The Bureaucratic Journey
I just was going through an old recipe book that I owned since 1964. I had forgotten the seasonings for a dish I make each winter. As I was looking for the recipe I noticed a letter l had written to the Keyhan International Newspaper, in the summer of 1975. It made me smile. It doesn’t matter which country you live in, bureaucrats all seem to behave in the same inscrutable and unreasonable manner.
Dear Sirs;
I have lost my Sejel (ID Card) and have been around to the different ministries trying to obtain another one. The experience struck me as so humorous that I felt that l just had to tell you of my morning’s experience.
Because l am married to an Israeli, our local registration bureau sent my papers back stating that l have to go to the Foreign Ministry’s Registration Office to apply. Upon going there, l was told that this did not concern them since l am an Iranian citizen. I was advised to go to to the Central Iranian Registration Office. Over there they sent me up and down three times before I went to the ‘correct’ office, where I waited in queue for my turn. As I waited, I witnessed two things that struck me as ‘funny.’ A lady came in complaining that she had lost her ID card. They had issued her another with her picture but with a different name. When she brought that to their attention, they wrote an explanation that this is truly Mrs. So and So but they had made a mistake and written the wrong name. Now no bank would accept her ID and she was in TROUBLE! She demanded her name back! The reply there was nothing else they could do. They had already provided an explanation.
Another lady came in to issue her mother an ID Card. Very pompously, they advised her that her mother should come in person. She replied that her mother was seriously ill and was in the hospital and could not come. They needed an ID Card to have a passport issued to take her abroad to be medically treated. The reply was the same. She must come herself. They had just signed her death warrant.
Finally my turn came. The man told me that I had come to the wrong bureau. I should go to my local one. Once more I explained. He finally and reluctantly wrote a note and sent me to the second floor to have it typed. Once that was done, l was to return to him to have it signed by him. I went to the second floor, had it typed, came down and stood in a queue one more time to have it signed. Once that was done, l had to go to the third floor to have it placed in an official envelope. There I was told to go to the Foreign Ministry Registration Office from whence l had come, this was had nothing to do with their department. By now I was frustrated, very hot, thirsty and tired. This rigmarole had started before eight that morning and it was almost noon.
I happened to meet a girlfriend of mine who said she could help me. We went back to the Foreign Ministry Registration Office. This time I was treated more like a human. I was assured that everything possible would be done to assist me. I was getting up in the world. I was now in the Main Foreign Ministry. The room was clean and air conditioned. The air was hushed. The person in charge politely rose up from his desk and came to shake my hand. He offered me a seat. I gratefully sank into a soft seat. Who had sent me? Mrs. T. How many years had I lived in Israel? I hadn’t. I live in Tehran. How many times did I visit Israel? Several times during the summer months. Were my parents Israeli? No, they were Iranian citizens. Could I prove this? Yes I can. Could I please come back with definite proof. Yes l could. Please do so.
Here we go again, I told myself as I left the Foreign Ministry.