Tehran – An Old Friend

An accidental meeting on Internet made me finding my old friend.

Her name is Dina, but Indonesian bloggers knew her as ‘bundakirana’ (http://bundakirana.multiply.com). I actually don’t check Internet quite often except only for emails, chat, and news. But that day, when I was quite bored in an Internet Café in Esfahan, I found out her message on a traveling forum:
“Soon I am going back to my home, leaving Iran, where I have spent my 8 years. I am thinking of writing a book about traveling in Iran. So I want to ask your suggestions of what should I include in my travel writing, for example what stuff that Indonesian readers might be interested.”

I replied her message by saying that I was also, by accident, in Iran. I invited her to visit my blog as well. Out of my expectation Dina was enthusiastic in replying my message and even to meet me when I returned back to Tehran. She tried to arrange everything for me, but she also had some limitation of her work and family. But she asked a friend of her to host me for some days, thus we would be able to arrange a meeting by then.

Her friend was Ali Reza, an Indonesian guy. ‘Ali Reza’ was not quite common names for Indonesians. The name was more Iranian. But Dina insisted that he was an Indonesian. Of course, he was. Later I knew that ‘Reza’ was Farsi version of Indonesian ‘Ridho’ (from Arabic).

Ali Reza’s apartment was conveniently located near Shahid Moffateh metro station. That’s the reason why Dina arranged me to stay here. Later in Reza’s house, I found that both Dina and Reza worked for Islamic Republic of Iran Broadcasting, Indonesian language department. So they were journalists, even if Reza said that they rarely wrote by themselves and their main work was Farsi-Indonesian translation.

Reza said that he was actually not living alone. He had two flatmates, one from Afghanistan and one from Pakistan. At first he worried I might be uncomfortable with this. He insisted, “Just be relax, brother. They are nice people. Our house is always open for you.”

Reza then introduced me to his Afghan flat mate. He was a young guy in his twenties, neatly clothed, and his face was cleanly shaved. I noticed his eyes were small, typical of Mongoloid Afghan ethnic of Hazara, the majority of Afghan ethnic in Iran.
“Are you Hazara?” I asked him.
“No, I am a Pashtun. I am from Wardak,” he said.
I was surprised. I remembered this conversation, but I just couldn’t remember where. Was it a déjà vu?

We talked in Farsi, with strong Afghan dialect, of which Iranians might dislike to hear. Dari, Afghan dialect of Farsi, was not only oriented to out-of-dated, villageness, backwardness, undevelopment, but also to stubbornness, fanaticism, cruelty, and all other pejorative feelings that came together with decades of war in Afghanistan. But for us, it was like a nostalgia, of two people from the same kampong speaking their kampong tongue.

The man introduced himself as Abdullah Elham. He asked me in which institution I was affiliated in Afghanistan. I mentioned Pajhwok (http://www.pajhwok.com).
He was surprised.
“Hey, don’t say that you were the Indonesian photographer I met in Kandahar!”
Wait, wait, wait, I needed to dig up my piles of memory. In Kandahar? I remembered I met a Pajhwok journalist in his hotel room, of who my deepest impression was about making news only by the help of telephone: ring here, call there, without even leaving the little room. But I was sure the guy in front of me was not him.

&#8220o you remember?” asked him again, evaporated my journey of past memory. “I was the guy who was robbed by Taliban! I lost everything but the only clothes on my body.”

It couldn’t be him. Or could it? I remembered a poor boy in dirty shalwar kameez with unshaved face, miserable but still tried hard to keep his smile, to look happy and optimistic. I remembered a guy grieving for his lost of thousands of dollars, a laptop, mobile phones, everything. But from his mourning he still suggested me to go to Nimruz if I wanted to take photos that can be sold for high prices. Was it him? For names, I couldn’t help. I have met hundreds of people in this journey and it was impossible to remember all names.

Abdullah Elham successfully came back to my memory. His story was so touching that I put immediately in my blog (http://avgustin.net/blog/index.php?title=july_10_2006_kandahar_from_the_heartland&more=1&c=1&tb=1&pb=1#comments). He mentioned names of our old friends in Pajhwok office, like Danish, Javad, Farida, etc and it became an unexpected reunion, from Kandahar to the heart of modern Tehran. Elham said he was so lucky then. The photos he took in Nimruz were sold out hundreds of dollars each. When he returned to Kabul many media would like to interview him about his experience of being robbed (this is an example that a journalist does not only make news but also may become news). He was too shocked and depressed that he refused to talk to anybody. But now he became a happy and optimistic young man again, even sometimes he grieved that in his work in Iran, he had to tell many lies (Dina said he might meant he had to write something that opposed to his heart). Elham said, being journalist in this country was not like in Afghanistan, where America had brought freedom of speech. Here all news shouldn’t oppose government’s vision, and he had once criticized by the editor for the news he made from Afghanistan. “Hey, you are supporter of America, aren’t you?” said the editor angrily. Nevertheless, working in Iran, despite of lower salary compared to Afghanistan, promised a better quality of life. What’s life there in the neighboring country? No electricity, no water, no road, only fighting is there.

I felt sorry with Ali Reza, as he was my host but now he became passive listener of our reunion. Elham continued by reminding me about the female journalist coming with me. He meant Lam Li, the Malaysian girl, ex journalist from Malaysian ‘the Star’. “Yes, she. You know, you two were lucky to leave Kandahar soon. When did you leave Kandahar?”
“Errrh…., three or four days after we met,” I said.
“Good timing! You did well! You know the police commandant already put Lam Li in the target list. He suspected she was American spy or something. He asked me who she was. I answered she was journalist. But the commandant insisted, if she was journalist then to which newspaper she worked, what was her permit, etc etc. So, according to him, she must be an American spy. You were lucky to leave Kandahar soon.”

Elham browsed through my photos which I took in Afghanistan during the difficult days of hitching around the country. He praised, “This is how a journalist should be! Not only sitting in a room and just make phone calls like Zabuli!”
Elham was too happy for this unexpected encounter. He invited me to have dinner. Talking too much about our past days, we had forgotten about Ali Reza who left us quietly to allow us talk more freely of our nostalgia.

The second day, when Elham met Dina in their office, he spoke full of emotion, “Thank you Dina, for finding out my lost friend. Without you, I don’t know how to find him anymore.”

Two days later I also met Dina, and some other Indonesians and a Malaysian woman working in the office. Dina and the Malaysian woman were fully wrapped in long black Iranian chador. I was surprised to see that as in Tehran it was more common that young women wore short hejab, showing little bit part of their hair, and tight jeans with trendy jacket. The conservative choice of dressing of Dina, as she said, was part of their work.
“This is office uniform,” said Dina.
“We have to respect them,” said the other. In news agency office in Iran, there were also mulla (akhund), Islamic priests, who also work as journalists. The akhunds went to office in their great costume of long cloak with turban. The akhund journalists also worked the same as what other journalists do. Islamic Republic of Iran was indeed different from the two neighboring Islamic Republics.

I said to Dina, “Thank you for finding out my old friend…” Somehow the same wording as what Elham said automatically flew out my mouth.
It is a small world, isn’t it?