Discrimination, an Incurable Pain.

I don’t remember much from my childhood in Afghanistan, except that I was very attached to my grandmother. Everyone in the neighborhood called her “Kalantar” and held her in high regard. In 1984, our family moved to Iran. During the Iran-Iraq war, I grew up in Iran, went to school, and was one of the few in my family to graduate from high school. I didn’t pass the second stage of the national university entrance exam. Azad University had scholarships for Afghans, so I applied and passed the entrance exam. I was accepted into the agricultural engineering program, but since I had no knowledge about it and no hope of returning to Afghanistan, I decided not to attend university. At the insistence of my friend Mr. Nader Ghanbari and some other acquaintances, I became the principal and teacher of a self-run Afghan school in our area (Safadasht). After a while, when the number of students increased, the Shahriar governorate closed our school and threatened that we had no right to reopen it.

For a while, I worked in a Chinese decor workshop in Khazaneh Bokharaei. My father also took on a contract to dig part of Tehran’s sewage pipes, and I helped him in Yaftabad, Tehran. Later, my father made a contract with a person named Akbari for a water well drilling project in a remote desert area known as “Qate Chahar” Because the route was very remote, we bought a Honda 110 motorcycle, and I commuted to Qate Chahar with it.

One evening, as I was returning from Qate Chahar to Shahrabad (now Safadasht), a special unit officer signaled me to stop. He asked me to give him my motorcycle to get some ice. I didn’t have a license and had to pass through there every day, so I agreed and gave him the motorcycle. It wasn’t long before I saw the officer and another soldier returning, but the motorcycle’s gear was broken, and they were coasting. It was dusk, and my way was long. I was very angry. The officer told me that the gear was nothing and that I could go to Mardabad to get it fixed! I said, “What do you mean I have to go to Mardabad to fix it?” He replied, “What else do you want to do?”

Out of anger, I didn’t touch the motorcycle and left it there. I didn’t know where to go. After walking for a while, I saw a police station, gathered my courage, went inside, and explained the situation. They told me that it was a matter for the traffic police and that the checkpoint I mentioned was part of the special unit, and I had to go to the barracks to file a complaint. Following their guidance, I took a car to the barracks. I explained the situation there, and a soldier asked me if I had entrusted the motorcycle to someone. I said no. He told me to quickly go and take the motorcycle somewhere safe, or else what would I do if it got lost? I got scared and went back. I took the motorcycle and, in its off state, brought it to a bitumen workshop where the guard was an acquaintance. On my way back, the soldier on duty at the checkpoint called me and said, “Good job, you filed a complaint. The commander is inside now. He said you should come in and give the officer a hard time.”

I went inside and saw a middle-aged man who looked like a war commander from the Iran-Iraq war movies. He treated me kindly and asked me about the situation. I told him that the officer had taken my motorcycle and broken it, but now he was telling me to fix it. I had been there until that late hour and hadn’t been able to go home yet. The commander asked me if the officer had taken the motorcycle with my consent. I said I had no choice; if I didn’t give him the motorcycle, it would cause me problems every day as I passed through there. The commander said, “Did you give him the motorcycle yourself or not?” I said yes.

The commander said he would talk to the officer. He told me to bring the motorcycle the next day, and the officer would come with me to get it fixed. If there were any problems, I should inform him at the barracks. I was happy and left to go home.

The next morning, as instructed by the commander, I arrived at the checkpoint at 8 in the morning. Only the officer and a few soldiers were there. He was very upset and angry. At first, I thought he would come with me to take the motorcycle, but he gave money to a soldier and told him to go with me. In a short conversation, the officer told me, “It’s our fault for letting you people in!” With the confidence I had gained from the previous night’s events, I stood firm and said, “Forget about that, you broke the motorcycle, now are you going to fix it or not?” He directly gave money to the soldier next to him and told him to go with me. The officer stopped the first pickup truck that came down the road and asked the driver where he was headed. Then he said, “This motorcycle is broken; take it to Mardabad.” The driver agreed without any extra discussion.

In Mardabad (now Mahdasht), we showed the motorcycle to the first mechanic. He quickly looked at it but didn’t have the gear. He gave us the addresses of one or two other places, but they didn’t have it either. The mechanic told me I had to go to Karaj; it couldn’t be found there. The soldier gave me money and stayed there. I took a car to Karaj. After some searching and showing the broken part, I found and bought it. When I returned to Mardabad, it was around noon. The mechanic replaced the gear, and the motorcycle was ready. During the time I spent with the soldier, a sense of familiarity developed. I told him he could leave, and I would head towards Shahrabad. But the soldier said, “Look, the motorcycle is fixed, but if you don’t come and give your consent, it will cause trouble for that poor guy because the barracks commander is following up on this matter.”

I thought about it for a while and then said he was right. The motorcycle was fixed, and I had no personal grudge, plus I had to pass by them every day. So, it was better to go now. I started the motorcycle, and the soldier sat behind me. The route was quite long, but we reached the checkpoint around one in the afternoon. When I arrived, I saw another officer there. His name was written on his badge: “Saifi.” He spoke very politely and softly. He asked me if the problem was solved and if the motorcycle was fixed. I replied, “Yes, thank you, it’s fixed.” Then he said, “I am the superior officer of this gentleman. If you have no other issues, to close this matter, you need to give your consent.” I said, “That’s fine, no problem.”

They had already written a text that I didn’t read at all. They treated me so well that I thought it would be rude and impolite to read it line by line. I went ahead and signed it. After a short conversation, I thanked them and said goodbye. Just as I was about to leave, Mr. Saifi asked, “By the way, Mr. Yousefi, do you have a license?” I said, “No, Mr. Saifi, you know they don’t give us licenses!” Mr. Saifi replied, “Well, according to the law, you must have a license. If you don’t have a license, you shouldn’t ride a motorcycle.” Suddenly, I saw that their behavior changed, and I realized what was going on. I didn’t say anything more and said, “You’re right.” Mr. Saifi told a soldier to accompany me to the traffic police office, which was not far from them. As I was leaving, Mr. Saifi said, “When you come back, tell us what happened.”

When we went to the traffic police office, they quickly took the motorcycle to the parking lot and told me to be there at eight in the morning the next day to go to court! I knew it was coordinated, and my protest was useless. I went home with worry and fear. I don’t know what I told my family, but everyone was upset. The next morning, I arrived there at eight. There were about five or six of us. One person joined us, and we went to Karaj together. I don’t know if it was called a court or a prosecutor’s office, but I remember I was referred to Branch 24. The wait was excruciating, and I sat on a bench with a few others, waiting for my name to be called. While waiting, two or three people asked me why I was there. I said I didn’t have a license. They were surprised. One asked, “Did you have an accident?” I said, “No, they just caught me.” Everyone said it was nothing serious, and at most, I would be fined 4 or 5 thousand tomans.

After three hours or more, they called my name. I went inside Branch 24 of the Karaj court. I had never seen a court up close before. There was a person behind a high desk, and next to him was another desk, one step lower on his left. They told me to go to him. He asked why I was riding a motorcycle without a license. I said, “You know they don’t give us licenses. There’s no way for Afghans to get a license. Otherwise, I would like to get a license too.” I thought I was speaking logically, but the judge had a different opinion. He said, “Well, if they don’t give you a license, don’t ride a motorcycle. Ride a bicycle.” I said, “Judge, my workplace is very far and remote. I can’t go without a motorcycle.” The judge’s response was the same: “You have committed a crime. It’s your choice: should I write you a fine or send you to jail?”

When I heard the word “jail,” I got very scared and pleaded, “Judge, what have I done to deserve jail? What kind of law is this that doesn’t allow me to get a license but the police demand it from me?” Hearing this, the judge got angry and loudly said, “You talk about the law? Is there any law in your country where nine of our diplomats are gunned down in broad daylight?” Crying, I said, “Judge, are you comparing me to those terrorists?” Then the judge opened a book and showed a page that stated, “A judge can sentence someone to six months in jail for not having a license.” I was very scared. I said, “Judge, please do something so that I leave your country with good memories.” He smiled and said, “In fact, you will remember this day and how the judge of Branch 24 of Karaj did you a favor!”

I asked how much the fine was. He said thirty thousand tomans. I pleaded that it was too much, and I didn’t have that much money. He said he would write me three days in jail. I was scared of the word jail, so I pleaded again, and finally, he said twenty thousand tomans fine or one day in jail. I said, “Please don’t send me to jail.” After making me cry and humiliating me, the judge sent me out with a twenty thousand toman fine.

I went home and told the story. I don’t know how I managed to get the money, but I remember my mother was very worried. When she found out that jail was also mentioned, she said, “It’s okay, pay the money, may God not bless them.” The next day, I went to the court again, and after paying the money and completing other procedures, I got a letter to release the motorcycle from the parking lot. When I went to the parking lot and showed the letter, the parking attendant treated me very badly. He said, “You can’t take the motorcycle because you don’t have a license!” No matter how much I went back and forth, no one even listened to me.

I was wandering around there for about half an hour, and no one was responding. I noticed an officer there and felt he was a decent person. I saw him walking towards a room in the corridor, so I approached him with fear and said, “Excuse me, I have a problem. My motorcycle is here, and I have brought a letter, but they are not allowing me to take it out.” Contrary to my expectations, he treated me well. He took me to his office, and I sat down. He immediately called someone and said, “Give this gentleman his motorcycle.” When I was receiving it, the person there said, “You have to get a pickup truck and take it; you are not allowed to ride it.” I said, “Just give me the motorcycle; I will take it to a nearby place with the engine off.” Finally, I managed to get the motorcycle. Once I was a bit far, I started the engine and went home.