Persian Empire 1845

Chapter 611 Border Patrol

The famine in Anatolia quickly spread, even reaching regions like Syria. People began to flee, willing to go anywhere to escape the famine.

Clearly, Iran became their only option. Everyone knows that life in Iran is better than in Egypt. Originally, Ottomans could go there to work, but after the economic crisis, Iran tightened entry permits for Ottomans, making illegal immigration popular.

Iran has long established border posts to prevent illegal border crossings, but people still find ways to enter Iran by crossing the desert region to the south.

The specific route is as follows: starting from Damascus, heading east across the Syrian desert to Palmyra, and then north to Deir ez-Zor. This route requires battling the scorching sun, avoiding bandits, and navigating the dangers of dehydration. Therefore, it is the most dangerous, yet also the safest, smuggling route.

Deir ez-Zor border policeman Muller was preparing; he would be patrolling the border with his men in fifteen minutes. His reason for doing so was the sheer number of people attempting to cross the border illegally.

The Iranian government understands the plight of these people, but unfortunately, with the Iranian economy only recently recovering, it is powerless to address the issue. It could only tighten its policies after approving the entry of 320,000 people for work. This has led to a surge in illegal border crossings. These refugees, desperate for a chance to survive, frequently attempt to cross the border, significantly increasing the pressure on border police.

Seeing that everyone was ready, Muller glanced at the pocket watch he had bought and loudly addressed his subordinates, "We'll be departing in five minutes. Everyone, get your final preparations done. We'll be patrolling the border for another two days."

Upon hearing their captain's words, the officers, who were already prepared, gave their superiors a variety of responses.

"Everything is ready, Captain."

Five minutes later, Muller and his men walked out of the police station. After loading the tents and supplies onto three camels, they began their two-day patrol.

As the setting sun painted the desert a golden-red hue, Müller's boot suddenly struck something hard. He raised his hand to signal the caravan to stop, and three camels irritably flicked their tails, their bells jingling in the silent desert.

"Captain, it's a brass kettle." The young officer crouched down and picked up the half-dented kettle, which had faint Ottoman patterns engraved on it. "It's still a little warm, so the person probably hasn't gone far."

Muller frowned, drawing his scimitar from his waist and slicing through the camel thorns that were half a person's height in front of him. He had patrolled this desert near the Deir ez-Zor border for five years, familiar with the direction of every dune, but since the beginning of summer this year, the traces left by stowaways had become increasingly dense. Cloth shoes half-buried by the sand, empty leather bags, and even swaddling clothes embroidered with a baby's name.

“Head northeast.” He brought his pocket watch close to his eyes; the numbers on the dial were darkened by sweat. “A sandstorm is coming; they’re definitely looking for a sheltered rocky hollow.”

The group had just rounded a sand dune when they heard a faint cough. A sharp-eyed officer pointed to a huge, wind-eroded rock ahead: "There it is!"

Three people were huddled under the rock: two adult men supporting an unconscious woman, their robes soaked with sweat and clinging to their emaciated bodies. Upon seeing the uniformed police officers, the two men instantly tensed.

"Don't be nervous, we're not here to arrest anyone." Muller sheathed his scimitar and untied a water bag from the camel's back. "You came from Damascus?" The tall man nodded hesitantly. "How dare you take this route?" Muller gazed at the darkening sky in the distance, the wind already whipping sand against his face. "The bandits from Palmyra to Deir ez-Zor have already robbed three groups this month."

“Being a bandit is better than starving to death.” They suddenly spoke up, his arm wrapped in a blood-soaked bandage. “The wheat fields in Anatolia are all withered. Our whole village has been gone for twenty days, and only the three of us are left. I heard there are factories on the Iranian border that are hiring. Even if they only give us a piece of black bread a day, we can still survive.”

“A sandstorm is coming. Come with us to the temporary rest stop first.” He turned to the police officers and said, “Take out the spare blankets and give them some dry rations.”

Upon arriving, the group began gathering firewood, setting up tents, and feeding the horses, all with great enthusiasm. Even the two stowaways they had apprehended were assigned to assist them, though police officers were present to both work and monitor them.

After they finished, the four officers who had been repairing the border fence returned. This was the most relaxing moment for these hardworking border patrol officers. They sat together watching the food cooking over the campfire, sipping hot coffee, feeling genuinely relaxed. They chatted about lighthearted topics, mostly about the funny things that happened during their patrols. The people they had arrested sat a few meters away from them.

At this moment, the captain took the coffee pot and walked up to them with three cups. He handed them the cups and then poured the coffee from the pot into their cups.

"cough cough"

Because they drank too quickly, some people couldn't help but cough.

"Drink slowly, no one will bother you."

Muller then shared his food with them; that was all he could do for these refugees. He already knew their fate was sealed.

Under Ottoman law, those who deserted without authorization would not only have their property confiscated but also be sentenced to three to five years of forced labor. That's why they fled to Iran at all costs.

The night was very quiet; nothing happened except for the changing of the guards. At dawn, after packing their belongings, Muller and his group continued their journey, while the three who had been captured were taken to the station for temporary detention.

That was a small group; in another direction, border police apprehended a large group of fifty people. They were quite capable, planning to cross the Syrian desert directly to Baghdad. Had they not encountered the police, they would all have perished in the desert.

Pressure on the border has increased dramatically in recent months, with the number of arrested migrants exceeding 30,000. Iran has never seen such a large migrant group before, and its only response has been to deploy troops for patrols and erect barbed wire fences in other areas to prevent them from crossing the border.

Such a large-scale refugee infiltration incident would naturally be reported to Baghdad. However, how to reduce such incidents became a headache for the government. Their task was simply to arrest the refugees and prevent them from crossing the border.

(End of this chapter)