The Ordeal of a Simple Flight
It is 7:45 p.m. on September 24, Tehran time. The passengers are already seated on the plane, but the flight that was supposed to depart Tehran for Istanbul at 7 p.m. has yet to leave the ground. The pilot has informed us that we must wait for clearance to depart.
In Seoul, it is 1:15 a.m., and my wife is still awake, waiting to make sure my flight actually takes off. Last winter, following the January protests, the internet was shut down, leaving us with no way to send messages or make phone calls abroad. I am grateful that, at least this time, I can message her. I write that if the flight were going to be cancelled, they would never have boarded the passengers in the first place.
She replies with a perfectly reasonable question: why, then, have you been sitting on the plane for an hour without permission to take off?
She has a point. Until just two days ago, the US Treasury had been warning airports and airlines in other countries against accepting Iranian aircraft and operating flights to Tehran. In any case, almost no foreign airlines have resumed flights to the Iranian capital since the recent war. There are now only a handful of routes out of the country, and the best option is to fly from Tehran to Istanbul and continue from there to the rest of the world.
Under normal circumstances, this would be an irrational way to travel to Seoul. It adds six hours to the journey, not counting the time spent waiting in Istanbul between flights.
In 2002, I travelled from Tehran to Tokyo on a direct Iranian flight. On the return journey, the plane also stopped in Beijing, making the route popular with passengers travelling from both Japan and China. An Iranian airline generating revenue in the Far East: something that now seems an impossible dream.
At the time, there was also a direct flight between Tehran and Seoul. It was discontinued in 2007 because of US sanctions. From then on, the best way to travel between the two cities was to take a connecting flight, usually through the United Arab Emirates or Qatar. These routes added only an hour or two to the journey. But following the recent war, foreign airlines stopped flying to Tehran. The Persian Gulf states also became reluctant to accept Iranian aircraft, leaving Istanbul as the only dependable option.
China, however, still accepts Iranian aircraft. Travellers can therefore fly to Beijing and continue to Seoul from there. For Iranian passengers, though, obtaining a Chinese visa involves considerably more bureaucracy than travelling to Turkey, which does not require a visa. There is another consideration, too. A great deal has happened over the past year, and flights to Tehran have been cancelled at short notice. If you are travelling to Iran, it is safer to make sure you can at least reach Turkey. Should your flight from Istanbul to Tehran be cancelled, you can continue overland. That is not an option when travelling via China.
Following the US Treasury's directive, Oman, Azerbaijan, Iraq and several other neighbouring countries suspended flights involving Iran. Turkey, meanwhile, had informed one Iranian airline that it could operate flights to Istanbul only until September 22. My anxiety that my own flight might suddenly be cancelled was hardly irrational. There was another problem: if our departure were delayed by another hour, I would miss my connecting flight from Istanbul to Seoul. Because that flight was operated by a different airline, missing it would mean additional expenses and having to buy another ticket.
There had already been reports of planes sitting on the tarmac with passengers on board, waiting to take off from Tehran's other airport, Mehrabad, which handles domestic flights. The delays were attributed to the destruction of the airport's radar systems during the war by the Israeli and US militaries, which had disrupted take-off procedures. No similar problem had been reported at Imam Khomeini International Airport, which handles international flights.
There was another possible explanation. That very morning, a flight from Tehran to Dushanbe had turned back mid-journey because none of the countries along the route had granted the Iranian aircraft permission to cross their airspace on its way to Tajikistan. Perhaps Turkey had suddenly stopped granting permission for Iranian planes to fly to Istanbul.
If that had happened, I would have to reorganise my journey all over again: travel overland to Turkey and book another flight to Seoul. That would mean at least three more days before I could see my family, as well as an exhausting journey costing several times what I had originally paid.
The elderly man sitting next to me is travelling to Canada to see his children after years apart. Even under the best circumstances, his journey is gruelling. He faces a nine-hour layover followed by a 13-hour flight. If this flight to Istanbul did not go ahead, he would almost certainly be physically unable to cross the Turkish border by land. He might have to wait months, perhaps even years, for his children to come and visit him instead.
Like me, he is exchanging messages with the people waiting for him in Canada.
At 8 p.m., the pilot finally puts our minds at ease. Clearance has been granted. I message my wife: I'm on my way. Go to sleep. Her excitement is unmistakable in the few words she sends back. The plane lifts into the sky.
I find myself thinking about how much anxiety sanctions force Iranians to endure simply to do the most ordinary things. Iran's economy is weakening, and people are working harder than ever just to make ends meet. Yet the consequences of being Iranian follow them even when they leave their country.
When I was studying in Britain in 2007, it was still relatively easy to receive money from Iranian banks into an account at a British bank. Gradually, however, that became more difficult. One by one, banks began refusing to accept transfers originating in Iran. By the time I finished my studies in 2011, there was no bank in Britain where an Iranian student could readily open an account and receive money from Iran through the banking correspondent relationships that made such transfers possible.
Even so, Iranians who enter Britain legally can still open bank accounts. Even in the United States, Iranians with valid documentation establishing their legal residency can open accounts without undue difficulty.
South Korea, however, presents a rather different picture.
Many Iranian students who receive scholarships from South Korean universities find that they cannot easily open bank accounts. In some cases, they are forced to return home. When they upload an Iranian passport to Korean banking apps that conduct remote identity verification, or KYC, the process simply stops. Because of their nationality, they are effectively denied access to a basic financial service, despite residing legally in South Korea.
Just imagine trying to live in Seoul today without a bank account or a bank card.
Access to a basic bank account has become a fundamental right in modern life. No one should be deprived of it because of their nationality, especially when the government of the country in question has deemed them eligible to reside there legally.
Yet South Korea, like many open societies, is sufficiently generous and democratic to allow a foreigner like me to write in one of its own media outlets about the difficulties faced by my fellow Iranians. And its deeply rooted commitment to the rule of law gives me reason to believe that a way can be found to uphold even the most basic human rights.
With that thought, I bring my journey to an end at Incheon International Airport.
Pouya Jabal Ameli Economist and former editor-in-chief of Donya-e-Eqtesad Daily