Dealing opium in Iran during Ramadam

Before the recent International Qud’s day demonstrations, the streets of Tehran took a well deserved repose from the post-election riots, veiling itself under the Zen-like euphoria that comes with starving—err fasting—from sunup to sundown during the Islamic holy-month of Ramadan.

A few nights ago, I was invited to eftari (the Islamic fast-breaking dinner) at my aunt’s house in northern Tehran—a few blocks from bazaar-e Tajrish. Not having seen this side of my family for several years—and not wanting to show up like what Iranians jokingly refer to as a “Jewish or Armenian” guest (i.e., empty-handed), I coordinated a rendezvous at the bazaar with my 27-year-old cousin, Arash, so that he could help me pick out a couple dinner party knickknacks.

Around 6 PM (two hours before eftari), I met Arash by the western entrance of the bazaar at the Emam Zadeh mausoleum. Arash greeted me with the familial kiss on both cheeks, and an offer to split a hashish and Bahman tobacco spliff in a side alley before shopping. “Batch-e-Amreekai (American boy), the last time I saw you I wasn’t sure if your balls had dropped, so I never offered you any—” he then jabbed at the all too familiar Orientalist stereotype, “it’ll be fun, like Aladdin on his magical carpet, except you’ll be a little higher and more starving!”

Aladdin’s carpet ride was more like reliving stoner freshman-year memories of afternoon munchie tours through Berkley’s Sunday outdoor market. Only this time it wasn’t a hippie market, but a bazaar—with riot police on patrol, and with what seemed like a few hundred sweaty, hungry, low-tempered Tehranis.

Thanks to not having eaten since 6 AM, the munchies, and Iran’s fucking ever growing economic inflation, I wiped out half of my week’s budget on a few kilos of marinated olives, pickled vegetables, peaches, apricots, and half of a ruby red watermelon. And had it not been for the riot police fixed around the bazaar and the ensuing paranoia, I would have unashamedly snacked on a few olives while we weaved through the flood of last minute eftari grocery shoppers. (At one point, two teenage boys wearing knock-off Burberry hats with Lady GaGa blasting out of their shared mp3 ear buds squeezed alongside us. The more tenacious of the two, who was chanting “Allah Akbar” under his breath, hoped that my cousin and I would follow, while the other zoning out to “Poker Face” lifelessly replied, “Forget it, everyone’s starving.”)

Following Arash’s lead, we passed through a few side paths that detoured around the mass of growling stomachs. As we reached the end of the tight alley, where it led to the bazaar’s exit/mausoleum, a crowd of shoppers and spectators began circling around a ragtag group of crying kid beggars being arrested by lebas shakhsi (undercover police).

Most of the kids came to their senses and voluntarily dumped out their boxes of Chinese counterfeit Band-Aids, Fall-e Hafez (Hafez poem cards), then (oddly enough) their shoes into black duffle bags. The more hardheaded clinched onto their merchandise and dragged their feet while exposing themselves to more public shaming by sadistic police clubbing their pre-pubescent bottoms.

One middle-aged woman with bleach blond highlights and Moussavi-green stilettos tried to intervene, “Agha, mister, it’s Ramadan! Why are you hitting them like they’re sacrificial goats?”

Five of the six lebas shakhsi ignored her protest. One finally turned his attention and shouted, “Who the hell are you, their nanny?”

Feeling he had to justify his outburst to the encircling crowd, he added “—they bus these illegal Afghanis here every morning from southern Tehran and bus them back at night, some stay up here and sleep in the alleys,” then redirected his rationalization to the degraded women, “Madam, this week it’s opium and hashish, next week it’s crack, ecstasy, and heroin!”

After hearing the officer announce the children were Afghani, the crowd began to disperse and spread the word: “It’s nothing, just Afghani kids from southern Tehran.”

I was too high to remember if I asked one of the lebas shakhsi to let me get a few shots of the kids after they were publicly humiliated or if I just took my camera and started snapping, but Arash grabbed my arm after he saw me trying to focus on a shot, “Kheyng (Idiot)! What are you doing? We need to get out of here!”

Arash hailed a taxi after sprinting back through the bazaar’s alleys. When I asked Arash what the rush was and where we were going, he snapped “Listen—I need to get something for Omid [his 18 year-old brother]. I didn’t want you to see this, and never tell anyone in the family that I was the one that told you—” Arash, eyeing the cabbie to see if he was eavesdropping, lowered his voice and finally explained why the paternal side of his family was always a no-show at reunions:

After the ‘79 revolution, Hayedeh, Arash’s mother, dreamed of leaving Iran. While she was finishing her psychology graduate studies at Tehran University, she met an Afghani poli-sci doctoral student, Mostafa. Seeking political asylum after the first years of the Soviet Invasion of Afghanistan, Mostafa came to Iran during a time when Ayatollah Khomeini opened Iran to all refugees, claiming “Islam has no borders.” In hopes of using Mostafa’s refugee visa as a means of leaving Iran and globetrotting, Fatima married Mostafa.

Mostafa knocked up Fatima, giving birth to Arash a month before the scheduled marriage. Even after their awkward marriage ceremony, the Iranian government never considered their union official—foiling Fatima’s aspirations of studying psychoanalysis in the West. The future for their sons didn’t look any more promising either. According to Iranian law, Arash and Omid’s births were seen as illegitimate because their father is a non-citizen Afghani. This consequently forfeited them any chance of obtaining a shenas nameh (an Iranian birth certificate)—the bare necessity required for legal employment, medical insurance, and geographical mobility.

Fast-forwarding a few decades of identity crises, political and social harassment, and bribery at Tehran’s Azad University, Arash has managed to continue his engineering studies—although it remains uncertain whether Iran’s Ministry of Education will certify his PhD. This summer Omid was indefinitely barred from taking the concour (Iran’s annual college entrance exam), just like all the other Afghan and Iraqi refugees this year.

“Omid’s nerves are always crushed. He’s constantly stressing about his recent bald spots, his eyelashes have started falling out, too. Maman doesn’t really do anything constructive to help. She treats him like one of her clinical patients and keeps prescribing Xanax, but he prefers the stuff I get him from the kids at the bazaar.”

We decided to hop out of the cab a few blocks away from Vanak Square just as it hit a standstill after inching along Tehran’s evening traffic.

Before giving us change on our fare, the cabbie broke his silence, “I’m not sure what your generation is into, but the little Afghanis by Vanak Bazaar have pretty good teriyak [opium] and hashish fresh from Zahedan.”

It didn’t take us very long to find the kids. We spotted a Band-Aid peddler chasing after the manteau of teenage girl outside of a bodega at Vanak Square, “if you’re not going to buy anything, can I give a kiss? At least a smile?”

The boy didn’t look like he could be any older that 10 or 12, but from my first impression he talked like a sexually frustrated 18-year-old. “She’s definitely na salem,” he said, which directly translates to “not proper,” often used as a derogatory slur for unmarried and sexually active women. In Iran, the majority of unmarried women who are sexually active but fear social humiliation refrain from breaching the hymen and opt for anal penetration. “Did you see the way she stuck out her ass?”

Arash didn’t want to rush the deal and get his little brother bunk teriyak. After ten minutes of pressing the kid to sample his shit, Arash gave up and entered the bodega to get it straight from his source.

While I stood outside watching Tehran’s traffic blasting car horns in opposition to Ahmadinejad, I took the opportunity to talk to some of the kids, Abdul and Karim, running back and forth in front of the store.

Vice: Is this what you do to make money after school?
Abdul: Haji, what school? The only kids that go to school are koonies [literally meaning “buttholers,” the equivalent of “fag”] or their parents are koonies, and they got them into those schools.

Why are you calling them “koonies”?
Because they bend over for the Ministry of Education system and eventually end up like us, out on the streets. Or, they end up like our fathers working construction or like our mothers in a basement knitting all day—are you going to buy a pack of tissues or not?

Sure, but I just have a few more questions. How much longer do you think you’ll be dealing before you go back to Afghanistan?
[Abdul and Karim both laugh]

Karim: I was born here, so was my entire family for the last two generations. Ahmadinejad is trying to kick us all out, but where are we supposed to go? We’ll be here until rooz-e geeyamat [the day of the apocalypse], or until we get caught. But what difference does it make? The mullah’s law says dealing should be punished by death.

What do you think about the recent presidential election in Afghanistan?
What should I think about it? There are one million legal Afghan refugees in Iran and more in Pakistan. None of them were allowed to vote. Karzai or Abdullah will do nothing as long as America and NATO are calling the shots. Haji! I just gave you a politics lessons, buy some Band-Aids!

Arash finally came out with his eyes half open, “Everything’s good. It’s almost 8 PM, we might miss tonight’s prayer, but if we leave now we’ll get back in time for eftari.”

At the last minute I decided to get something for Omid, too. I tossed the two a five-thousand toman bill (approx. $5). Both the kids went over to the side of the store and knelt down. Karim took off his right shoe and stashed the money. Abdul took off his right shoe and pulled out the baggie.

We got to Arash’s around 9:30 PM to see that the whole family (including my maman boozorg, grandmother) was waiting patiently around the table for us to arrive. I kissed maman boozorg hello and took up the seat at the far right end of the table next to Omid. Aunt Hayedeh had spent the afternoon and evening cooking up ghormet-sabzi stew, ghormet-fesenjan stew, saffron rice with tah-deeg, salad-e Shirazi, and mint and cucumber yogurt. She also laid out several servings of her home-marinated olives and fresh herbs.

No one had eaten since 6 AM. With our mouths full, we kept the table talk to a minimum. In between spoonfuls of stew, rice, and salad, I debated with myself on how to go about getting seconds of the ghormet-fesenjan without overtly eyeing Omid’s bald spots on his scalp and brow.

As I reached for the stew, Omid nudged me with his elbow. I looked up and locked onto his receding right eyebrow. He leaned up against my left ear and whispered, “It’s almost 10 o’clock—let’s go up on the roof.”

Up there, Arash, Omid, and I stood in silence for a good ten minutes. I rolled a spliff with the shit I got from the Afghan kids and offered it to Omid. Just as he was about to light up, we heard the first “ALLAH AKBAR (God is Great)!” blare out two buildings away. Several seconds passed, and a second call to protest came from the adjacent building. In roughly half a minute the whole neighborhood had ignited in a back and forth of “Allah Akbar.”

We smoked and listened until 10:30. When the nightly protest began to quiet down, I asked my cousins why the Green Movement wasn’t back in the streets protesting the election results.

Omid was the first to answer, “The people need to be fearless again. And that’s hard when you see Mr. Abtahi—an ayatollah and former vice-president—up on public TV confessing to having participated in a ‘velvet-revolution,’ or when you frequently hear rumors that young men and women arrested during the post-election protests are being raped and tortured to the point that they tear their internal organs—” Omid stopped himself, walked to the ledge of the roof and yelled as if he intended to destroy his larynx, “MARG BAR DICTATOR (Death to the Dictator)!”

Arash continued, “For some, this is just a movement to restore the Islamic Republic and force Ahmadinejad’s resignation. But for people like us, it’s the continuation of a greater civil rights movement that took a hiatus back in ‘79.”

On that note we went back downstairs for some Iranian pastries and tea, and to listen to Aunt Hayedeh’s psychoanalysis of Ahmadinejad and his speculated Jewish heritage.