tears

As her head disappears in the back window of the taxi, taking her back to France (via taxi, bus and plane), tears slowly start coming up to my eyes. Her taxi goes, her bike in a cardboard box, and the cardboard box in the boot. Her little head, with mirror glasses that hide her eyes and her green scarf that gives her more the looks of a Babouchka than a woman complying to Irani muslim rule, vanishes in Hamedan's tumultuous life. Tears for the end of a 3-some adventure, 3 weeks cycling together. Our little Gwenael is leaving, and with her a bit of familiarity and reinforced friendship.

But as we head back on the road, towards Tabriz, those small tears get bigger and bigger, turning into a torrent... As I am trying to ride around the many obstacles laid on the road to Hamedan, I cannot stop those crocodile's tears to flow.... What the hell is happening? Are my tears still rational, measured? Suddenly, with surprising clarity, I understand. I understand these tears are much more than the result of a good friend departing. They are the outcome of weeks spent in Pakistan first, and in Iran next, during which we had to bear witness, we had to contain anger and storms. Weeks during which we were forced to accept, and finally weeks during which we had to keep silent and smile.

They are tears of anger against those men. Upset tears at the memory, so vivid, of these insults towards the female gender. Sad tears for those women. Annoyed tears for the youth. Happy tears for the many and one welcomes. Tears of misunderstanding for a country made of extremes. Tears of hope that sometimes find it hard to still believe when faced with trampled dreams and such stupidly harsh realities. Tears coming from our hearts and bodies, that have received so much over those few weeks, from awesome hospitality to police power demonstrations. Hearts and bodies that have received so much without being able to give enough. All of these times we've had to obey the rules of the Iranian state, without disputing them, with a smile even, to make it easier. All of these times we've had to face the real issue that is the Iranian youth today, unemployed and lacking social landmarks. All of these days we have worn and seen the headscarf worn... All of these times have just been stacking up, one on top of the other, to end up in a big flow of tears, that does not seem to stop.

We have truely loved it, this country, made of thousand colours and incredible hospitality. The 40, 50, 60 something generation gives us lessons of openness and warm welcome. There is no end to those gifts: fruit, food, tea and even persian carpet! Or even, a shovel one night, given by a farmer as we are setting up camp, "so that we can defend ourselves against bandits at night"... We have lengthy discussions around the world map or a globe, where we are from, where we are going, what's beyond Iran's borders. They are thirsty for more knowledge. This english teacher, who was forced to change to arabic teaching after the islamic revolution, tells us about what he knows of New Zealand. This couple in Tabriz, who give us a ride to get into town, tells us about Australia. In Aligudarz, a young accountant sits down on the ground with us, he wants to speak english with us. While his neighbors make us tea, and Yvoine goes and finds some lunch, Mike quite stoically gives him some vocabulary lessons. I will remember for a long time this young man's smile and pride when I got back and he announced to me, introducing himself, "I am a bean counter"! This other english teacher tells us about the importance she gives to her students being opened to the world and exposed to what's beyond Iran's borders. They are so many to engage in conversation, to start a relationship, to give, to be happy to meet us. Never will we face indifference in Iran. We trigger reactions... from extremely good to extremely bad.

Because to counter balance such warm and strong hospitality, we face a totally difference reality. We are at best witnesses of it, most of the time clashing against it.

A reality made of those policemen driving their brand new E-class mercedes, who don't even step out of their vehicle to talk to us. Who will simply yell at us through their speaker system. Who so represent the arrogance, the rigidity and the heavy presence of a state that attempts to control everything. We are miles away from the Pakistani police, that had relayed each other over 500 km to escort us through Baluchistan, giving us peaches, cups of tea, biscuits and watermelons, singing and asking questions.

Those policemen who more than once will stop for the Iranis who come and talk to us and tell them off for precisely doing that. We will learn later that one needs a permit in Iran in order to talk to tourists (even though most Iranis don't seem to care too much about that...).

Those policemen for whom we do not stop anymore, tired of them pulling us up, and maybe also feeling a bit rebelious. Those policemen who will also make us laugh one day, when, passing us in their flash car, they shout in their speakers "hello, how are you?" so that everyone in a few miles around can hear...

Annoyed tears for the youth - born in the first few years after the islamic revolution (1979), of which 1/3 is unemployed, and have nothing better to do all day than ride their motorbikes. All day long, all year round (when 60 litres of diesel costs 1 euro, being unemployed is not an obstacle to fuel consumption!). This generation seems to have lost their landmarks. One night, in Taykursan, they will block my way, for no reason. Just because they can. Because I am a woman and you can show your power and authority over women whenever you feel like it. But when, after a few nice requests, they still refuse to let me go, I let free of my anger and my silence of the past few weeks spent in territory hostile to women. I force myself a way passed the motorbikes. Scandalous behaviour coming from a woman. As we leave town, Gwenael, Mike and I, we are followed by a dozen or so motorbikes that will not stop riding around us, very closely and loudly. The young men riding them are particularly insulting towards Gwenael and I. My blood has never been this hot than on this day, boiling though my veins. For the first time, I realise first hand what it is like to be insulted for what you are - a woman in thei case - rather than what you think or do. To be a woman, no more than that, is enough justification to be treated like nothing. We are covered in insults. A motorbike gets a bit close to me, tries to touch me, I unclip my pedals and kick the motorbike passenger. Surprise and anger. So much agressivity towards a woman who refuses to submit. Behind me, Gwenael struggles to0, as well as Mike whose anger has gone through record levels. Twice, some Irani families try to help us, asking the young men to stop. To our surprise, they do not listen! In a country where there i has tradionnally been a lot of respect for the older generation and for their wisdom, those young men do not listen to their own people! We threaten them with rocks. We plead for them to stop. We try to negotiate an end to this. Nothing works. After a good 2 hours of this, we will make the most of 3 minutes alone to run and hide behind a small hill. Hectic images of the 3 of us pushing our bikes in a ditch so we can bend down and hide quickly. Breathless images as, sitting there, we let our anger go. Anger, misunderstanding, raw emotions. For quite a while after that, we will hear the engines of the mopeds going back and forth on the road nearby... It will take quite a bit of time for our senses to return to their quiet and calm state.

Anecdotical event? Not so sure. When we talk about what happened with some of the families we meet, they are not surprised. They confirm that this younger generation of men, who has grown up during the islamic revolution years, and without work today, is a major issue for Iran today. After our arrival, I will even be surprised to read an article about this very issue in a London paper.

Tears that shine like small suns when a few kilometers later, a young Irani father passes us on his motorbike. His 2 young sons are riding in the back, holding tight to their dad, and turning their heads back 180 degrees to look and smile at us. At their request, the father stops, and the 3 of them encouragingly wave at us.

As we exit Hamedan, we pass a street market where great big pumpkins are displayed, awkwardly smiling to us. I still have in mind, very vividly, the image of their bright orange colour, and my surprise seeing those great big orange ladies there, in the middle of arid Iran, for sale. The surprise of their presence here, and their clown-like looks put a smile back on my face. My tears dry up in the Irani sun, and live me with peaceful, calm and somewhat numb feelings. We will have to take a step (or a few!) back, get to know better, learn more, and research again and again. Then only might we start to understand a bit better this Irani universe, so absolute in some ways. With behaviours so extremes that they are like the 2 opposite poles of a magnet...