From end of December 2019 to mid January 2020 I have been travelling in Iran. On the 3rd of January, Qasem Soleimani was assassinated in a targeted drone strike by the United States. He was the Iranian major general of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC) and the mastermind of Iranian expansion and influence.

When this happened, I was in Yazd, a desert town in the middle of the Iranian plateau known for its unique, earthen architecture, windcatchers and Zoroastrian fire temples. It was 2:30 am when Soleimani was killed. I was asleep.

In the morning, I read the news and did not quite understand what this would mean. I went down to one of the main streets and by accident got into a crowd of people. You might wonder, how one gets into a crowd by accident and I honestly don’t know. I guess I was overwhelmed as there were too many impressions. This was the first time I saw Yazd at daylight, as I had just arrived the night before. People were flocking out of the mosque and walking down the street. I was walking in opposite direction. Didn’t realize what was going on. Loudspeakers have been set up along the street. Between the music that sounded very martial, someone was speaking. I don’t speak Farsi, the only thing I understood was the word America, repeated again and again in something that probably was a furious tirade. A lot of reverb was added. Anger was in the faces of the people. Some looks were hostile.

I was surprised that there were already huge banners and posters everywhere in remembrance of Soleimani. How could they print them so fast? It was just several hours after the assassination.

Despite being intimidated, I did not go back to the hostel. I wanted to see Yazd. In the evening, it got quieter. Sitting on one of the rooftop cafes and listening to the muezzin, everything seemed more than peaceful.

It was obvious that this peaceful evening was elusive. I continued with my trip. After only one and a half days in Yazd, I found myself on the way to to Shiraz. The city of literature and gardens has been the capital of Persia during the Zand dynasty between 1750 and 1800. On the bus to the south, there was a desert landscape with black flags, pennants and pictures of Soleimani everywhere. Some people even put a picture of Soleimani at the rear window of their car. I took the picture below, sitting in a cab in Yazd on the way to the bus station.

In Shiraz the severity of what has happened slowly began to sink in. Maybe there will be no way to get out of the country? Will they shut the borders? Will there be retaliation? And then what?

Let this serve as a WARNING that if Iran strikes any Americans, or American assets, we have………targeted 52 Iranian sites (representing the 52 American hostages taken by Iran many years ago), some at a very high level & important to Iran & the Iranian culture, and those targets, and Iran itself, WILL BE HIT VERY FAST AND VERY HARD.[…]

In Shiraz I met Mohammad, a young and very well-spoken taxi driver who talked about the difficult situation. He was very angry about how everything goes. About the suffering of the Iranian people, and the many lost generations.

As a tourist I always feel like an intruder. In Iran, however, this feeling was not so prevalent. It is true what you read in many travel guides: Iranians are very welcoming. Many know that only bad news will make it to other parts of the world. For this very reason, they seem happy that people will come nevertheless and see for themselves. Many times, people smiled and said welcome to Iran while walking by. One time in Tehran, someone was shouting it across the street. Another time, a well-dressed man approached me, shook my hand, asked where I come from and seemed a bit concerned about my timing to visit his country. To my surprise he did not want to sell me anything. He just wanted to say hi. Iranians are proud of their rich history and they want people to see it.

I met people that were incredibly humble, thoughtful and kind. But I also saw poverty. In 2016, 17% of the Iranian population lived below the poverty line. And all the politics, the sanctions–of course it hits the wrong people.

Mohammad was frustrated and angry. Angry above all, I would say. If there was some kind of retaliation, he said, it would be the end. What to expect? “I don’t know anymore”, he said.

Things became tense and it was clear something will happen. At one point during these first days in Shiraz, there was it, the first time: the feeling of fear. The real possibility that things will go terribly wrong.

January 8 was a tough day. First, the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps launched ballistic missiles at an US base located in western Iraq. Hours later, a passenger plane heading to Kiev was shot down by Guard Corps shortly after take off from Tehran. It was first attributed to some technical failure by the Iranian regime. However, it was pretty clear from the beginning that this cannot be true. It was surreal and tragic.

I contacted Mohammad.

Can you drive me to the Turkish border?

He answered: Yes. No hesitation, no further questions.

Waiting or escaping? Is a 1600 km (1000 miles) trip a good idea in this situation? After all, Trump threatened to bomb 52 Iranian sites important to Iran & the Iranian culture, and Shiraz is full of such sites. I dialed the German embassy in Tehran. Nobody answered. I dialed the emergency hotline of the German embassy. Nobody. A couple of minutes later, someone from the embassy called back. I explained my situation, said that I was planning to leave the country by land. I asked him if he believes that the plane went down due to technical failure. “As of now”, he said, “we also do not know anything about the plane crash”. He advised to stay in Shiraz. After some back and forth, I decided to wait. So here I was, stuck in Shiraz, waiting. But certainly it was good to have Mohammad who was willing to get me out if need be.

Five long days after the assassination, I travelled back to Tehran by bus. There were still no flights going and the trains were booked out. The bus ride was awful: After two hours in the bus the timing belt snapped. Another bus picked us up after waiting for roughly one hour. For the remaining twelve hour bus ride I had to sit on the floor.

Back in Tehran it started to snow. The first snow in 2020. The metro brought me to the north of the city which seemed to be completely different from the rest. It was early evening. People were out on the streets, sitting in cafes, and nothing suggested that there have been millions in the streets during the funeral ceremony just a few days ago.

As the sun set the Alborz mountains north of Tehran were glowing. It was getting cold and I headed back to the hostel.