A few days before we left Scotland1, a truck from Aer Lingus came to our flat in the Great King Street in Edinburgh to pick up the stuff that I wanted to be freighted to Tehran. Aer Lingus at that time was a sub-contractor to Iran Air. The deal was that if, in Tehran, I could prove that I had been a student in UK, then I would pay just a small fee for the freight service.
[Now, how much stuff was it? Well, to be precise, it was 481 KG, of which 360 KG were books and paper re-prints.]
A few days after I arrived in Tehran2, I received a letter from the Iranian Customs Office letting me know that I can get my stuff from their location in Mehrabad Airport in Tehran.
After the usual round of asking many people about the right office to visit, the customs officer told me to pay a huge amount of money as the customs fee and for the freight. “No, no! I was a student! Here, you see! This is my degree from Glasgow University, this is the certificate from Edinburgh University.” I exclaimed! And the customs officer responded very calmly that they only accept an official letter from the Ministry of Higher Education as a proof of “I” having been a student! You see, my words or the documents I was carrying had no value. This civil servant was oblivious to all that.
[Is this a good place to tell about the story of my visit to the Swedish Customs Office in 1991? I will tell it anyway. I don’t know where else I can tell it! When Babajoun and Mamanjoun3 visited Sweden in 1991, they had freighted five Persian carpets to Sweden. Babajoun and I went to the customs office in Arlanda Airport to pick the carpets. Unfortunately, the customs officer told us we have to pay some money as the customs fee. The amount was going to be determined after inspection and appraisal of the carpets. I said the carpets were old, existing in the family homes for many years. Then came the calm response from the customs officer: “Do you have any document to prove it?”
Babajoun and I started to search our minds to see if we can come up with anything. The receipts, if they still existed, were in Iran, and not easily accessible while Babajoun and Mamanjoun were in Sweden. We explained this, and I asked the customs officer what other kind of document would be acceptable? He responded that anything, even a picture showing the carpet in the house would do. I gladly responded that we can find something. So, we sat in the car and drove back home (to Fyrspannsgatan, in Hässelby Strand). Searching among the photos, the only thing that we could find was the following picture, a photo that would show one of the carpets that was under the control of the Swedish Customs Office.]
[To be on the safe side, we took with us a few other photos. But, we started with the above picture. I told the customs officer that the carpet in the photo was one of the carpets in their storage area. He took the photo from me, looked at it very carefully. Then he moved towards one of his colleagues who seemed to be more experienced. I thought nothing of it. He was rather young, and probably needed the approval of his boss. She, the boss, I presumed, seemed competent in her manners. They were whispering, and I could not here anything.]
[All of a sudden they moved towards the third colleague, and started whispering to her as well. I started to get worried, because this third colleague was not older than the first customs officer. She could not have been more experienced. So, why should the first officer and his boss consult with her? It looked suspicious. I thought they were thinking that we might be trying to fool them. As I said, I could not hear them, but they were somehow smiling and giggling. I got a bad feeling. Maybe, they were going to charge us with fraught or something.]
[Then, all three of them came forward to the counter. The “older” lady, started to talk and very slowly told us that they are prepared to accept the photo as evidence. Then, she said, hesitantly I might add: “what is she doing?”]
[Of course, we got the carpets without paying any fee. And we, Babajoun and I, laughed a lot about the whole incidence. And we laughed again when we told about the incidence when we were back at home. And I still laugh about it whenever the story comes to my mind.]
[Ha. I almost forgot! Vegetables are sold like that in Iran: un-pruned, un-cut, un-washed. So, someone must prepare them before they can be consumed, or cooked, or fried. What? That’s beyond the point. The point is that a simple photo resolved a bureaucratic issue in Sweden, but not in Iran.]
Let’s get back to our story. I didn’t have a car in Tehran. Going from Customs Office in Mehrabad Airport to the Ministry of Higher Education, in downtown Tehran, was a big hassle. Arriving at the ministry, they told me the office that handled “translation” of foreign academic degrees was somewhere in the Northern parts of Tehran.
[What? Call where? No! I could not call them. Call them from where? Taking a cab and actually, physically, going there would have been more fruitful than calling. At least at that time.]
In any case, I managed to get to the right part of the town, right building, right office and right person. I explained that what I needed was really just a certificate from them in order to get my stuff out of the customs. The gentleman said they could not issue any certificate before a full evaluation of my academic records has been conducted. He controlled my documents, and said they were not enough. In addition to what I had, they needed my thesis, as well as, the actual official “diploma”. “Official diploma. Oh dear! I don’t have that yet!”. Well. No exception!
It was too late in the day to do anything more. However, I managed to call Edinburgh and ask them if they have mailed the actual official diploma to me, which they responded that it was on its way, and I would receive it any day. Fortunately, the document arrived in a couple of days.
This time, I took all the documents that I had and went to the relevant office of the Ministry of Higher Education. I think this must have been late November or early December. I presented all the documents. The respectful civil servant told me to come back in February to see if it is ready!
“February? Why February? I need it sooner. Is it possible to get it now, or tomorrow?” This patient civil servant explained very carefully that these things take time and the documents should be evaluated by all members of the “fough-e” Doctoral committee, “fough” meaning “over”, “higher”.
[I was a bit confused. What was he talking about?]
I asked what does he mean by “fough-e” Doctoral? He explained that because I have a doctoral degree in veterinary medicine [that’s true, I have a DVM], then any degree that I obtain after that, must be considered as over and higher than a doctoral degree. I tried to explain to him that a medicine doctor or a veterinary medicine doctor has a “professional doctorate” degree. It is not a “scientific doctorate” degree as a PhD would be. A “professional doctorate”, an MD or DVM, still will be the “first degree”. You can go from your first degree to your second degree (usually a master’s degree) or to your third degree (usually a PhD of some sort).
He, being the patient man that he was, explained to me that all medical, dental, pharmaceutical, and veterinary medicine doctors that he has encountered, during long years working in that place, have a different opinion than what I had. I thought: “Of course! I must be dumb. Real dumb. What do I know!”. He was so patient, went the extra mile with me, and told me that, in any case, it was my choice. I can choose my degree in Animal Breeding and Genetics to be evaluated as “over doctoral” or just a “master’s” degree.
At this point, I really felt I must be dumb. So, I asked how is it going to affect me? He said: “Well, with a Master’s evaluation, you will get your documents “translated” already next week, and with an “over doctoral” evaluation it will take three months, but my salary would be higher”.
Wait a moment! Wait a moment! What does this have to do with salary? Again, he patiently explained that an “over doctoral” degree is higher than the DVM that I already have. But a Master’s degree is lower than my DVM, “so, it adds nothing”.
At this point I showed the most irrational reaction possible, and a stupid reaction, I might add. I told him that I’d rather bury this body [don’t worry! I pointed at myself] six feet under than be dependent on a piece of paper for my salary. The stupid dumb that I was, I chose to “translate” my degree to a Master’s degree, which in the Iranian jargon was called “fough-e license”. If someone saw that lousy and useless degree, they wouldn’t suspect that I was a DOCTOR.
I will not bother you with the details at this stage (maybe later!) , but I got the certificate that I needed after about two weeks. At long last, I emancipated my books from the tyrants at the customs office that were holding them captive.
[What? Not relevant to the military service? Oh, it is relevant. What’s the rush? No! This is not a detour. This is directly relevant to the military service. Have patience.]
At about the same time, I had discussions about my military service with my boss, Seyed Mojtaba Hosseini. He called himself an “engineer”, but had only a “Higher National Diploma” from England. My wish was that he should talk with the deputy minister of livestock, and the deputy minister should talk with the minister of agriculture, and the minister of agriculture should talk to the President, and finally the President should issue an order to exempt me from the military service. I think that was a solution that was good for everyone. I even managed to convince my boss that this was a good solution. it was.
I asked my boss for progress report every few days. But he was wasting a lot of time “trying to find the right moment to take up the issue with the deputy minister”. It was too much to wait. Finally, things started to move, and the news he was giving me were very encouraging. Until a day that he told me that the minister will soon be writing a formal letter to the President asking for my exemption from the military service. Then the letter will be communicated to the office of President by the deputy minister in charge of “coordination”. A few days later, I received a message that the deputy minister in charge of “coordination” wanted to see me.
I am terribly sorry that I don’t remember his name. Of all the deputy ministers, ministers, and other high ranking officials that I had met, he was the most straight-forward person. There was an unprecedented courage and moral self-assuredness in him that really impressed me. I knew he meant what he said, and I knew he was hiding nothing.
He told me that the minister has signed two letters, at the behest of two deputy ministers, to be sent to the president. One is for my exemption from the military service. The other is for a request that 250 agricultural engineers to be assigned to the Ministry of Agriculture for doing most of their military service at places decided by the Ministry of Agriculture. He looked directly into my eyes and said: “If these two letters reach the President, he will approve the request for my exemption, and reject the other request, because taking one person out of military service is less costly”. And he continued: “Whoever you are, you are not worth 250 people, and I will do my best to prevent the letter concerning you to reach the president, “by all means necessary”.”
I leaned back. Thoughts were circling in my mind, and most importantly, a big banner, up there in the air, was waving with the words “I cannot go to the military service”. I looked at him. I thought it was a tug-of-war between to deputy ministers, that was no concern of mine. Let the two deputy ministers fight. However, having the low rank that I had, I didn’t want to pick a fight with him. So, I asked him what did he suggest?
He first offered an advice: “Don’t go into a well by other people’s rope”. Then, he suggested that I can go the recruitment center of the Revolutionary Guards, and ask for a special person. If that person is there, he would arrange for me to be stationed at the Ministry of Agriculture after a short military training, otherwise, I have to do the two years of my military service with the Revolutionary Guards. There was no way I would give him a piece of my mind. So, I thanked him for his advice, told him I would think about it, and left his office.
Well, one thing was certain “I could not go to the military service”, not then, not now, not ever. Weighing everything in my mind, I thought the only sensible thing to do was to go to the military’s recruitment center (and not the Revolutionary Guards’), and register for the military service. In this way, I had the initiative, there wouldn’t be any further delays, and I could put lots of pressure on my boss and his boss.
Already next morning, I was at Behjatabad Base4. First, I went to ask if I can get a permanent military service exemption because of my poor eyesight, and the fact that my right elbow cannot do a full bend [Yes! It is true. It does not bend fully. No. That is a totally different story. That would be too much diversion. I will tell it at a different time.] The answer was that having a degree in veterinary medicine, it is almost impossible to get an exemption. However, applying for it, is possible, and it can be done at a later stage during the draft process.
Amazingly resolute, I waited my turn and finally met a sergeant in an archive room (he was very formal, dry, abrupt). He asked for my name, and date and place of birth. Hossein Jorjani, born 5th of Khordad, 1337 (May 26, 1958), Tehran. Very quickly, he pulled out a file, and started to read from it: “High school diploma 1353 (1974), temporary military service exemption on a student visa to study abroad 1355 (1976)”.
[I still hear the sound the word “amma …” in my head, “amma …” meaning “but …”.]
Luckily I managed to shut my mouth. Stepped back one step, and listened to the sergeant: “You should go to the Ministry of Higher Education, ask them to give you a copy of your file, and bring it here.”
[My heart was pounding, my head was growing in size, and I had nausea. What the hell was going on? I escaped Bejatabad Base as quickly as I could. Gradually fogs in my mind started to dissipate. I started the University in 1974 to study veterinary medicine, was expelled one and a half years later, then participated in the “foreign study examination”, received a temporary military service exemption, and went to the USA to study. Then, went back to Iran in 1979, and re-entered the university and continued my veterinary medicine studies. In the chaos after the revolution, they must have forgotten to change my “military service status”. That was the only possible explanation for what the sergeant had told me!]
I went straight away to the Ministry of Higher Education, but this time to their offices for “military service records”, which was incidentally in the same building that my degree had been “translated”. I introduced myself and asked for the copy of my file. They found my file rather easily, and asked when I had returned to Iran? “November 1987”. The next question was what was my last degree? I started to feel warmer. I shakily reached for the document indicating that I had a Master’s degree, and gave it to the young man working there. After a few minutes he handed over a copy of my file: I had exited Iran in 1355 (1976) with a high school diploma, and after a little bit more than 11 years later, had returned back to Iran in 1366 (1987) with an MSc degree. Excellent!
The next morning, as soon as they opened the doors of the Behjatabad Base to the public, I went in, started the official draft process, and soon found myself in a room with three medical doctors / Colonels sitting behind desks. There were several low ranking officers moving around the room and pushing us, the recruits, to different desks. The doctor / colonel that I met asked if it is the eyesight that is the ground for my application of military service exemption. “Yes!” He asked for my eyeglasses, tried them on, and immediately his eyes became irritated, obviously, because of the strong lens that I had in my eyeglasses. Then he gave the eyeglasses back to me, picked a piece of paper from the desk, and asked me to read from it loudly. I didn’t know how to react. So, I asked should I just read it? And he responded: “Yes! Just read it.” After a couple of sentences, he asked me to stop, wrote something on a form, and asked if I have any “prescription” for eyeglasses from an ophthalmologist? “Of course!”, I said. “Go and fetch them”. Before, leaving I told him that there was also this issue with my elbow. He responded: “How many exemptions do you want?”
[Well, his eyes becoming irritated proved that the eyeglasses were “real”. With those strong lenses, no one with good eyesight could read. So, if I comfortably could read, meant that those eyeglasses were really prescribed for me.]
I moved quickly out of the building, and grabbed a cab at the street. When we got home, I asked the cab driver to wait for me, went upstairs, found a few of the “prescriptions”, but unfortunately not the latest ones. There was no point in further search. Went back to the cab, and was in Behjatabad Base in no time. Presented the “prescriptions” to the same doctor / colonel.
He just glanced at my “prescriptions”, and almost shouted: “Have you been Dr Alavi’s patient?”, which I responded with a “yes!”. This time he really shouted, but to other doctors / colonels, and pointing at me: “He has been Dr Alavi’s patient”. The others became very excited: “Have you been Dr Alavi’s patient?” “For how long?”. I answered “20 years or more”. Then they started to boast to each other: “Oh, Dr Alavi was my professor”. “I was his colleague between this and that year.” I was really confused. Standing in the middle of the room, they were shouting about how great Dr Alavi, a brigadier general, was both scientifically, and as a person.” When the shouting stopped the first doctor / colonel asked the others if they should write “it”, or wait for “him”?
I was thinking “who”? Who the hell is “he”? Oh please, write “it”. Why should you wait for “him”? But they were chatting more. That “he” might come and say “this” and “that”. Otherwise “he” might accuse them of something. So, they decided they should wait for him (!) and told me to come back in the afternoon.
What could I do? In a military base, three colonels, and quite a few other officers around. It was better to hold the mouth shut. Zip it.
I came back to the same office a couple of hours later, after lunch. The doctor, that I had met first, was quite calm, and in an indifferent tone, told the “new” doctor / colonel, who was obviously older than the previous three that I had met in the morning, that I had applied for permanent military service exemption on the ground of poor eyesight. He also wondered what would be the opinion of this new, and older doctor /colonel. It was unbelievable. There was nothing of the morning’s excitement in his voice. He even did not mention that he thinks that my application should be granted. Nothing. He just handed me my file, and told me to give it to “Jenab Sarhang”, the honorable Colonel. This one looked carefully at the documents in the file, raised his head, and burst into a frenzy of praise for Dr Alavi. The more the others claimed to have known Dr Alavi, he insisted that they wouldn’t know how nice and knowledgeable Dr Alavi was.
And in the middle of all of this I had to, impatiently, be patient.
Finally, the first doctor wrote the exemption certificate, and the other three also signed it. The rest was just a short bureaucratic routine. After half an hour, I had a paper in my hands, indicating that I was free from the military service.
In a country like Iran, and during a war like Iran-Iraq war, that military service exemption was worth millions.
The next day, I went to apply for a passport. Unfortunately, I was told that my certificate was a “provisional” one, and the “permanent” one will be issued in two months’ time. So, I waited two more months to get the permanent certificate, and after a while my first “non-service” passport in 12 years. [Service passport is issued for the government employees, and has “lower” status than the diplomatic passport, but in most cases gives a bit more freedom of movement to the passport holder.]
And here is a picture of the certificate of permanent exemption from military service.
Any questions?
1 I don’t remember the exact date of leaving Scotland. But we drove to London, and stayed there for a couple days. Then, we left London for Stockholm on November 5th, 1987.
2 I think I left Stockholm on November 15th, 1987, stayed one or two nights in London, and left London for Tehran on November 17th, 1987. I think!
3 Babajoun and Mamanjoun: This was the way my father-in-law and my mother-in-law were called by their grandchildren!
4 Behjatabad was a military base in the “middle” of Tehran, and military’s largest recruitment base.
Hossein Jorjani 
Very interesting dear Hossein! Amazing!
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