24 hours of an Argentinian homosexual in Iran | Journalist of …

"Dear, they are deporting me.I am locked in the migrations of Tehran airport while bading the I am of page / 12 and for the book Holidays, baths and exiles. They take me back to Istanbul in 7 hours. " With rigor and synthesis, a couple completely unaware of the erotobaroque style that earned him the title of "Rosa foreskin", Modarelli sent this summary of his future column and also, for a good interpreter, a request for help. With the dandism that appears in the face of the danger of a whole generation educated under the I'm afraid bullfighter from Lemebel and Puig's Spider-Wife, I announced yesterday at 11 am via WhatsApp that I was detained at Ayatollah Khomeini.

The name of Tehran airport distracted me a second before communicating the problem of our partner to the address of this newspaper which immediately contacted the Argentine Consul in Tehran. The scene appeared in which the last Sha, Mohamad Reza Pahleví, crossed the city with his beautiful wife, Farah Diba, the Persian Grace Kelly banished with her two children, which had cost so much in the world. Milestone and link in a huge national tragedy that was devoured here as a chiment of Hola magazine, which was read in the East about 40 years ago. And then, the scene of the brave Italian journalist Oriana Fallaci, who became reactionary and racist years later, when he declared "tyrant" against Ayatolah Khomeini and took out the chador in his presence. Would Alejandro be encouraged to answer in the affirmative when the heaviest police officer asked him: "Are you gay?" Some articles on the regulation of baduality in Iran say that this question is asked four times to the accused and that, in the affirmative, sodomy is proven. The Fallaci enjoyed the support of cameras and a witness world, as well as an Ayatolah who, because of his religion, could not afford to stand in front of a woman without sailing and withdrew.

The Argentine journalist, late in his migration, had a cell phone with battery and a very good signal, which nobody confiscated at any time. They put him in a room that he described as VIP, probably in comparison to the abuses he was afraid of coming and that he was not coming. The reality of the East, prone to deformations as before, is no longer considered a fairy tale but as a miniseries of action and war, seat of the greatest attacks against human rights. l & # 39; man. There is something very real: the Iranian Islamic penal code, which has become "more moralistic" since the Iranian revolution of 1979 with Khomeini, provides for the death penalty for the crime of sodomy, as well as for adultery. In some articles, the code, which seems to emphasize the practice of penetration, to the detriment of being and appearances, distinguishes the punishment that would correspond to "pbadive or receptive" sodomites (death) and to "badets". Chance to save you from stoning. This year, they hanged a 31-year-old man found guilty of having bad with another man. What can happen to a stranger from South America? Does a visitor break the law by holding his body?

Last June, British singer Joss Stone went through the same bureaucratic ordeal as Modarelli. A little more: she was arrested one night and then deported by a singer and a woman in a country where the law prohibits women from offering a solo music show. But she did not intend to sing in Iran, nor discuss the laws of this country. They deported her "just in case", they confirmed that she was in what they called "the blacklist", where Modarelli undoubtedly shares the note.

How did they discover? Enthusiastic Marco Polo of the sensual politics of the East, Modarelli does not ignore the warning that appears in all the homobadual guides of the world: the list of places of risk for the homobadual tourist forms a map of the World: Iran and the Arab Emirates topped a list that follows with Russia, Lebanon, Singapore, Liberia, Bhutan, Burundi and Turkmenistan, and so much more. It is excluded that he got off the plane with the chaplain and the gloves that he usually wears on his Facebook account, thanks to the composition of some applications. Tehran's dogs did not detect the very deep masonry, Modareli also avoided going for a walk in the bathrooms of the airport. As expected Joss Stone, they were waiting with their medical records, their prevention information online: "They asked me if I was the author of the book. Holidays, baths and exiles, and if he is also the one who wrote these notes on page / 12. I said yes. "The key word that appears in the subtitle of the book that he wrote with Flavio Rapisardi in 2001 surely triggered the rest:" The homobaduals of Buenos Aires in the last dictatorship. "They asked him a third question: Are you told that he was deported and that he had to wait for the next plane?

Half an hour later, this new message arrived: "They have just told us that if we want to enter, they will repair it if we give money to the left".

From there, a few friends, a generation formed by Jean Genet and his theory of truth in prison and criminal ethics, encouraged the chronicler to pay the bribe and follow the adventure to the end. Modarelli, meanwhile, will have felt at home: the crouching tone of the coimero, the mood swings in the face of the doubt of his victim, seem to join us all in the distance with a seal that we consider Argentinian. He finally made a slightly more bourgeois decision but that will allow him to tell this story. New message: "I confess that I was tempted by a bitch, I almost grabbed it, but I said no." They announced that the next plane would leave in 7 hours, which is a lot more. These hours will appear in the full column that can be read this Friday in the online version of I am. With a foot in the plane that takes him out of Iran, he sends this morning the beginning of this story written in the VIP and on the cell phone. He arrives with the title and the signature:

PARTIES BATHS AND SPORTS. By Alejandro Modarelli

"It's 9 pm at Khomeini Airport in Tehran .If this is not because they've locked me up in a VIP lounge." and I immerse myself in the contributions that have made me an object of desire in the Middle East – so much so that I do not want to leave a corner without trying – I think I would be ready for a stroke.

A few hours ago, I arrived in Iran with images of Persepolis, Persian markets, gardens of Babylon. That is to say delivered to all the delights that the oral and rectal tradition brought me in my time where was once the asphalt of Buenos Aires. It was said that there would be no problem getting a visa on arrival, that is with a form and a stamp at the end of the day. the major shopping centers of this part of the East would open.

But no. After a nice reception, with my friend Juan, whom we see in the background on the picture playing with a sandwich, we had to put our bad on the table of migrations, as if it were a pending tea, promise of backlavas and witch hazel. After a while, the faces of the bureaucrats turned into maleva bureaucracies, side looks from behind the counters, comings and goings and questions about occupations and tourism projects, until 39, another of the chongos emerges from the door, but S / M, who sits and looks at me with eyes that lacerated my bad and asks me, "You are the author of Holidays, baths and exiles? "

I did not know if he had come to jail or he was asking me for an autograph. Dirty gesture, this Darío of Iranian postmodernity moved my flesh and stoked my fears of a mature traveler without peace. "Are you gay, what do you want to do in Tehran?"

Suddenly, a vanguard of angel angels flew over the Qur'anic hall, painted the desks in pink, left the naked bodies and lifted me to the table to give me the courage to say "Yes". One from Los Angeles called Juan Gabriel and I heard him laugh: "What you see is not asked."

They refused my visa and announced the eviction. By the way, to be Page / 12's SOY, for the damn Google technology serving the slapstick. For writing in 2001 a book on the sociability of homobaduals in a remote region of the world, at least on the Iranian horizon.

I am still waiting for the plane to take me back to Istanbul in 10 hours. From time to time, a handsome boy crosses my path and would like to sing "they say that our love is impossible, but that I know love and religions".

Now the Argentinian consul in Tehran calls me through the offices of the newspaper in which this column will be published. Indignant by the boys' madness of migration. And for the dedication they sometimes put on the penguins: see if the hummingbird loses green in the beak. He tells me that today is a day of mourning in this country. Iran takes the form of a black cake, requiring Shiite soap operas, representations in which the bodies are souls and these soul representations of the martyred body of the grandson of Mohammed, killed in 680 BC. The commemoration is called Ashura, and here from Yapa, they have a swatter in full martyrdom of the airport.

Once past this moment of panic which, as a movement of systole and diastole, pierces my heart and embodies my fleeting soul, I will continue with history in the form of another story. One thousand nights and one night Sherezada boiling in the corridors of Khomeini, hot as a sin for the marsala. " CONTINUE TO!