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It was 3:40 a.m. at the Imam Khomeini international airport in Tehran; all the other passengers had cleared passport control. The guard flicked through pages, found my visa, typed numbers onto a screen, sighed, flicked through some more pages and stood up. "Come with me." We went to another guard who pointed us to another guard (a superior, I presumed) who pointed us to a cubicle. We stepped in. The door closed. |
Tissues smudged with blue dotted the counter. It looked as if the Blue Meanies, or a family of Smurfs, had sneezed. It was hot. My guard slipped a piece of paper in front of me and opened an ink pad.
"We need fingerprints. Thumb here. Press. No, no, no. Press like this. Now the other fingers, just like this. That's good. Now the other hand." |
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