While millions of Tehranis chose to stay in Iran’s capital, others left to seek refuge from Israeli bombing. The author is a dual national who travelled 1,150km, through Iran’s countryside and mountains, in his efforts to return home to London. He asked to write under the pen-name Rostam.
Three days into a visit from London to my elderly parents in Tehran, I woke to the sound of loud bangs. Jets seemed to be flying overhead. I could see buildings on fire — huge fires — in the distance. Iran had been attacked.
Throughout the day, thick smoke rose from the buildings. People were worried but to my surprise, many were saying: ‘this will be over soon, we’ve been through this several times before’.
My sense though was that things could deteriorate very quickly. I arranged for my parents to go to the countryside but after a tearful call from my daughter, I decided I had to get home to my wife and children, even though the thought of leaving my parents in those circumstances was horrible.
Initially, my aim was to go to Astara, the border town with Azerbaijan as it was the closest — 500km — from Tehran. However, the day before I was due to depart, I realised that the Azeri border crossings were limited to nationals with special permission.
The other option was Turkey, a far more arduous journey of 900km north-west. Reports were increasing of big queues at the Turkish border and there were rumours of it being closed periodically, with some travellers turned back.
I was beginning to feel trapped. But then a relative said a friend was leaving for Yerevan in Armenia the next day with a group of family and friends. When he said there was room for me, I felt a huge sense of relief.
The group met early the next morning at west Tehran’s main bus terminal, which seemed no busier than usual. We comprised several families, including children and elderly people.
Google maps put the 1,150km drive to Yerevan at 17 hours; we were to drive straight through, with no overnight stop, only short breaks. I braced myself. Thankfully, fuel wasn’t a problem — the bus set off with a full tank and did not refuel during the 800km drive to the Armenian border.
Traffic was fine initially but then we hit the motorway. The 90-minute journey to the first big city — Qazvin — took us five hours.
The going was so slow that some drivers had parked just off the motorway to picnic under trees or under a piece of fabric stretched over two parked cars for shade. There seemed to be no sense of panic.
Eventually we stopped at a motorway service station close to Qazvin, with well-stocked food courts and shops. Then we pressed on to Tabriz, across an arid landscape marked with the occasional industrial building. The further north we drove, the more agricultural the landscape turned, with beautiful fields and orchards.
By now, our group was sharing snacks, fresh fruit and food that we had brought. The bus had a fridge, and we also had ice cream. We would stretch our legs by walking up and down the bus. Some slept, others, when the patchy internet connection allowed, would follow the news on their phones. By the time we approached the historic city of Tabriz, Iran’s capital during the 16th century, we had covered 600km and night had fallen.
I couldn’t sleep at all, but oddly, didn’t feel tired. Now we were driving through small towns and villages, which looked very charming, even in the dark.
We were finally nearing the Armenian border town of Nordooz/Agarak when we came to a fork in the road. The driver was stumped. He turned right. The only light was that of the moon and as we drove, I could see the silhouette of jagged mountains that looked magnificent.
Then, suddenly, the driver stopped and began reversing. The road had disappeared. I don’t know how he managed a three-point turn with that big bus but somehow we made it back to the same junction — and this time we took the left turn.
We drove along a river and everyone was relieved when we saw bright street lights at regular intervals indicating the border. We were stopped by a man in army fatigues accompanied by another man in civilian dress, who had a gun.
The women started to get their headscarves out but the army man, who was polite, told us to relax. After checking the rear of the bus with his torch, he waved us on. A short distance ahead we finally reached the Iranian side of the border where we got off the bus, and said goodbye to our three drivers with a tip.
To my amazement the crossing was not busy — we entered what looked like a small provincial building with poor fluorescent lighting. Our luggage went through an X-ray machine and our passports were stamped. The guards seemed relaxed, as though it were a normal week. We were all relieved but no one felt jubilant. We had left family and friends behind and Iran was under attack.
We were told that we had to walk 1km with our luggage to reach the Armenian border post. Fortunately there was a kind of golf cart that took the elderly, the children and some of the luggage. The rest of us dragged our luggage across the uneven surface.
The Armenian border building had a Soviet feel — very high ceilings, a small duty-free shop and a table with dozens of cigarette packs for people to take for free. Smiling Armenian officials greeted us in Persian, which was nice.
We still had another 360km to Yerevan, this time boarding a new bus. Daylight had broken. The scenery was among the most magnificent I’ve ever experienced — mountains covered in velvety grass on which plants and flowers looked like embroidery.
We allowed ourselves a one-hour breakfast at a simple, small but charming restaurant — fried eggs, omelette, lentils and the most delicious lavash bread.
Finally, Yerevan appeared on the horizon. The drive from the border had taken eight hours, and the whole journey from Tehran, 31 hours. When the bus entered the main square to drop us off, no one clapped or cheered. How could we?
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