I am once more standing spread-eagle in a glass box with a boarding ticket in one hand and my passport in the other. I try to explain that I will be researching Gnawa-Jazz fusions in Morocco and that the “torture devices” being extracted from the depths of my bag were actually brushes for playing the drums. Unsatisfied with my answer, they ask me what kind of last name “Solaimani” is. “It’s Persian,” I replied. No response. “It’s Iranian.” Bingo.