” I said. My cell phone had been taken, along with my purse and baggage. Modarress said they hadn’t taken his cell phone—a much-prized possession in Tehran. They hadn’t taken his wallet, either. Or my Cartier wristwatch. Or the necklace I was wearing.
The highway police told Modarress that we should stay put and wait for them. I used Modarress’s cell phone to call my mother. “How quickly you got to the airport,” she said. I told her what had happened and quickly added, “But I’m not harmed, nor is Modarress.” All her life, my mother had experienced severe coughing attacks when she was upset. As I held the phone to my ear, I could hear her hard, uneven breathing and the inevitable coughing fit that followed. I tried to reassure her. “Who cares about the lost bags?” I said. “I am alive and they didn’t harm me.”
LIKE A REFUGEE
Although I was frightened and disconcerted, my mind was also focused on practical matters. I asked my mother to phone my sister, Hayedeh, in Vienna and my husband, Shaul, in Potomac, Maryland, outside Washington, to tell them what had happened. I also asked her to call my travel agent and have him cancel my ticket.
I got out of the car and stood by the side of the road, staring down the dark, empty highway. I was buffeted by conflicting emotions. I was grateful I hadn’t been kidnapped, injured, or killed. Like every other visitor to Tehran, I had heard of people being abducted from their cars or homes and held for ransom; I had heard of the armed robberies, which had increased in recent years. I had also read of Iranians being beaten up and thrown, half-dead, into alleys—the ugly handiwork, it was thought, of the secret police. But I was still in one piece. I had not been knifed by my assailants. They had not hit me, broken my jaw. I was grateful to be alive.
But I had lost all of my belongings and money. Worse, I had lost my Iranian identification cards and my Iranian and American passports. I dreaded the many days of red tape and bureaucracy that I knew lay ahead. I felt like a refugee from some war-torn country, without papers, without proof of identity, unable to travel. Despite my wool coat with its fur collar, I was cold and numb. I was astonished that not one of the cars that drove by stopped to offer help, but prostitution is rampant in and around Tehran. They probably think I am one of them, I thought ruefully, standing on a highway in the middle of the night.
I was startled when two men emerged from behind the bushes along the island dividing the highway. They, too, seemed to be wearing olive drab outfits. They spoke quietly to Modarress. Then, as suddenly as they had appeared, they left. I asked Modarress who they were. “They are members of the highway patrol,” he said. I thought it strange that their outfits were seemingly identical to those of the men who had just robbed us. Besides, I had never heard of a highway patrol appearing on foot. I said as much to Modarress. He did not reply.
It took an hour for a police car to show up. Two officers, neat and businesslike in their uniforms, motioned for us to get into the back of the police car. I had been standing on the highway with Modarress as we waited for the police, not wishing to sit in our car after the robbery. I was now grateful to be out of the cold, but Modarress, mindful of Iranian protocol, preferred to stand outside and answer the officers’ questions through the window. As we gave a detailed account of the robbery, the policemen shook their heads, as if in disbelief. They exchanged glances when Modarress described the make and color of the car and the clothes our assailants were wearing, but they continued to take notes and said nothing. They asked for and wrote down the usual particulars: my name, address, date of birth, place of birth, ID number, contents of suitcase, carry-on bag, and purse. They had me sign the completed report, gave me a copy, and told me to take it to the police station at Shahrak-e Gharb, a seven-minute car ride from Mutti’s apartment. I didn’t know how we were going to get to the police station or home, since Modarress had surrendered his car keys during the robbery. But Modarress said he kept a spare key in the car, and we drove off.
At two-thirty in the morning, the police station had an abandoned look to it. A sleepy guard registered our names and took away Modarress’s cell phone. The sole officer on duty seemed uninterested in our story. “There is no one here,” he said, sweeping his arm across the empty room, as if we needed convincing. “Go home and report back first thing in the morning.”
All the lights were on in my mother’s apartment in the otherwise dark building. The caretaker let me in. I sent Modarress home and told him to come back at seven a.m. He said he would go back to the scene of the robbery to look for my Iranian passport and papers, since it was quite common for thieves to take the money and valuables from a purse and throw everything else on the side of the road. He thought they would keep the American passport.
In the apartment, my mother was fully dressed, waiting for me. We embraced and repeated, more than once, that the important thing was that I was safe. I called Shaul and Hayedeh. I still thought this was a simple robbery, and Shaul agreed with me.
It was nearly dawn. Mother took two pills and went to bed. I collapsed on a sofa and dozed off in a fitful sleep.
GETTING A NEW PASSPORT
Over the next three days, I went about the tedious business of getting my life back in order and replacing my stolen passport. Since I was familiar with Iranian bureaucracy, I began contacting friends, trying to find people who could intercede on my behalf to cut through the delays and red tape. My first call the morning after the robbery was to my cousin Farhad. “How’s Vienna?” he asked. I told him I was still in Tehran. “Has something happened to Mutti?” he replied. I told him about the robbery. He was suddenly quiet. “I’ll come over right away.”
Farhad is several years younger