Of Gates and Toll-Takers (part 1)
The people I knew in Iran and the price we paid for our freedom
Dear readers,
Those who know me personally know I have strong views on immigration. Friends who have heard my life story have been moved by it, and many have urged me to share my experiences with the world. Rather than arguing or philosophizing, I will simply tell you what I have witnessed during my life in and out of Iran, and let you form your own opinions about the laws your country has adopted.
Please bear with me as I share these stories over time.
Thank you for reading Outliving.
-Pouya
You are shackled by one of the most oppressive societies ever to exist.
As long as you can remember, you have never been in charge of your life. What to think, which books to read, which clothes to wear, which cars to buy, which websites to access, which subjects to study, whom to love–everything has been decided for you.
You take a look at yourself in the mirror and hardly recognize yourself. Your hair, your skin, your clothes–all kept deliberately dull to keep the Guidance Patrol away. The last time you styled your hair and wore your best clothes you noticed people were staring at you. Then someone from the Guidance Patrol stopped you and searched your pockets. Then someone referred you to the Guidance Committee at your school. That was the last day you chose your looks. Similarly, you have not been allowed to decide how to speak, think, act, or even walk differently from others.
At some point in your childhood, you learned that things are not the same outside the borders. You realized that foreigners are free to become anything they wish. You fall in love with abroad and want to cherish it, understand it, and integrate yourself with it.
Days pass. Living in Iran becomes more and more painful. Self-preservation kicks in. You feel an urgent need to do something to escape your bondage. You feel that if you become free, you wouldn’t have to feel sadness or anger ever again. “Because,” you would think, “how bad can any bad thing really be if I were free to do something about it? Let the storms come, the wolves howl, the ceiling crack. Nothing would scare me as long as I’m free to do something about it.”
Pinned down and dirt-poor as you are right now, as much as a voice inside you yells “give up”, you pull yourself together, get up, and struggle to free yourself.
You cannot just walk to a different country; they will imprison you if you don’t abide by their immigration laws. So you spend countless hours searching online and reading the immigration laws of every free country you can find. They all read basically the same: Family reunion, work, study. You don’t have family abroad. And it is impossible to build the exceptional resume needed for the work visas, given the extremely poor work and education opportunities you have. A study visa is the only realistic way to go.
But the laws are written such that no matter which university you are accepted into, no matter how exceptional you are, one word is bound to block your way to freedom and opportunity: financial sufficiency. You would like a visa? Proof of financial sufficiency first. A bank statement in dollars. A letter from a sponsor.
Freedom awaits you–if you have tens of thousands of dollars.
Once upon a time, the soldiers of totalitarian states shot those who tried to cross the border. In the modern age, the gates of freedom are wide open to you who yearn for freedom–if you can afford the tolls. In Iran, where you are born, a worker’s salary is 140 dollars a month. It barely covers your sustenance. Should you skip eating 20% of the time, you should be able to buy your way to freedom . . . after working 141 years.
Of course, you could steal. And who could blame you for stealing to save your own life? But steal from whom? Not many people in Iran have ten thousand dollars to be stolen.
I knew of only one person who stole his way to freedom: his name was Hamid. Hamid’s father was a goldsmith. Hamid was gay and had hidden that from both others and himself, until one day he found himself in love with my friend, Khashi. Hamid wanted to be with him. He bought gifts for him and kissed his hand in his car in the darkness of the night. He moved to a bigger apartment and asked Khashi to move in with him. Hamid was fearless and would stand up to his family or anyone who objected to them being together. But after being seen and chased by the Guidance Patrol one night, Khashi broke. “Take back your gifts and never see me again” Khashi told him. Hamid was shocked by this abrupt breakup. He asked him why. “Why? What were you thinking? I just want to know what went down in your head?” Khashi yelled at him, “you want us to hold hands and walk down Hakim Street? Hamid! This is Iran we’re living in! They’ll find and kill us.” Hamid broke into a fit of rage and struck Khashi, the only person he loved. He had spent all 27 years of his life suppressing his sexuality because it was too dangerous.
The moment you admit you are gay in Iran, you have turned into a convict on death row. You have to spend your life running away from the gallows of a society that wants to hang you. It is hard to say how terrifying it is to be gay in Iran. The reason why the gay people executed daily in Iran do not number in the thousands is that we live in the shadows with the rapists and thieves, not because the executioners are merciful.
That is the truth that Hamid had to face. And with that, he had to face the fact that he could not survive in Iran. So he stole the two gold bars that his father was working on, liquidated them, and used the proceeds to get a visa for the UK. He called Khashi once when he arrived in London. Khashi didn’t get any more calls until two months later, he received a surprise phone call from Hamid’s sister.
This is what happened with Hamid:
He had planned to seek refugee status in the UK after using the stolen money to prove financial sufficiency to get a visa. But Hamid was not a thief. Within a week of arriving in London, he had lost his mind because he couldn’t forget what his stealing meant for his family. His father was going to be imprisoned for debt, and his mother and sisters would have to search in the trash bins for food. Hamid had reached freedom physically, but his conscience wasn’t free. Freedom at what price? Would you throw your family into the ocean to reach the shore? The overwhelming guilt of what he had done led Hamid, who had never gambled in his life, to the back alleys of a dodgy casino in London. He was gambling away all his money. And the more he lost, the more he drank. After he lost everything, he walked to the Thames River and threw himself into it. His corpse was later found and sent back to Iran for burial.