Couchsurfing in Iran: Revealing a Hidden World

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WHEN YOU’RE SCARED, really, really scared stiff, when you think, “This, this is it,” then your perceptions become doubly keen. The brain switches to red alert—only the here and now count. There’s no room for peripheral things. I know that I’ve reached this state when I cannot even recall my zip code when questioned by the police.

I’m sitting in the interview room of the Iranian police. The furnishings consist of a large desk with a Samsung computer, a lower glass table in the middle of the room, and seven chairs with the plastic wrap still covering the brown leather upholstery. A small door leads to the entrance area and another door to a corridor with further offices. The light green wall is adorned with the national emblem: four crescent moons and a sword. Next to it hang the obligatory portraits of the dictators. Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini looks on, sinister as ever. Supreme Leader, Grand Ayatollah Khamenei, however, has a broad grin—I have never seen him look like this. Maybe it’s because he is in his element in places like this.

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