A TIME TO BETRAY The Astonishing Double Life of a CIA Agent inside the Revolutionary Guards of Iran
A TIME TO BETRAY
The Astonishing Double
Life of a CIA Agent inside the Revolutionary Guards of Iran
REZA KAHLILI
THRESHOLD
EDITIONS
New York
London Toronto Sydney
2010
I dedicate this book to the young people of my country, to those who
have lost their lives but not the battle, and to those who are still fighting
with their fists raised in the air.
I raise my fist with you to demand a free Iran. Our country deserves
so much better.
16
Hejab
18
The Radical
19
Suspicions
23
God’s House
This is a true story of my life as a CIA agent in the Revolutionary
Guards of Iran; however, every effort has been made to protect my identity
(Reza Kahlili is not my real name), my family, and my associates. To do so, it
was necessary to change all the names (except for the officials of the Islamic
Republic of Iran) and alter certain events, chronology, circumstances, and
places to avoid the retaliation decreed by the Islamic rulers of Iran for all
those who challenge their authority.
A TIME TO BETRAY
TRUTH OR LIES
CIA agent Steve Clark uncrossed his legs. He leaned forward, his
expression stiffening. “Followed?”
I tried not to let my voice reflect my nervousness. “Yes. I thought
I might be imagining it, but I took a few diversions and the tail was still
there. It took me an hour to lose him.”
Agent Clark leveled his blue eyes at me. “Wally, I want you to be
completely aware of the consequences if things go wrong. The United States
government will deny any relationship to you. There won’t be a navy fleet
coming to your rescue. I’m sorry to be so blunt, but you must understand this.
Do I make myself clear?”
I swallowed hard and said, “Yes. I understand.” It was difficult to
miss Agent Clark’s message: I was disposable.
It was 1981. The revolutionary Islamic government had been in power
in Iran for more than two years. In that time, it had ensnared my country and
my people in its brutal grip. I had seen friends executed in cold blood, their
last look carved in my memory forever. But now, I was as far away from that
government as I had been since the revolution, in a safe house high above
California’s Malibu.
With my CIA contact.
Making plans to return to my homeland as a spy.
The world’s most powerful intelligence agency had given me the code
name Wally. I never thought to ask them why they chose it. It was hard to
believe that I looked like a Wally in their eyes, but maybe that was why they
gave the name to me. The assignment they asked me to undertake would have been
dangerous for any Iranian. But I was not just any Iranian. I was a member of
the dreaded Sepah-e-Pasdaran, the Ayatollah Khomeini’s Revolutionary Guards.
Now that Agent Clark knew I understood that I was ultimately on my
own, he moved forward. “We’ve arranged for you to be trained in Europe. We
chose London since you mentioned your in-laws live there. This should
not arouse any suspicion. In London, you’ll meet the people who will
be your contacts from here on out. These are good people, Wally.”
He handed me a slip of paper with a phone number to call my new
contact in London, a woman named Carol. “Under no circumstances should you use
a private phone. Always make your calls from public phones.”
I stared at the number for a long time, trying to keep my feelings
in check. I was terrified at the thought of where my return to Iran would lead
me. The Revolutionary Guards looked everywhere for spies. No one was above
suspicion. And they were likely to be especially wary of me when I got back. I
hadn’t just traveled out of the country; I’d gone to the United States, a sworn
enemy. They knew I’d gone to college in America and I’d given them a good
reason for my being there now, but they would certainly question me when I
returned. How would I hold up to their scrutiny?
If they caught me, I knew what would happen. I had seen what they
did to spies and to those who opposed the government. The Guards drugged them,
raped their wives and children in front of them, and gouged out their eyeballs,
all in an effort to get them to talk. I thought of my wife, Somaya, and
shuddered.
As they did every day, the visions came to me of what I had
witnessed in the infamous Evin Prison, where the government kept political
detainees. They’d paraded teenage girls in front of me as they led them to
their deaths. These girls were barely out of their childhood, barely old enough
to think for themselves, much less form thoughts against the state. They knew
nothing about the machinations of politics. They were innocent in every sense
of the word and certainly innocent of the trumped-up charges that led to their
imprisonment. Yet they suffered fates too brutal for even the most vicious
criminal. None of these girls would ever know the joys of romantic love. None
of them would ever hold her own baby in her arms. Their few remaining moments
of life had been filled with a level of abuse few can imagine.
“Wally?”
Agent Clark startled me out of my thoughts. I realized he had been
watching me as I stared off into space. “Yes?”
“There is one other thing, and I don’t want you to take it
personally. It’s just part of the procedure we have to go through.” He cleared
his throat. “You’ll have to undergo a lie-detector test.”
I didn’t protest. This made sense, of course. Agent Clark might have
been comfortable with me and confident about my motives, but if I were a
professional spy on behalf of the Revolutionary Guards, they would have trained
me to behave exactly as I had in the CIA’s presence. The lie-detector test was
insurance.
Agent Clark arranged for the test to take place in the Hacienda
Hotel in El Segundo, just south of Los Angeles International Airport. I entered
through the restaurant, as instructed, and walked to the back hall. This led to
a bank of elevators. From there I headed to room 407, taking the stairway
instead of the elevator to make sure no one was following me. At the room, I
used the key Agent Clark had given me. He was already there.
The agent administering the test arrived shortly thereafter,
carrying an oversized briefcase. He didn’t offer his name, only nodding
instead. I noticed that he’d tied the knot on his thin tie too tight.
Though I wasn’t hiding anything from the CIA, I began to feel a hint
of panic. The agent must have noticed this, because he smiled and told me to
relax. Doing so was not going to be easy for me. As the agent unpacked his
equipment, my heart pounded. I glanced at Agent Clark and he offered me a
reassuring look. This did little to calm me.
The other agent explained the process, telling me what each of the
several wires coming from the machine did. The agent would be reading my
nervous system, which I had disciplined myself to control, though I wasn’t
doing the best job of it right now. I eyed the door. For just a moment, I
considered making a break for it. I would find some peaceful place where
neither the CIA nor the Revolutionary Guards could find me.
But then I remembered the executions. The hangings. The torture. My
friends. And my resolve returned as never before.
The agent asked me to sit down and roll up my sleeves. He hooked the
wires from the machine to my arms, wrist, fingers, and chest. Sweat formed on
my forehead.
“You can relax, Wally,” the agent said. “This isn’t going to hurt.”
Agent Clark moved into the second room of the suite, closing the
door behind him. The other agent told me to look straight ahead. He sat to my
right, adjusted himself a couple of times, and said he was going to ask some
questions; all I needed to do was answer with a simple yes or no. He bent over,
concentrating intently as a roll of paper extruded from the machine, his pen
ready to make notations.
“Is your name Reza Kahlili?”
“Yes.”
“Are you twenty-seven years old?”
“Yes.”
“Were you born in Iran?”
“Yes.”
“Are you married?”
“Yes.”
“Do you work for the Revolutionary Guards?”
“Yes.”
“Did they ask you to come here?”
“No.”
“Did they help you with your travel plans?”
“Yes.”
“Did they ask you to contact us?”
“No.”
“Have you contacted the Guards since being here?”
“No.”
“Have you told them about this meeting?”
“No.”
I noticed that several of the questions seemed repetitive, with
nuanced differences. I wondered if this was the agent’s attempt to trip me up.
“Does your wife know you are here?”
“She knows I am in America but she doesn’t know I am with you.”
“Stay with yes or no, please. Does anyone know about your contact
with the CIA?”
“No … well, yes … Well, not really … but FBI agents …”
He did not let me finish. “Only yes or no, Wally.”
I was sweating heavily at this point. This made the places where the
agent had attached the electrodes itchy. The agent watched me shift in my seat
and then made a notation. I wondered how badly my obvious nervousness was
hurting my chances.
The agent turned two pages in his notes, seeming to skip ahead.
“Have you been inside Evin Prison?”
“Yes.”
“Do the interrogators rape virgins before they’re executed?”
“I … I didn’t realize Agent Clark would be telling you …”
“Yes or no, please, Wally.”
I swallowed as memories tumbled one after the other. Parvaneh’s last
look at me. Roya’s letter. “Yes. They rape the virgins before they are executed
because they believe virgins are sent straight to heaven.”
“Wally, please, just yes or no. Did you witness this?”
“No.”
“Did you witness tortures and executions at Evin Prison?”
In the hum of the air conditioning, I could hear Naser calling, “Reeezzzza.”
I exhaled slowly. “Yes.”
The agent turned back a couple of pages to where he had been.
“Do you work for the Revolutionary Guards as their chief computer
engineer?”
“Yes.”
“Did you acquire this position through Kazem Aliabadi?”
“Yes.”
“Was Kazem Aliabadi a childhood friend?”
“Yes.”
“Was Naser Hushmand also a childhood friend?”
“Yes.”
“As far as you know, is Kazem loyal to the goals of the
Revolutionary Guards?”
“Yes.”
“As far as you know, is Kazem aware that you do not share his
beliefs?”
“No.”
“As far as you know, does Kazem consider you loyal to the goals and
ideals of the Revolutionary Guards?”
“Yes.”
“Have you taken an oath to remain loyal to the Revolutionary Guards,
including a vow to become a martyr for the Ayatollah Khomeini?”
“Yes.”
“Is Kazem aware that you took this oath?”
“Yes.”
“Do you consider it immoral to break an oath to your friend?”
I felt a lump in my throat as a tide rose in my chest. My eyes
brimmed with tears. I had left home a respected member of the exclusive
Revolutionary Guards. I would return a jasoos, a spy betraying my
country.
I knew that if my father were alive and found out what I was doing,
he would turn his back on me. I knew that my grandmother, who taught me to be a
devoted Muslim and to be honest and trustworthy, would be ashamed of me.
Through the roar of blood in my ears, I heard the agent ask, “Would
you like me to repeat the question?”
How could I be a spy if I could not hide my emotions and provide
fast answers to provocative questions? I had joined the Guards with the purest
intentions. I believed at the beginning of the revolution that the Islamic
movement was fair and just, carrying the promise of a nation’s salvation.
Instead, I had witnessed brutality, murders, and lies committed in the name of
God. I had witnessed the destruction of a nation. Because of this, I was about
to embark on a life of treason. I was going to lie to my wife, lie to the
people I loved most. I was going to risk their lives without giving them the
chance to protect themselves.
“Wally?”
The CIA saw me as a godsend, an asset they needed at a time when
they were struggling to understand the threat that Iran had become to them. If
I was going to help them, they needed to know what made me tick. Yet I wasn’t
sure I could explain myself to them. How could I make them understand why I was
risking my family and betraying my friends to save my country when I wasn’t
sure myself?
For the first time since I’d begun this journey, tears broke over
the edge of my eyes and dripped down my cheeks.
“Wally,” the agent said softly, “do you consider it immoral to break
an oath to your friend?”
The question split my soul in two.
“Wally?”
Because the two people inside me had contradictory answers. And God
would not send half of me to hell.
“Reza?”
THREE FRIENDS
1966 “REZA!”
I rubbed my eyes and opened them reluctantly. My grandmother,
Khanoom Bozorg, was pulling the curtains to the side.
“Get up, son, it is almost eight o’clock.”
“It’s too early, Grandma. Please let me sleep some more.”
“Naser has already come by the door twice. Don’t you want to see
your friends? Get up now. The guests will be arriving soon.”
“They won’t be here until noon.”
My protests didn’t carry any weight with her. Grandma gave me a
pinch on my cheek and pulled the blanket off me before she left the room.
Today was Ashura, a day when Shia Muslims mourn the martyrdom of
Imam Hussein, Shiites’ third Imam, with solemn stories and great feasts. My
grandmother was hosting Rowzeh Khooni, a ceremony of mourning. I awoke to a
flurry of activity around the house. Grandma had begun preparations days ago
and they continued now with fervor. With the help of family members and
neighbors, she had the furniture moved out of the living area because she was
going to be hosting so many people. Over my grandparents’ Persian rugs, they’d
placed colorful maroon and burgundy patterned cushions, with large matching
cushions resting against the wall for added comfort. In this newly opened
space, they could bring together more than a hundred guests.
I went to the kitchen, where Grandma had my breakfast ready. She
made me hot tea and a piece of lavash bread rolled with butter and cherry jam,
which was my favorite. The kitchen was a mess. Big copper pots filled with food
sat on the floor. Grandma was an accomplished cook and a fine host, and she had
prepared a feast for that day. She had even hired several servants in addition
to the usual help because she wanted all of her guests to feel comfortable.
The aroma from the food she’d made wafted through the house—and
probably through the neighborhood as well. She’d made gheyme polo, rice
with yellow split peas and meat; baghali polo, fava beans with rice and
veal
shank; and fesenjoon, walnut stew with white rice. And she’d
made enough to feed every guest for several days.
While my parents’ house was only a few blocks down the same street,
I spent most of my time at this point in my life at my paternal grandparents’
home. I even had my own room there. Both of my parents worked, sometimes until
late at night. Since I was the only child and since, at twelve, I was still
young, someone had to take care of me. I loved spending time with my
grandparents. Khanoom Bozorg always made my favorite food, told me stories, and
had her maids clean my room and wash my clothes. I never had to do anything
around this house—unless she was punishing me for doing something bad. Agha
Joon, my grandpa, was like a second father to me. His favorite phrase was “Pir
shi javoon,” “Grow old, young man.” At the time, I wondered why he would
wish a young person to grow old, but I would someday understand what he meant
by this. And where Grandma could be strict, Grandpa usually found a way to get
me off the hook with her when I was in trouble.
The reason I most loved being at my grandparents’ house was that
Naser lived next door. Naser and I had been friends for as long as I could
remember. We grew up together, played together, went to the same school, and
hung around together after classes nearly every day. My grandfather and Naser’s
father, Davood, were good friends even though there was a considerable
difference in their ages. They enjoyed gardening and birdwatching together.
They had pet canaries whose song they could imitate with their own uncanny
whistles.
Davood adored his three children. He always bragged about Naser’s
grades and the artistic endeavors of Soheil, his younger son. He regularly
claimed that Soheil would be as famous as da Vinci one day. With the birth of
his only daughter, Parvaneh, Davood celebrated life anew. Parvaneh is
the Farsi word for “butterfly” and Davood gave his daughter this name because
she had brought color and beauty to his life. He always took the toddler along
when he visited Grandpa. Naser’s mom, on the other hand, was a private woman
and rarely joined my grandparents’ gatherings.
After I ate breakfast, I ran to Naser’s house. We had plans to meet
up with our friend Kazem. Naser and I were twelve and Kazem was a year younger;
adult gatherings gave us a great opportunity to create mischief and we
suspected we’d generate some today.
When I got to Naser’s house, he was in his yard chasing frogs. I put
my head between the bars of the iron fence that surrounded his house and called
his name.
“Come on, let’s go get Kazem.”
“Wait, I almost have this frog.”
He was zigzagging, jumping here and there in pursuit. He finally
managed to catch the frog, and once he did, he ran toward me. His big brown
eyes glinted in the summer sun. His smile widened as he extended his arms to
show me his catch.
I scowled at him. “You’re wasting time chasing frogs, Naser! The
guests will be arriving soon.”
Naser put the trapped amphibian in his pocket with a shrug. “Okay,
Reza. Let’s go.”
He whistled happily as we walked. A fresh breeze from the mountains
stirred the tall trees that lined our streets. Water from the snowmelt flowed
through a creek that wove and tumbled its way through the thickets of raspberry
and blackberry bushes in Grandpa’s backyard, creating a melodic brook in which
Naser and I could splash.
We lived in an upscale neighborhood with lush foliage in the north
of Tehran, the capital of Iran. My grandparents’ house was at the end of a
long, narrow street lined with gated properties on both sides. You could not
see some of the larger homes from the street as tall brick walls or hedges
concealed them. On our walk through this area, we always peeked through gates
to take in the acres of impressive landscaping, ponds, waterfalls, and swimming
pools. I felt very proud to live in a place this beautiful.
This area was close to the slopes of the Alborz mountain range.
Nearby was the Sadabad Palace, built during the Qajar dynasty in the nineteenth
century. Reza Shah lived there in the twenties. His son, Mohammad Reza Shah
Pahlavi, Shahanshah, King of Kings, moved there in the seventies.
Kazem’s house was only a thirty-minute walk from ours, but in many
ways it seemed a world away. In his neighborhood, potholes dotted the asphalt
streets, rotted wooden gates marked the entrances in the crumbling clay walls
around the small homes, and only a few small trees stood along the sidewalks.
The very same creek that ran past my grandparents’ house wound through this
neighborhood as well. But where Naser and I used the creek for frolicking, some
of Kazem’s neighbors used it for washing clothes.
Even at our age, it was impossible not to notice the difference in
living conditions. Hungry kids sat on the street in torn, dirty clothes with
flies buzzing around the dried crusts of dirt on their noses and eyes. Their
mothers carried laundry in big aluminum bowls atop their heads. Women traded
dried bread and a little change for a bag of sea salt, which the street
merchants carried in donkey saddle packs. The merchant used the dried bread to
feed his donkey and the change as his sole source of income. And while men in
our family discussed whether to purchase American-made or German-made cars, men
in Kazem’s neighborhood owned old bikes or, like Kazem’s father, a
three-wheeler pickup truck.
The differences weren’t only economic. Here, the women covered
themselves under chadors, unlike the women in our family and many others in
Iran who dressed in Western-style suits and fancy dresses, covering their hair
with a loose scarf only on special occasions, such as mourning ceremonies or
funerals.
As we drew closer to Kazem’s house, we saw him with his mother
escorting Mullah Aziz outside. Kazem’s mother bent over and whispered something
to Kazem, who stepped toward the mullah, took his hand, bowed, and kissed it.
That was his way of thanking Mullah Aziz for teaching him the Quran. When he
spotted us, Kazem didn’t blush. He was not embarrassed to have us see him
kissing a mullah’s hand, as Naser and I would have been. In fact, he smiled
with pride.
We’d met Kazem a year before on a hot summer afternoon. Kazem was
the local butcher’s son. Despite being only ten then, Kazem worked for his dad
after school and during the summertime. Naser and I were playing soccer outside
my grandparents’ house along with a few other boys from our neighborhood when
Kazem made a meat delivery to Grandma. Afterward, he sat on the curb and
watched us play. He was short and skinny and wore his hair so closely cropped
that his round head almost seemed bald. His dark, droopy eyes moved with the
ball and every time one of us made a bad play, he giggled.
After this happened a few times, Naser threw the ball to Kazem and
challenged him to show us some of his moves. Kazem jumped from the curb eagerly
and started bouncing the ball on his feet ten, twenty times without dropping
it. Then, in one fluid motion, he kicked the ball above his head and headed it
back to Naser.
Naser and I looked at each other, amazed. Right there, we asked him
to join our soccer team. Kazem happily agreed. His only caveat was that he
could not play with us during the month of Ramadan because his mother insisted
that he fast. I found it hard to believe that any kid would put religious
obligations ahead of soccer, but we had no choice but to accept this.
“Mullah, may I kiss your hand,” Naser said, teasing Kazem, as we
made our way back to my grandparents’ house.
With a grand gesture, Kazem presented his hand to Naser and said,
“May God forgive you for your rudeness, son. You shall bow and kiss my hand
now.” Then he laughed.
Naser reached into his pocket quickly and put the frog in Kazem’s
outstretched hand. Kazem screamed and pulled away. The frog hopped to the
ground and made his escape. Naser had to hold his stomach, he was laughing so
hard.
“What is wrong with you?” I said, slapping Naser on the back. “Why
did you do that?” I didn’t like touching frogs, either, so I sympathized
immediately with Kazem.
“Come on, Reza, you coward. You’re both cowards. It’s just a frog.”
Naser wrapped his arms around us, giving us a big hug.
In the middle of this we heard the clop-clop of a donkey. We turned
to see Mullah Aziz passing us. His short legs were hanging off the sides of the
animal and his sandals were bouncing on his feet. Naser pointed at the hole in
the mullah’s socks and the three of us laughed. I knew the mullah was on his
way to my grandparents’ home to perform the Rowzeh Khooni. This ceremony was a
business opportunity for neighborhood mullahs. They lived in near poverty, so
the fee they received for this occasion (the equivalent of a dollar or two)
meant something to them.
Some Muslims, like Kazem’s family, held the mullahs in high regard
and followed their teachings closely. However, most people—my family and
Naser’s family among them—considered the mullahs nothing more than low-level
preachers who helped them practice their faith and meet their moral
obligations. Grandpa did not like the mullahs. I once heard him say, “These
donkey riders should all be moved to the city of Qom, where they learned all
this nonsense. They should be kept in a compound and only allowed to preach
there.” And then in a moment of terrible prescience, he added, “God forbid if
they ever get the power to rule.”
As soon as Mullah Aziz passed us by, we encountered a dasteh,
a mourning parade of men in black clothes, marching down the alley carrying
banners and singing torturous songs about Imam Hussein’s martyrdom. We sat at
the curb and watched as they moved along. The neighborhood women carried big
pitchers of cherry sherbet and offered it to the men, who were sweating under
the heat. As part of the ceremony, some men struck their chests with their
hands and some rapped their backs until they bled with a special chain made
only for the parade.
“What’s wrong, Reza?” Kazem said when he saw my reaction to this.
“Why are you making that face?”
I was nauseous. The funereal singing and the sight of so many backs
covered with blood made me gag. I always tried to avoid a dasteh. I
would try to stay inside if they came to our neighborhood, though they usually
kept to neighborhoods like Kazem’s.
I avoided answering Kazem’s question because I knew his response to
this sight was very different from mine. “We should be going now,” I said,
pulling Naser’s shirt. “If we wait here for the dasteh to pass by, we
won’t get home in time. And look, Mullah Aziz is also taking off.”
The mullah had been on the other side of the alley, sitting on his
donkey, watching the crowd and playing with his prayer beads. Naser got up,
looked toward the mullah, and pulled Kazem by his arm.
“Let’s go,” he said, pointing down an alley and smiling
mischievously. “Let’s get to the house before Mullah Aziz. I know a shortcut.
This way, Reza! Kazem!”
We followed Naser, running. Breathless, we managed to get to
Grandpa’s before the mullah.
Inside the house, the guests were already there. The women sat in
the living room and the men sat in the adjacent family room. Some kids were in
the yard playing and the smaller kids were inside with their parents.
“Come on, guys,” Naser said as he noticed the mullah’s arrival.
“He’s here.”
The mullah dismounted his donkey and tied it to a tree at the end of
the paved driveway next to Grandpa’s 1955 white Cadillac DeVille. My
grandfather loved that car and he made sure his chauffeur kept it in pristine
condition. He would have been appalled to see the mullah’s donkey pounding his
feet and kicking up dust on the car.
Mullah Aziz made his way down the potted-geranium-lined path leading
to the stairs up to the balcony entrance. While everyone else waited inside the
house for the sermon to begin, the three of us hunkered down behind the
Cadillac. I still did not know what Naser had in mind, but he seemed ready to
burst with excitement.
Grandpa had opened the double doors to welcome Mullah Aziz. The
mullah went inside and quickly took his place in front of the living room
mantelpiece under a picture of Imam Ali, the Shiites’ first Imam. Grandma had
placed a special cushion for him there.
“Okay, guys,” Naser whispered. “Kazem, you stay here in front of
Agha Joon’s car and make sure nobody sees us. If you see anybody coming,
whistle twice. Reza, you come with me.” Kazem agreed to join in reluctantly,
obviously uneasy about doing anything that might victimize the mullah. As was
usually the case with Kazem, he didn’t volunteer to start mischief, but he
didn’t back away from it, either.
Naser and I crept toward the donkey. I grabbed the bridle while
Naser untied the reins. The animal did not move. Naser gave him a kick in the
leg; still nothing. I pulled his tail. The donkey turned his head and neighed
at me.
“He isn’t going anywhere,” Kazem said, laughing.
Naser grabbed a small stick from the ground and hit the donkey on
the back. That finally got the animal moving. With the donkey now free of his
restraints and running, the three of us chased the hapless beast down the
street, roaring with laughter.
“There goes the Mullah Aziz’s 1965 Donkey-Mobile, down the hill in
neutral,” Naser said.
Once the donkey was gone, we ran back inside, thrilled with our
success and determined to appear as innocent as possible.
Meanwhile, Mullah Aziz was beginning his work. After adjusting his
turban a few times, he closed his eyes, lifted his chubby arms skyward, and
opened the ceremony with “Besmellahe Rahmane Rahim”—“In the Name of God,
the Merciful, the Kind.” Then he began to tell sad stories of the Imam’s
martyrdom. The women found this mesmerizing. Within minutes, Mullah Aziz had
them crying with his mournful performance. Meanwhile, in the other room,
Grandpa was making fun of him and his delivery, whispering to my dad, “The son
of a dog is telling the story of Imam Hussein like he witnessed the Imam’s
martyrdom himself.”
With the women in a state of rapture, Mullah Aziz peeked at them
surreptitiously. Rubbing his full black beard with his fingers, he moved his
eyes around the room until he spotted my two cousins, Haleh and Mina. I learned
that they’d earlier caused a stir when they entered the women’s room because
they were dressed so conspicuously. Mina was wearing a tight, short, light
green dress and Haleh a black lace blouse and a miniskirt. Both girls wore red
lipstick, green eye shadow, and rosy blush. As a concession to propriety, they
wore thin see-through veils atop their updos. As Mullah Aziz came toward the
close of his sermon, he glanced at my cousins again and winked at them. Haleh
looked at Mina in shock and they started giggling.
Naser saw this exchange and wrinkled his nose. Naser had a huge
crush on Haleh despite the fact that she was eight years older. “Stupid
mullah,” he whispered. “I hope he never finds that donkey.”
After the mullah’s presentation, the servants offered platters of
food on a sofreh, a linen tablecloth spread across the floor. We filled
our plates and ate in the yard. The mullah stayed inside, enjoying the large
plate of food Grandma had prepared especially for him.
When we finished eating, we lay on the bench by Grandpa’s fishpond
and talked about our next soccer match. The guests had scattered in the yard.
Some prepared to leave, some gathered in small groups talking, and some helped
clean up. I had nearly forgotten about what we’d done with Mullah Aziz’s donkey
when I heard my grandmother’s trembling voice.
“Reza … ! Reza … !”
She came over to us, biting her lip, hands on her hips, tapping her
foot.
I looked at Naser and then Kazem. “How did she know it was us?” I
whispered.
I knew I was in trouble, but I would not betray my friends. We had
sworn an oath to be friends forever and never tell on one another. I ran back
inside and hid behind my grandfather, though I had a feeling that even he was
not going to be able to save me this time.
“Reza! I will give you a good lesson tonight,” my grandmother said
with ominous calm. “But now you go with your friends and find that donkey.”
Though I hadn’t ratted out my friends, she knew all three of us had
been involved. She had the authority to punish only me, though, so I would
withstand the worst of this. We went out to look for the animal and found him
just around the corner by a gutter. He was probably very confused
about his master’s whereabouts. We brought the donkey back home,
where my grandmother was apologizing profusely to Mullah Aziz for our behavior.
This seemed to mollify him, especially when Grandma presented him with a big
basket of food and fruit to take home.
My grandmother could have beaten me for this indiscretion and I
really wouldn’t have had any legitimate gripe. But the punishment she chose was
far more humiliating than any beating—she made me help the women in the kitchen
that night and then she made me clean up the garden the next day.
“You’ll also be in your room for a few days. No soccer or outside
playing,” Grandma demanded.
“Khanoom Bozorg, that’s not fair!”
“What you did to that poor mullah was not nice.”
“But … but we have an important match coming this Thursday. Please,
Grandma, I adore you, I do.” I pouted and pressed my eyelids together. She left
the room, letting my appeal for leniency go unanswered. The following Thursday,
though, I not only played soccer, I also went to see a movie with Naser and
Kazem after our game. Kazem insisted we see A Fistful of Dollars with
Clint Eastwood even though we had seen it a few times already. We loved
American movies, especially Westerns. We each had a favorite American actor.
Kazem’s was Clint Eastwood, Naser’s, John Wayne, and mine, Steve McQueen. We
even called one another by their names. We loved going to the theater, eating
popcorn, and drinking orange soda.
One thing we didn’t love was that before every movie started, we had
to stand up to the picture of Mohammad Reza Shah, which appeared on the screen
as the national anthem played. Although that night we got to the movie theater
a little late, all of the people in the audience were on their feet to honor
the picture of the shah. Naser put his two fingers by his forehead to salute
me. I imitated the same motion to Kazem, and Kazem bowed to both of us as we
all giggled. On the way home after the movie, Kazem drew his imaginary gun and
shot at Naser and me. We acted as though he’d actually shot us and swayed back
and forth in slow motion. “Clint, please don’t kill us,” we called as we fell.
Since the next day was a Friday, that meant it was time for another
of my grandfather’s weekly gatherings. Some Muslims continue the mourning of
Imam Hussein’s martyrdom for the entire month of Muharram, wearing
black clothes and avoiding parties and music. But for most Iranians,
like my family, life went back to normal the day after Ashura.
As soon as everyone arrived this Friday, Grandpa called upon the
kids, lining us up in three rows from the oldest to the youngest so we could
perform the national anthem:
Shahanshah e ma zendeh bada
Payad keshvar be farash javedan
Kaz Pahlavi shod molke Iran
Sad rah behtar ze ahde basetan
Az doshmanan budi parishan
Dar saye ash asude Iran
Iranian peyvaste shadan
Hamvareh Yazdan bovad ura negahban
Long live our King of Kings
And may his glory make immortal our land
For Pahlavi dynasty improved Iran
A hundredfold from where it once used to stand
Though once beset by the foemen’s rage
Now it has peace in his keeping sure
We of Iran, rejoice in every age
Oh, may God protect him both now and evermore
Naser, Kazem, and I were in the middle row. Naser had his little
sister, Parvaneh, on his shoulder. Parvaneh, only two at the time, was too
young to sing the anthem, but she would mouth some words as if she knew the
whole thing while moving her head so that her pigtails hit her in the face.
When we made fun of her, she curled her lips, bent her head down, and frowned.
Naser, who was very protective of his siblings, rolled his eyes at us.
Meanwhile, Grandpa moved his arms like a world-famous conductor, pointing at us
and bobbing his head with eyes closed. Anyone could see how much he loved doing
this.
“Agha Joon, let the poor kids go play,” Naser’s father, Davood, said
after a while. “Enough of Shahanshah.”
Davood helped my dad fire up the brazier for the chelo kebab,
ground beef and steak skewers with rice. While my grandmother always made the
food for the big feasts, Friday lunches came from my grandfather, my father,
and Davood. They would marinate the steak the night before. While one kept the
fire going by fanning it constantly, the others arranged the meat on big metal
skewers.
After lunch, we all assembled around the goldfish pond in the center
of the yard. My grandfather had placed large benches there under the mulberry
trees, covering them with Persian rugs. My grandmother made tea on the samovar
and her servant served this and pastries to everyone.
Grandpa used the charcoals still burning on the grill to light his
hookah and called to Davood to share it with him. As soon as Davood had his
first puff, he started singing. Soon everyone joined in by clapping along to
the song. While the girls started dancing, Naser, Kazem, and I climbed the
walnut tree at the corner of the yard. From there Naser could follow Haleh’s
every move. My cousin’s dark brown silky hair caressed her shoulders as she
danced.
“Reza, she is so beautiful,” Naser said with a sigh. “I will marry
her someday.”
Kazem let out a groan. “Here we go again—Naser’s love story.”
Naser scowled at Kazem. “How about you, Kazem? Do you have a good
view of Mina from up here? She’s wearing your favorite skirt, the shortest one.
Hey! Look!” He pointed into the distance. “She’s waving at you.” Mina was
talking to a guest on the other side of the yard.
When Kazem turned his head to see, Naser blew a raspberry at him and
said, “Keep dreaming, man.”
Kazem seemed a little embarrassed, but he recovered quickly. “At
least I have a chance with her. Your big nose would scare away an ugly witch.”
Sometimes when we were up in that tree, we shook the branches and
watched the walnuts fall to the ground. We laughed every time a walnut hit
Soheil or one of the other kids who were too small to climb the tree. When
there were enough walnuts on the ground for everybody, we would climb down,
gather the walnuts, and sit on the bench next to Grandpa and Davood. We
listened to their stories as we hulled the walnuts. We knew that cracking so
many walnuts was going to leave a black stain on our hands, but since it was
summertime, we didn’t care. We always left the biggest walnuts for Grandpa.
Around this time every Friday, Grandpa and Davood would start
debating. My grandfather’s recollections of World War II often led to animated
conversations about the shah and the lack of political freedom in Iran.
“The shah has done wonders for our country,” my grandfather would
say. “Look at all the modernization, the new high-rise buildings, and the
universities. Women in Iran are free now. This is progress.”
“You’re right about that, Agha Joon,” Davood would respond, “but we
lack freedom of speech. We need democracy. The shah rules with an iron fist.
God help those who stand up to him.”
“That will change, Davood jon. He’s been making changes all
along. We have a good life. We’re very prosperous because of his programs.”
“What are you saying? We have more political prisoners in our jails
than ever before. All our progress is meaningless if our basic rights are being
denied.”
My grandmother always found this talk annoying. She’d shake her head
and say, “Bah, they started this again! There are kids here. They might tell
someone at school that we talk bad about Shahanshah at home.” She would turn to
my dad and scoff. “I think Davood is looking for trouble.”
This would lead to my father putting his arm around Grandma and
saying, “Don’t worry, Mother. They are talking about history and democracy. It
is good for the kids. They learn to be open-minded.”
My mother wouldn’t agree. “Your mother is right. Some kids can
interpret talk like this as disrespect to the shah.”
Grandma would jump on this to reinforce her point. “They should
teach these kids piety instead. That’s how they learn to be good. It’s through
God and religion that we can teach these restless kids to be honest and
trustworthy.”
My parents were not religious people nor political. They did believe
in God, but they thought religion kept people from discovering science and the
purpose of being. “Religion mandates what to do and how to do it,” my mother
once said to me. “It stops your way of thinking and exploring your options in
life.” My mother always thought progressively. While most Iranian women chose
to be housewives, she spent most of her time in a children’s hospital as a
nurse.
While my mother and father had similar perspectives on the world, my
grandparents thought very differently from each other. Grandpa thought that
man was all about his background and roots. He would say, “We are a
nation of royalty with a rich history of kingdom.” He spoke proudly of the rule
of shahs over the centuries and about our rich culture of arts and crafts. His
love affair with the Pahlavi dynasty started when Reza Shah-E-Kabir, known as
Reza Shah the Great, took the reins of the country in a military coup in 1921
and confronted the Soviets, hoping to control Iran by helping rebellious
militias in the north of the country. Reza Shah dethroned Ahmad Shah, the last
king of the Qajar dynasty. He then chose the name Pahlavi for himself, becoming
the first king of this new dynasty. My grandfather believed in Reza Shah’s
edicts, such as the order that any woman seen wearing a chador should be made
to remove her veil. This was a direct insult to the mullahs and Reza Shah
became the immediate enemy of the clerics, but he did not let up. He continued
to Westernize Iran, building roads, bridges, railway systems, and universities.
Reza Shah’s monarchy ended badly, however. During World War II, the
Allies felt he was sympathetic to the Germans, and because of Iran’s vast oil
reserves, they attacked our country—the Russians from the northwest and the
British from the west and the south. They conquered Iran and unseated Reza
Shah. The British sent him into exile in Africa for the rest of his life, and
they appointed his twenty-two-year-old son, Mohammad Reza Shah, the new king of
Iran. The new shah continued many of his father’s policies, but he was more
moderate, allowing people to practice their religion freely.
My grandmother agreed with the shah’s approach to religion. This
irritated my grandfather. “Khanoom, we are Persians, not Arabs. Islam is not
for us. We are the nation of Zartosht, Zoroaster. The British have long helped
the mullahs to keep us entangled with Islam and keep us busy with Allah and his
punishments while they take advantage of our oil.”
“Agha, bite your tongue. Our belief in God is just. It has nothing
to do with the British. You haven’t learned anything about Islam. How did I
spend so many years with such an ignorant person?”
I learned what I knew about religion from my grandmother. She showed
me that Islam was a religion of honesty, love, respect, courage, and justice.
She told inspiring stories about the Prophet Mohammad and Imam Ali. One of my
favorites was about how Ali would go out at night in disguise to help the poor.
Although a leader with the highest regard among his people, he
led a life of hardship and deprivation, disdaining material wealth
and comfort.
My grandmother’s voice still echoes in my mind. “One day Ali’s
brother, who was a blind man, approached Ali, saying to him, ‘Ali, you have
control of the treasury. Why don’t you share some with your poor brother?’
“Ali told him to come and take what he needed. Then, instead of
giving his brother the coins he wanted, he placed a candle in such a manner
that caused his brother to touch its flame. His brother cried out in pain,
demanding to know why Ali had done that.
“Do you know why he did that, Reza? Ali was the ruler and the most
honest, trusted man in the eyes of his people. He wanted to show his brother
that stealing was a sin. He shouldn’t take money he didn’t earn. If he could
not bear the pain of a little burn on his finger, how could he bear Jahanam’s
fire, hellfire?” She finished this story as she always did. “You must always
choose right over wrong.”
I loved both of my grandparents, but I secretly loved my grandfather
a bit more. It was through his passion for his garden that I learned how
precious life was. Grandpa spent most of his leisure time in the garden tending
to his fruit trees, red roses, white jasmines, and several small pots of
flowers. Every afternoon, he filled his watering can in the pond and, holding
on to the back of his long robe, bent and carefully nurtured his beloved
flowers, speaking fondly to them as he did.
“Agha Joon, why are you talking to your flowers?” I asked him once
while he was doing this.
Grandpa turned toward me. “Reza, my son, there is life in flowers.
They are like humans. They have feelings. They are God’s creation. Cherish them
and they will flourish. Neglect them and they will perish.”
I continued to learn from my grandfather as the years went by, even
as the outside world became a bigger and bigger part of my life. Summers went
by in a blur. Soon Naser and I, now seventeen, were preparing to enter the last
year at our all-boys’ high school, where we carried a heavy load: two-hour
classes of algebra, chemistry, physics, history, English, and more. Kazem went
to a different high school and still had the job delivering meat orders for his
father. He received some teasing for this from some neighborhood boys. Most
young people in Tehran didn’t work. Only those who lived in poverty would allow
their sons to have jobs. Kazem was not ashamed of working and he brushed off
the taunting.
Meanwhile, Naser and I were having the time of our lives. Now that I
was older, I spent most of my days at my parents’ house. While my parents were
at work, Naser and I smoked cigarettes and drank beer there. Kazem occasionally
joined us when he was done with his meat deliveries. We hid our bottles of beer
from him because we didn’t want to subject ourselves to his lectures about
temperance. They were worse than the lectures my grandmother gave me.
One afternoon, when the three of us sat on the deck off my room,
Naser put out his cigarette and stood up. “I’m thirsty. Is there anything to
drink?”
“We should have some 7UP and Coke in the fridge,” I said. “Do you
want me to go and get it?”
“No, I know my way around your house. You guys want some too?”
We both nodded. When Naser went inside, Kazem pulled his chemistry
book from his bag, saying that he hoped Naser would help him prepare for a test
the next day. Kazem needed to ace it to pass the course.
“He’s got nothing to do,” I said. “I’m sure he’ll be able to help
you. God, I hate chemistry.”
Naser came back with three glasses on a tray. “Reza, turn off the
lights. That’ll keep the mosquitoes from attacking us.”
I did so and Naser gave each of us a glass. As soon as I took a sip,
I knew he was being mischievous. Under the dim light coming from the window in
my room, I rolled my eyes at him. He raised his eyebrows and gestured to me to
stay quiet.
“Kazem, have your drink,” Naser said. “It is nice and cold.”
Kazem got a paper from his bag and then picked up his glass.
“Thanks, man.”
Naser watched Kazem delightedly while I tried not to laugh. Kazem
gulped the drink and then, like a cat sprayed with water, he jumped off his
seat and spit the drink everywhere—including all over Naser. This caused Naser
to jump as well. I turned on the lights and burst out with laughter.
“Man, you are so stupid,” Kazem said, coughing alcohol. “What the
hell was that?”
“We call it Shams. Shams beer. A product of our fatherland.”
As soon as Kazem heard the word beer, he ran inside. We
followed him and saw him try to wash his mouth under the kitchen faucet.
“Three times!” Naser said, still laughing. “Muslims should wash the
alcohol off three times. Otherwise, you go to Jahanam.”
Kazem was scandalized. “Shut up, Naser. Why did you do that?”
“Have some fun, man. You won’t go to hell if you have a little fun
in your life. It is just beer.”
“Drinking is a sin. Don’t you know anything about your religion? You
should get a little serious about life, Naser. All you want to do is smoke,
drink, and chase girls—and you are dragging Reza down with you.”
Naser stopped laughing now. “What are you trying to say? That having
a little fun means I’m not serious about life? You think the only thing a
person can do is follow religious rules? And Reza can speak for himself. He is
his own person.”
“Stop this, you two,” I said, trying to defuse the tension. “It was
just a joke …” Kazem narrowed his eyes at me. “… a bad one. Now you should
start your chemistry homework before it gets too late.”
I did not want Naser’s prank to cause any trouble between the three
of us, and I hated to choose sides. Naser apologized, but Kazem stayed angry
for a while. Naser’s helping Kazem prepare for his test ultimately allowed us
all to relax. However, this night underscored for us that while we could enjoy
soccer, watching movies, and going to my grandfather’s gatherings as a trio,
Kazem couldn’t be a part of everything we did.
This, of course, didn’t prevent Naser and me from doing those other
things. Every day after school, we would go over to the nearby girls’ school
and watch the girls pour out into the street after their classes, some smiling
and flirting with us. We would put our home phone numbers on pieces of paper to
give to them. Naser had grown into a handsome, sturdy six-footer with a full
head of black hair that he kept carefully styled in a Beatles haircut. The
Beatles were very popular with young people in Iran at the time. Girls were
crazy about Naser and he made jokes and winked at them. Although I was a little
shorter and had a slightly lighter complexion than Naser, most girls assumed we
were brothers. We had the same hairstyle and even dressed alike in Levis and
black shirts.
Once in a while, Naser would steal his dad’s red Chevy Impala
convertible and bump the music up while we waited outside the girls’ high
school. To impress the girls, we always had a pack of Winstons handy and played
songs by the Bee Gees, Bob Dylan, or the Beatles. We were soon dating some of
those girls, taking them to the discos opening all over Tehran and
clandestinely making out with them. We never worried about getting into
trouble, though Davood would have been furious with us if he
knew we regularly stole his car. My only regret was that Kazem
couldn’t join us in most of our exploits. “He will gradually understand that
life is not all about praying and practicing religion,” Naser would say when I
mentioned this to him.
As I was getting ready for my high school finals, my dad, a civil
engineer who had studied in America, talked to me about the importance of
education. He said I should remain focused on my studies and that I should
always dream big. He convinced me that I should go to America to study computer
science because he believed that computers were the future and that the
universities in America would train me for this future better than those
anywhere else in the world. In the spring of 1972, with the help of my aunt,
who lived in Los Angeles, I enrolled at the University of Southern California
(USC). Although it was a dream for any young Iranian to go to America, I would
have preferred to go to the University of Tehran with Naser, but my father’s
persuasion was forceful and I could not argue with him.
Before I left, my family and close friends threw a good-bye party
for me. During the event, I sat on the bench next to the fishpond watching the
crowd wistfully. The people there were an essential part of me. I looked at my
grandfather’s flowers. It would be hard saying good-bye to them, too.
Naser and Kazem came by and sat on the bench next to me. I wanted to
hug them and let them know how hard it was for me to move so far from them, but
I couldn’t find the words. I wished at that moment that we could stop time. We
sat there quietly and said nothing for a while.
Finally, Naser slapped me on the back and said, “Hey, don’t forget
about us here. Write and tell us how life is in America.”
I wrapped my arm around him and I pulled Kazem in with my other arm.
“I will write to you every day.”
Kazem patted my shoulder. “Remember the first time we made an oath?
It was here, right on this bench.”
“Friends forever,” Naser said.
I nodded. “We swore on our lives to remain buddies.”
“To our graves,” Kazem said, fighting to choke back tears.
COMING TO AMERICA
“Ahh, Reza jon, look at you,” she said as she hugged me. “You
are a grown man! I am so happy to have a dear family member with me now.” Aunt
Giti lived alone. She had moved to America many years ago when she was about
twenty to pursue her education. A few years later, my dad joined her to go to
college before moving back home. Aunt Giti continued her education, became a
chemist, and had been back to Iran only a few times to visit.
I kissed her cheeks, and hoping to avoid an emotional outburst I
wasn’t prepared for after my emotional departure from home, I opened my carry-
on bag to give her the Persian pastries Grandma had baked. “Khanoom Bozorg made
these just for you. She said you should have some right away while they are
still fresh.”
We took a cab to her house. Aunt Giti sat close to me with her arm
around my shoulders, watching me intently. While we talked, I occasionally
looked outside the window to explore the new city that I would come to call
home. We didn’t have anything like the LA highway system in Tehran, but in many
other ways the landscape seemed familiar. Even the sunny weather was similar to
what I knew. I found this comforting, as I was still wary about traveling all
this distance to go to school.
Despite her busy work schedule, Aunt Giti had taken care of all my
paperwork for USC and had prepared the guest room in her Tarzana house
especially for me. In order to allow me to learn the language as quickly as
possible, she suggested we speak only English to each other. She also signed me
up for intensive English courses at the local Berlitz school. Though I had
taken the language in high school, I was hardly fluent, and I knew Americans
would have a difficult time understanding me if I didn’t improve quickly. I
therefore spent long hours in classrooms with exchange students from Japan and
Mexico just as inarticulate and homesick as I was.
I missed everything about home. I missed Naser and Kazem. I missed
the Friday gatherings. I missed my grandfather’s political debates with Davood.
To substitute for some of this, I followed Iranian politics on TV, imagining
what Agha Joon would say about the day’s events.
When my first semester at USC began, I found myself surrounded by
young people very rapidly speaking words I was still learning. Sometimes my
head would hurt from concentrating so hard to understand people, but I loved
this total immersion. I met a student named Johnny in one of my math classes
and we became fast friends. He invited me to his place and I asked Aunt Giti if
it was okay for me to spend the night.
“You don’t need my permission, Reza jon,” she said. “You are
a big boy and just letting me know is enough. I trust you to do the right
thing.” This was my first experience of a significant difference I would
discover between Iran and America—here, people weren’t always looking over your
shoulder. Here, they believed that if you were old enough to go to college, you
were old enough to make your own decisions.
Johnny lived in a small three-bedroom town house in West LA with two
roommates. One was his best friend, Alex. The other was a guy who was about to
move out to live with his girlfriend. There was a party going on when I got
there, and it was unlike any party I’d ever known—a long way from Davood’s
singing and Mina and Haleh dancing in their minidresses with parents watching
every move we made.
In no time, college girls and boys filled Johnny’s place. With them
were bottles of vodka, tequila, and beer, along with a thick cloud of cigarette
smoke. Some people were smoking marijuana in the small balcony off the living
area. It was the closest I’d ever been to this kind of drug. In Iran some young
people smoked hash, but Naser and I were never around anybody who did so.
Before I knew it, I was making out with a couple of girls whose name
I didn’t even know. Soon one of them called another girl to join us.
“Hey, Molly, come meet Reza. He is so cute. He has this cute accent.
Reza, say something.”
Molly was a tall blond girl, wearing the shortest cutoff jeans I’d
ever seen. Her red tank top was way above her belly button. She looked me in
the eye, held my hand, and asked me to go to the balcony with her. The other
girls were annoyed that Molly was taking me away from them, but they found the
lap of another partygoer quickly enough.
I walked outside with the blond beauty. When we got there, she
filled her cigarette paper with greenish leaves and lit it. She took a puff,
and then passed it to me. My heart started pounding. I did not want her to know
it was my first time, but I also didn’t know what to expect. “Mari-joo-ana?” I
said, grabbing the joint with my thumb and forefinger.
She burst out laughing. “They were right—you are cute.” She ran her
fingers through my hair. “We call it pot, sweetie,” she said as she kissed my
lips.
I don’t remember much of what happened after that. I woke up on the
floor next to the kitchen at four o’clock the next afternoon with a horrible
headache, an upset stomach—and the desire to go to another party as soon as
possible. I liked this new life very much.
After that, Johnny and Alex made me part of their group, which
accelerated my learning of the culture and the language far beyond what any
Berlitz class could. We hung out after our classes, talking for hours about the
meaning of life while we blasted Pink Floyd and Jethro Tull. Before I knew it,
I was contributing to conversations without having to think. I started getting,
and then making, jokes in English.
To make my college life in LA complete, I needed a car. People
without cars in this town were second-class citizens and I wanted no part of
that. I pressured my father for one, explaining that because the city was so
big and sprawling, cabs were useless. How else could I attend classes, living
so far from campus? Aunt Giti seconded this and Dad agreed to send the money.
Johnny suggested a red Mustang with mag wheels and he helped me get a driver’s
license. As soon as I bought my “study mobile,” I started dating LA girls and
experiencing everything this town had to offer.
At first I wrote regularly to Naser and Kazem about life in the U.S.
I told them about college life, my red Mustang, my new friends, LA girls (this
last part only to Naser), and how different America was politically. I told
them how student protesters could burn the American flag and deface photos of
President Nixon right in front of the police, who just watched. In Iran, if you
insulted the shah or the royal family in public, the notorious SAVAK police
would arrest you and throw you into Evin Prison. There they’d beat you and
demand to know the names of your friends.
In one of my letters to Naser I included a picture of myself leaning
on the hood of the Mustang with my arms wrapped around Molly’s waist. “Check
out these two babes!” I wrote on the back of the picture.
Although I included a picture for Kazem in the letter I sent him at
the same time, it was Johnny and Alex who stood next to me in that picture. “I
now have the real Clint and John next to me,” I wrote on the back of that
picture. “We are hiding our shotguns in the trunk! Ha ha!” I signed it, “Your
friend, Steve McQueen.”
Both Naser and Kazem found life in America fascinating. Their
letters were full of questions, particularly about politics. I was surprised
that they wanted to know so much about this. The Vietnam War and Watergate
dominated the news at this point, so these became the main topics of my
letters. I also wrote about how student rallies protesting the war were more
like social gatherings and about the stratification of the student body into
stoners, jocks, Greeks (frat boys and sorority girls), and the rest of us.
Naser and Kazem were keenly interested in how Americans openly
protested their leaders’ policies. Naser found the American resistance
particularly interesting while Kazem wondered if religious principle motivated
Americans. I did my best to explain the subtle differences, knowing they both
ultimately wanted proof that a society of free speech and protest could work.
Meanwhile, Johnny and Alex’s roommate moved out and they were
looking for someone to take his place. I started lobbying my parents to allow
me to move in with them, explaining how it was important for me to be around
college buddies to improve my language and study skills. How was I supposed to
pursue my degree without a study sanctum close to campus shared with my fellow
scholars?
My parents were suspicious at first. Alex and Johnny? Who are these
people? What kind of families did they come from? After explaining that
everyone who attended USC came from a good family and convincing Mom and Dad
they were just the American version of Naser and Kazem, they approved.
I was part of a trio again, only this time all three of us partied
and dated girls. I filled my new room with the posters of my favorite rock
bands and half-naked women. I didn’t have Grandma’s maid coming into my room
early in the morning to make my bed or clean up after me, and it showed. We had
no rules whatsoever.
For the next three years, it was volleyball at the beach, football
in the park, barbecues, road trips to Vegas, watching football games, and only
occasionally cracking a book before going to the next party. Iran and my
friends back home became a dimming memory. My letters to friends and
family slowed to a trickle. I believed I was exactly where I wanted to be in
the world.
Then, one evening in my senior year, I was watching TV when the
phone rang.
Alex answered. “It’s your mom. She sounds upset.”
I put the phone to my ear and heard my mother crying. “Mom, what’s
wrong?”
“Your father …” she said, and my heart sank through the floor.
Between sobs she explained that doctors had diagnosed my dad, a lifelong
smoker, with lung cancer. He was in critical condition. He was only fifty.
“Reza, he is everything to me,” she said, her voice trembling. “If
something happens, I don’t know what I am going to do.”
I booked the first flight home.
I arrived in Tehran for the first time in four years, planning to
take a cab home, but Naser and Kazem surprised me at the airport. When I saw
that they were both dressed in black, I got very nervous, but I dared not ask
why they were wearing this color, trying to convince myself that they had a
reason for this that had nothing to do with my father.
Naser’s hair was now short and combed back. Kazem’s hair was
slightly longer than his old buzz cut, but he was neat and clean, as always.
Their dress was a huge contrast to my sandals, tight T-shirt, loose jeans, and
long, uncombed hair. At that moment I realized how time had separated us and
this pierced my heart. I grabbed both of them in my arms and started crying
like a little child.
“How did you know?” Naser said. “Who told you?” He thought I was
crying over the loss of my dad, not realizing that he’d just confirmed it for
me.
“How is my mom doing?” I said, trying not to cry harder.
Kazem patted my shoulder. “She is devastated. But that’s the way it
is, Reza. Hopefully, she’ll cope. It is so good you are here. It will mean a
lot to her.”
“I am so sorry, Reza,” Naser said. “May God bless your father’s
soul.”
Naser bent his head. I’m sure that when he did so, he noticed my
bare toes.
I felt embarrassed by the way I looked. “I think I should get some
proper clothes from my suitcase and change in the car.”
On the ride home, we reminisced briefly about my father. I had a
million thoughts about him running through my head. He’d encouraged me to live
a full life. He taught me how to play soccer and how to swim. He helped me with
school, telling fables about the tragic lives of boys who did not do their
homework and the triumphant glories of boys who did. He made me promise never
to waste my life or my time.
I looked out the window wondering if I was living up to that
promise, considering how I’d spent most of my USC days. But I was immediately
distracted by how much Tehran had changed since I’d been gone. Building cranes
monopolized the skyline. Apartment buildings were thirty stories high. Pahlavi
Boulevard, a cosmopolitan center with upscale shops and restaurants lining it,
looked like a street in any big city in Europe or America. In four years, it
seemed, Tehran had moved forward fifteen.
Naser started telling me how things had been while I was gone.
Student protests in the universities had heated up with the number of SAVAK
arrests climbing proportionately. Kazem said that the SAVAK arrested members of
the clergy in the religious schools of Qom because they spoke against the shah.
The SAVAK was a security and intelligence organization the shah
created in 1957 with the help of the U.S. military after the CIA helped
overthrow democratically elected Prime Minister Mohammad Mosaddeq because he
nationalized Iran’s oil. Iranians were still angry about it. Nixon’s support of
the shah helped keep this wound open. The shah and Nixon were buddies. U.S.
products filled Iranian store shelves. Our military was fully Americanized and
trained. Iranian pilots helped fight the Vietnam War. The shah supported the
royalists in the Yemen civil war that ended in 1970. Then, in 1971, he helped
the sultan of Oman put down a rebellion at the bidding of the U.S. In exchange,
Nixon visited Iran in 1972, and he allowed the shah to buy any American weapons
he wanted. The U.S. saw advantages in having an autocratic monarch as an ally
who would do the U.S.’s dirty work in the Middle East. Saddam was the Soviets’
man. The shah was America’s man.
While Naser was going to school for engineering (receiving excellent
grades with little effort), he talked about politics and injustice constantly.
Kazem, still struggling with his studies, was a full-fledged devotee of Islam.
He mostly agreed with Naser’s critique of the shah’s policies, but he objected
to the encroaching Westernization of the country because he saw it
as a key contributor to growing decadence among Iranian youth—girls
wearing miniskirts, drunks in the streets, and the preponderance of nightclubs
and bars. Kazem and the other members of his poorer religious class were
hurting financially, and the fabulous profits from oil had not filtered down to
them. The shah’s modernization had left Kazem’s people behind while at the same
time assaulting their moral principles.
As Naser pulled into our driveway, I grew anxious. My heart felt
heavy because my father was not going to be there and I would never greet him
again. When I saw my mother, we hugged each other tight and she cried
hysterically. I tried to console her, but nothing could stop her sobbing. My
grandfather and grandmother were there and they seemed to be suffering horribly
from the loss of their son, but as my mother and I huddled close together, Agha
Joon whispered, “Your son is here, be happy.”
Kazem and Naser stayed up late with me that night. We talked about
my dad and some of the more memorable events of our childhood. Before long,
though, our conversation turned back to politics. Little time ever passed
before one of these two veered back toward that topic.
“This tyranny has to fall,” Naser said. “People are suffering. This
is the twentieth century and we still live under a dictatorship. There is no
freedom of speech. No freedom of the press.”
Kazem nodded in agreement. “Many people still live in poverty while
the shah’s family and those around them are obscenely wealthy and stealing what
belongs to the people. We have to bring justice to our society. We are becoming
a nation of corruption and decay. We need to turn to our faith. Only Islam can
rescue us and our country.”
“But it’s only through Dr. Shariati’s view of religion and society
that we can find our true selves in all human dimensions and fight tyranny and
its moral decay,” Naser added. I knew virtually nothing about Ali Shariati.
Naser explained that he was an Islamic scholar, sociologist, and critic of the
shah and the mullahs. Shariati was so popular that citizens who weren’t even
students overflowed his lecture halls to hear him speak.
At the time, I did not share Naser’s keen interest in politics or
Kazem’s devotion to Islam. Their well-informed dialogues aroused my interest,
but I did not have much to contribute. I had not until this moment understood
the intensity of moral outrage against the monarchy. It made the American
outrage at Nixon seem like a minor irritation. And maybe that was
appropriate. After all, while Nixon had an enemies list, the shah
had an execution list.
That night, I also learned about the most famous case of arrest and
execution, that of Khosrow Golesorkhi, the Iranian Che Guevara. He was a
Marxist-Leninist poet and journalist arrested for a plot to kidnap the shah’s
son. “In truth, he and other leftists had only speculated about it as a means
to trade for the freedom of political prisoners,” Naser told me. He also said
that since the shah was courting the West and conscious about the declarations
by the UN human rights committee on various issues, including the treatment of
political prisoners, he allowed what he thought would be an open-and-shut case
to be aired on television. The court permitted Golesorkhi to speak, ostensibly
to recant his crimes. Instead, he spoke with stirring eloquence on behalf of
the peasants laboring under the shah’s land reform, comparing their struggles
to those of the great martyr Imam Hussein himself and detailing the shah’s
crimes against humanity. Golesorkhi refused to defend himself; he would defend
only the people. When asked if he would continue his terrorist activities
against the shah, he brazenly said that he would.
“You know what Golesorkhi did when they took him to be executed? He
refused the blindfold and stared his executioners in the face when they fired
at him. He was a hero, Reza.” Naser shook his head. “No man should live under
oppression. You have to stand up for your rights.”
Naser then recited a poem by Golesorkhi:
“On your breast lay
the deep scar of your enemy
but, you standing cypress did not fall
it is your way to die.”
Both Naser and Kazem sat up with me until I fell asleep. They were
by my side when I woke up. I was very thankful that they were there because
sleep had caused me to forget temporarily that my father was gone. When I awoke
and remembered, the grief overwhelmed me anew. I don’t know what I would have
done if I didn’t have my dearest friends by my side.
Naser and Kazem remained with me during my father’s funeral, when
every vulnerability in me was exposed and raw. I was my mother’s only son and I
felt a great deal of responsibility for her, but I knew she would not
allow me to quit my studies to care for her—especially since my
father had so strongly wished for me to get a degree in America. She was secure
financially, but I was not convinced that she could cope emotionally without my
father. Kazem and Naser assured me that they and their families would look
after her and check in frequently. They did this because they loved her and
they loved me. They knew I had an enormous opportunity in America—an
opportunity they couldn’t have—and they wanted to make sure I made the most of
it. This outpouring of support brought me light in these dark days. I could
hardly believe that I had allowed myself to neglect my two best forever friends
as much as I had the past few years.
I returned to California determined to devote myself to my studies
and to do my father proud. Home would not leave my mind this time and letters
from home took on new meaning. Naser wrote about the mounting opposition to the
shah. In sending me letters, he risked arrest by the SAVAK, as they monitored
communications in and out of the country. I admired Naser’s bravery and the
passion of his commitment to the Iranian people. One of Naser’s letters came
with copies of some of Shariati’s books. Reading these changed my life forever.
Shariati reinterpreted Islam through the lens of sociology, reviving
its original principle of social responsibility. He decried both the stodgy
mullahs, who replaced scholarship with cant, and capitalism, which encouraged a
human being to be a mere consumer, “an economic animal whose only duty is to
graze.” Shariati foresaw a new type of religious leader who modeled himself
after Mohammad, one who earned his leadership not by tyrannizing people, but by
inspiring the best in them. The Quran proclaims that God and the people are
one. Thus, to know God’s will the leader must look to the deepest longings of
the people. This radically democratic interpretation of Mohammad’s teachings
invigorated me.
The Prophet and the great Imams were transformational figures, said
Shariati. They were not conservatives. They were radicals. The essence of Islam
was dynamic, vibrant, and revolutionary. Shariati reminded us of the radicalism
of Hussein, who stood up against the tyranny of his ruler and was beheaded for
it. His final words were “Dignified death is better than humiliating life.”
Shariati said that any modern Muslim who accepted injustice was living a
humiliating life. He believed that if every Muslim lived by the example of
Hussein, injustice on this earth would end.
Shariati practiced what he preached and this led to his expulsion
from colleges, the banning of his books, his arrest, and his exile. The
monarchy did everything they could to stop him from talking—yet he wouldn’t let
up. His words rang so deeply that Iranians like Naser were sending his books
and tapes all over the world to those of us living abroad.
I must have read ten Shariati books. Often, I would break down and
cry from the power of his writing.
… My Lord, grant me such a life that on my death-bed, I may not be
resentful of its worthlessness. And grant me such a death, that I may not mourn
for its uselessness. Let me choose that, but in the way that pleases you the
most. My Lord, You teach me how to live; I shall learn how to die.
Shariati taught me that I’d allowed the ridiculous mullahs of my
youth and the hypocritical leaders of the clergy to disillusion me from the
Islamic spiritualism and rectitude my grandmother tried to teach me. While
corrupt leaders could bend religion to serve their purposes, the principles of
God were always there, in the hearts of good people. I hadn’t allowed myself to
embrace religion because I let the wrong people color my opinions. Now Shariati
compelled me to dedicate my life to the pursuit of righteousness.
For the first time since I was a boy, I began performing my prayers
routinely. I set up a prayer rug in the bedroom of my LA apartment, and while
they didn’t completely understand it, Alex and Johnny were respectful of my
needs. Shariati’s clarity of thinking reminded me of what was best in the human
heart: justice, compassion, mercy, and courage in the face of injustice. I
began to believe that Shariati himself was the leader he called for in his
writings.
Then, in July 1977, I received another letter from Naser:
Salam, Reza,
I don’t know if you’ve heard the news about Dr. Shariati. After his
release from the prison, he was kept under constant surveillance and he left
the country for London last month. Reza, I just heard he was murdered in his
residence. Damn this injustice. This is yet another killing under the
dictatorship of our monarchy. But believe me, his death is only the beginning.
He has moved many, and his odyssey will bring changes in our lives.
I’ll be in touch
Naser
My God, I thought, tears welling in my
eyes, Shariati pushed his principles all the way to his own death, just like
Imam Hussein.
I soon learned that assassins had killed Dr. Shariati in his
daughter’s home. Such cruelty was so dishonorable. I vowed that I would not
allow his words to die in my heart, immediately joining the Islamic Students’
Association (ISA) in Los Angeles. The swelling unrest and changes sweeping my
country seized our attention. Farzin and Mani, my friends in the ISA, held
meetings at their house. We knew that the political tension in Iran was
building. People had started to criticize the shah openly. This led to the
SAVAK turning Iran into something very close to a police state, which in turn
drew the wrath of the international community. When Jimmy Carter became
president, he denied U.S. aid to Iran in protest over the shah’s human rights
violations. Consequently, the shah, in an effort to show the West he was making
progress toward liberalizing his policies, released a few political prisoners.
He also assumed, incorrectly, that these token gestures would stop
the protests. But the movement against him was already under way.
Iranians felt ready to sacrifice.
We needed a leader.
SHAH RAFT:
THE REVOLUTION
“A nation that doesn’t have freedom does not have civilization. A
civilized nation is one that is free. …”
Some in the crowd uttered, “Yes.”
“There should be freedom of the press and people should have the
right to their opinion. …”
The people in the room grew more excited and I wondered about the
man who was speaking. I couldn’t recognize his voice. Had he become an
important figure in Iran while I was away? Did Naser and Kazem know about him?
“This shah, this Yazid, this servant of America, this agent of
Israel, needs to be overthrown and kicked out of Iran. …”
Many erupted in shouts of approval. I grew more excited myself; I
loved what I was hearing. The speaker was incredibly bold, even comparing the
shah to Yazid, the ruthless ruler who had ordered the death of Imam Hussein.
Iranians view Yazid as one of the most despicable human beings of all time.
“We need an Islamic government, independent of the superpowers,
where all Iranians enjoy the wealth and not a specific few. We want to improve
not only your material life but also your spiritual life. They have taken our
spirituality. We need spirituality. …”
He was speaking for all of us—for Kazem’s people, for Naser’s
idealist family, for my spiritual grandmother.
“In our government, clergy will not govern but help you with your
spirituality. In our government, women will be free, and officials can be
publicly criticized. …”
These were the words of Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini, the man who
would change Iran in ways we could only imagine then. He was a stirring
speaker, even though he was not a great orator. He spoke plainly and sometimes
repetitively. Yet his voice radiated a steadiness of purpose. His appeal was
not intellectual. It was primal. Over the next few minutes, I would discover
that he had inspired a movement in Iran, one that passed his tapes through the
black market all over the world as if he were a rock star.
I had so many questions about him. I sought out Mani and Farzin, who
were talking to each other at the corner of their kitchen.
“Glad you made it, Reza,” Mani said.
Farzin beamed with excitement. “What did you think of Ayatollah
Khomeini?”
I shook my head in wonder. “I could not believe what I was hearing.
He is a true leader. His message of political freedom and equality is stunning.
But where has he been?”
Mani told me that the shah first imprisoned the ayatollah in the
early sixties because of his strong criticism of the government before exiling
him to Najaf, Iraq. The ayatollah had been calling for the fall of the shah
ever since. He was now in France after fourteen years in Najaf, and he had
begun to talk to reporters from all over the world.
In the ensuing days I learned much more about him. I found an
interview he gave to Reuters where he said, “The foundation of our Islamic
government is based on freedom of dialogue and will fight against any kind of
censorship…. In Islamic Iran the clergy themselves will not govern but only
observe and support the government’s leaders. The government of the country at
all levels will be observed, evaluated, and publicly criticized.”
To a German reporter, he said, “Our future society will be a free
society, and all the elements of oppression, cruelty, and force will be
destroyed. Women are free in the Islamic Republic in the selection of their
activities and their future and their clothing. …
“I don’t want to have the power or the government in my hand,” he
told The Guardian. “I am not interested in personal power.”
His speeches and interviews gained traction. Soon it seemed as
though everyone associated with Iran in any way was talking about him. I
started to
write Kazem and Naser a letter about him, but before I could
complete it, one arrived from Kazem. As always, Kazem started his letter with,
“In the name of God.”
Salam, Reza jon,
I hope my letter reaches you in good health and happiness. I am sure
the power of our spiritual leader has reached to that side of the world too.
There is a lot happening here. We are close to a free Islamic society.
Thousands of people are demonstrating throughout Iran. People are burning the
flag and the shah’s pictures in the streets. Reza, I wish you were here. Naser
and I have joined the uprising against the shah. Ayatollah Khomeini is the
leader we need. We receive his manifestos and people in all parts of our
nation, rich or poor, religious or atheist, man or woman, young or old, are
sharing a common voice. It is time for the shah to step down. I will keep you
posted. Meanwhile, don’t just sit there, man. Join this holy movement.
Kazem
Even though most Iranians had enjoyed varying degrees of success
under the shah, Khomeini’s message resonated with a population weary of
oppression and desperate for the political choice they felt the shah denied
them. They believed Ayatollah Khomeini could make us not only prosperous, but
also free. I heard more from both Kazem and Naser. They seemed thrilled about
what was happening in our country and I looked forward to returning home as
soon as possible.
The rising tide crested on January 16, 1979, when the shah left the
country along with his wife and children. The state-controlled media reported
that he was leaving to seek cancer treatment in Egypt, but, in fact, his army
was in mutiny and his citizens were rioting. Iran was no longer safe for him
and his family.
We gathered at Farzin and Mani’s house to see the news on
television, watching with unrestrained joy as the shah’s departing jet rose
into the sky. Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi, the leader of Iran since 1941, had
abandoned the country he had inherited from twenty-five hundred years of
Persian monarchy. The television showed us hundreds of thousands of Iranians
surging through the streets carrying Ayatollah Khomeini’s picture and yelling:
“Shah raft!” The shah is gone! Cars drove through the streets of
Iran with headlights on, horns blaring. In LA we loudly echoed this
sentiment. I’d never witnessed such a passionate celebration, and I
wished I could have been there with my fellow citizens.
Two weeks after the shah left, Ayatollah Khomeini took a French
plane back to Iran. Watching from America, I imagined what it must be like for
this seventy-eight-year-old man to step on his home soil triumphantly after
fourteen years of forced exile. Millions of people gathered at Mehrabad Airport
in Tehran to welcome him and to show their love and support.
After circling the airport for more than twenty minutes for security
purposes, the ayatollah’s plane landed. I watched as Khomeini approached the
microphone after a fanfare of welcoming songs and introductory speeches.
“We have to thank all classes of people of this nation. For this
victory up to now has been due to the unity of voice, the unity of voice of all
Muslims, the unity of all religious minorities, unity of scholars and students,
unity of clergies and all political factions. We must all understand this
secret: that the unity of voice is the cause for success and we must not lose
this secret to success and, God forbid, not allow the devils to cause dissent
among your ranks. I thank all of you and pray for your health and glory and ask
Allah to cut off the hands of foreigners and their cohorts.”
With that, he left the microphone to greet the millions who had come
to declare themselves to him.
Khomeini promised the nation that no one would ever have to pay for
such public utilities as electricity, water, telephone, and other services. He
promised political freedom. The clergy would only improve the spiritual life of
the people and would not interfere with the government. He also said that the
people’s share of oil money would be delivered to their doorsteps. In his first
major speech to a huge crowd in Tehran, he criticized the shah for his
oppression, invited all Iranians to join the revolution, and promised a
government run by the people and for the people.
Who could believe that any man could bring about the fall of the
shah, king of kings? This unknown cleric had toppled the Persian kingdom simply
by speaking to the people, as the Prophet Mohammad had. He vowed to kick the
U.S.A. out of Iran, calling it “the Great Satan.” The man was afraid of
nothing. Many truly believed God was on his side. And so, apparently, did he.
While we continued our support of the revolution at the ISA, some
Iranians still loyal to the shah gathered on the streets of LA and other major
cities in America to protest the rise of Khomeini and to demand the
return of the shah. To oppose this, we marched down the streets of the city
carrying posters of Khomeini and shouting, with fists in the air, “God is
great! Khomeini is our leader!”
Inevitably, the two forces met. During one of our demonstrations, we
ran into a crowd of Shah supporters furious that we were backing the ayatollah.
“We are Persians with so much pride and dignity,” said a middle-aged woman
carrying an Iranian flag in one hand and a picture of Mohammad Reza Shah in the
other. “We don’t need a mullah to rule our country. He will destroy our kingdom
and its dynasty. Did you hear what Khomeini said when an American reporter
asked how he felt going back home? Hichi! He said he felt nothing.” She
shook her head. “How could you have no feeling for your country?” She turned
her back to our crowd and waved her flag. “Dorood bar shah. Long live
Shahanshah. Down with Khomeini.”
Inside Iran, the grassroots movement forming behind Khomeini was so
powerful that shah loyalists declared martial law. Thousands of Iranians
galvanized by Khomeini’s return demonstrated anyway, and soldiers opened fire
on them. Citizens took up arms, rampaged on military bases, broke open the
armories, and passed out military armaments to the people. A week after Khomeini’s
arrival in Iran, Kazem and Naser called me together. It was the first time
they’d ever done that.
“We were at the Eshrat Abad Garrison today,” Kazem said. “We forced
them to surrender.”
Then Naser jumped in. “We each got our J-three machine guns, Reza.”
They were shouting, laughing, and talking at the same time. They had
so much energy that I could barely understand them. “Wait, wait, guys. What’s
going on? One at a time.”
Kazem explained that they were among the demonstrators attacking the
garrisons around the city of Tehran. They forced the shah’s soldiers out to the
street and disarmed them. Meanwhile, others entered the facilities and took
away the soldiers’ weapons.
“The victory is upon us, Reza,” Kazem said.
This had been a risky operation, but they were triumphant. I could
not believe that my friends were among those willing to sacrifice their lives
for a free Iran. I was proud of both of them. Naser, a secularist intellectual,
and Kazem, a religious devotee, were acting as brothers in a common fight. They
were representative of all of Iran for that brief, shining moment—in
perfect agreement and acting as one. Every faction and
ideology—religious, liberal, secularist, Marxist, or Communist—had rallied
under Khomeini’s banner. Within a couple of months, the provisional government
held a national referendum. The question: Islamic Republic, yes or no? The lack
of other options caused some to raise their eyebrows, but in the heady
aftermath of Khomeini’s return, 98 percent voted yes.
On April 1, Ayatollah Khomeini declared an Islamic Republic that
reflected strong, traditional Islamist values. As a concession to liberal
powers in the country, Khomeini appointed Mehdi Bazargan as the first prime
minister of the Islamic Republic of Iran to show that he was upholding his
promise to keep his clergymen away from positions of political power. Bazargan
was the head of the Liberation Movement of Iran. Ali Shariati had been among
its founders, and the party dedicated itself to gaining freedom, independence,
and democracy for the Iranian nation based on a modern interpretation of
Islamic principles. The shah’s regime had jailed Bazargan many times, but he
and his party maintained a code of civil disobedience and moderation. In fact,
Bazargan had objected to calling Iran the “Islamic Republic” and wanted to call
it the “Islamic Democratic Republic.” We had every reason to believe he would
rule fairly and evenhandedly.
I couldn’t wait to get home, and in June of that year I did. At age
twenty- five, I had a master’s degree in systems engineering and I was eager to
lend my expertise to the revolution. My mother, still mourning the death of my
father three years earlier, had moved into a condominium in a high-rise and I
chose to live there with her.
The day after my return, Naser picked me up in the red Impala
convertible we used to drive without his father’s knowledge. Since Naser was
using it all of the time anyway, Davood finally just gave it to him. His
brother, Soheil, and his sister, Parvaneh, were in the backseat.
“We’re going to pick up Kazem and then we’re going to get ice cream
for us and crème caramel for Parvaneh, since that’s her favorite. We’re
celebrating.”
“What are we celebrating, Naser jon?” Parvaneh asked.
Although she was fifteen, she was small for her age and looked like she was no
older than eleven. Her hair was still curly, though her pigtails were longer
than I remembered. She even acted younger than her age, swaying her arm back
and forth through the open window without a care in the world,
trying to catch the wind with her hand.
“My best friend is back from America,” Naser said, smiling and
glancing over at me. “That is a good reason. And our country is free—that is a
better reason.”
“If it’s free, why can’t I go to the college?” Soheil said sharply.
“I want to attend the College of Fine Arts at the University of Tehran, and now
there is a rumor that they are closing down all the universities.”
Naser gestured to his brother to calm down. “It’s not going to be
that way, da Vinci. If they do close the universities, it’ll only be for a
short while.” We couldn’t know then that Naser was being overly optimistic. The
next spring, the government shut down the universities for several years in
what they called a cultural revolution to eradicate Western influence on the
universities and bring them in line with Shiite Islam.
After we picked up Kazem, we roamed around Tehran. Everything seemed
different to me. Yes, there were new high-rises and new highways. But what
struck me most was the palpable spirit of the people. Some handed out flowers
and candies. At the traffic lights they flashed victory signs and congratulated
one another. In coming days I would see people from different political groups
gathering in the universities or at corners around town discussing politics and
religion openly and in peace. It felt like the beginning of a Persian
Renaissance. I was convinced that we would soon show the world how to integrate
religious idealism with modern values, as Shariati had envisioned. I imagined a
future of creativity and innovation led by religious principle.
It was great to be back with Naser and Kazem. We met at my place or
at Feris, a small café on the ground level beneath Mom’s apartment. These days,
we talked about nothing other than the revolution. Both of them were already
contributing. Naser graduated as a civil engineer and got a good job working
for a private company. Meanwhile, Kazem had impressed so many people in the
Islamic Students’ Association with his dedication that the Revolutionary Guards
hired him and quickly promoted him to the secretive Intelligence Unit.
Kazem had grown a beard with a mustache neatly cut above his lips
like so many other religious young men supporting the revolution. Among
ideologues unwavering belief was powerful. That quality of certitude, rather
than scholarship, experience, or qualifications, had made Khomeini
our leader.
“Reza, this is where you should be,” Kazem said of the Guards. “Your
expertise with computers and your faith in the revolution are assets. Do you
want me to talk to my commander and see if there is an opening for you?”
I thought this was a good idea, as I had to land a job soon and I
wanted to contribute. He quickly arranged an interview for me with his
commander.
“They need you, Reza. The Guards are in the process of installing a
computer system in their bases around the country and are now hiring. I told
them that you are their man.”
The next day, I went to the Guards’ base in the south of Tehran.
Kazem’s commander, Rahim, had an office at the end of a long narrow corridor on
the first floor of one of the four-story buildings that formed the base. Rahim
was a short, chubby man. Like Kazem, he wore a full beard and a trimmed
mustache.
“Salam, Brother. Nice to meet you,” he said when I entered
his office.
As Kazem had instructed, I brought the papers documenting my
education in America, including my master’s degree. Rahim did not want to see
any of these and asked only a few questions about my knowledge and skill.
Instead, he focused his questions on my activities in America and my devotion
to Islam and our leader. He wanted to know who I stayed with and associated
with in America. I told him about my involvement with the ISA, about how I came
to support Ayatollah Khomeini, and how moved I was by his passion for Iran and
Islam. I told him about my parents and grandparents and, to leave him with the
best possible impression, I told him how my grandmother had taught me to be a
devoted Muslim.
“I am looking forward to contributing fully to the revolution,” I
said.
“We are proud of brothers like you who are back from abroad to serve
the country. We need your expertise desperately for the Guards. You can start
right away and, inshallah, you will do your utmost for the revolution.”
I began work immediately and Kazem showed me the ropes. We were
happy to be employed in the same place. He had the respect of insiders, and he
vouched for me at every turn. Kazem believed in me, and I was proud to have his
respect. I felt as though fortune had shined upon me.
But soon a shadow descended. In the early morning of November 4,
1979, two months after I’d been hired, Kazem came to my office and said, “Come
on, we’re going over to the American Embassy. There is a
demonstration going on in opposition to America allowing the shah
into their country.”
I got up from my desk immediately. All of us were angry that
President Carter had given the shah sanctuary in the U.S. under the guise of
getting him the best cancer treatment. We wanted our tyrant back here so we
could put him on trial. I would happily participate in this demonstration.
We drove twenty minutes northeast to the U.S. Embassy. There we
found hundreds of demonstrators gathered in front chanting slogans and carrying
signs. They were mostly students, though I could see some older women in black
chador veils. The press was there, of course, and men with megaphones incited
the crowd. Emotions escalated to the point where most of the demonstrators
began shouting, “Death to America!” Kazem joined in, lifting his fist into the
air, and hollering, “Marg bar Amrika.”
This made me uncomfortable. My years in America had been good ones
and I had become quite fond of the American people. I was here to protest a
policy, not call for the death of America. At the same time, though, I felt the
need to express solidarity, so I chanted along with them. The chants of those
near me reached a crescendo whenever news cameras were aimed in our direction.
“Reza, look!” Kazem said, pointing. I stopped shouting as I saw
people climbing the walls and front gate of the embassy and dropping down
inside. The only embassy guard I saw couldn’t bring himself to shoot. He chose
to run inside instead. Somebody managed to break the chain on the gate, and
protesters swarmed onto what was officially U.S. property. I later learned that
a woman had hidden a chain cutter beneath her chador. The intruders fanned out
in different directions, as if they knew exactly where they were going.
I stood next to Kazem with mouth agape. This was not a rout. It was
not an act of passion. It seemed too managed for that. The people who rushed in
seemed to know one another and to know what to do. Military members of the
Guards arrived quickly. I wondered how they heard about the break-in so fast.
Then the Komiteh, the religious police recently given official status by
Khomeini, came and promised to keep order. But the only thing they kept orderly
was the takeover itself. Busloads of people arrived and joined the
demonstration, another sign that this gathering was not spontaneous. Within
minutes, the protesters controlled the compound.
I was uneasy at the cameras filming. Wasn’t this against
international law? I knew the media would display this all over the world. What
if my face ended up on TV? What would Johnny and Alex think?
The protesters marched out of the embassy shouting, with their hands
raised in victory signs as they brought out a blindfolded American with his
hands tied. My stomach churned. I remembered visiting this very embassy to
receive my student visa. The consul general received me so well that day. He
even joked with me, encouraging me to pursue my studies but also have fun. Back
then, not that long ago, Iranians and Americans shared a mutual affection.
Americans had treated me as one of their own while I was there.
Now, all around me, I saw hatred spewing from the mouths of
revolutionaries I thought were my brothers and sisters in a good cause. This
shook me to my core. We could not respond to tyranny by tyrannizing Americans.
We represented liberation, not kidnapping.
This wasn’t the first extreme act I’d witnessed. Fanatics had blown
up the mausoleum of the shah’s father and replaced it with a public toilet.
Hundreds had been put in front of firing squads without getting the chance to
defend themselves by Ayatollah Khalkhali, the chief justice of the newly formed
Revolutionary Courts, in response to the Kurdistan uprising. I’d read about the
execution of the shah’s military officers, even those who had surrendered
honorably without firing a shot on their own people. Still, I had managed to
convince myself that this was temporary mayhem after the revolution.
But witnessing this embassy takeover was a slap in the face. Here a
fanatical minority was exerting its will on a reasonable majority. I had to
allow myself to consider that the temporary mayhem might not be temporary at
all. Radicalism seemed to be taking over. At that moment, I began to wonder if
my visions for the future were nothing but illusions.
We remained outside the embassy until nightfall. Candles were passed
among us. Smiling at me with his candle throwing a beatific glow on his face,
Kazem told me that the whole takeover had been planned ahead of time with
Khomeini’s secret approval. The leaders of the invasion had even dubbed the
embassy “the den of spies” for the media.
I didn’t know how to tell Kazem what I felt about the radical
actions we had just witnessed. I didn’t see why loving Iran required me to hate
Americans. Fortunately, he never asked me. My guess is that he thought I was as
much of a true believer as he was. A purist like Kazem couldn’t
imagine how a fellow revolutionary would feel anything but joy at
this moment. “This is the power of Islam,” he said that night. “Even a
superpower must kneel before it.”
My candle kept blowing out in the breeze, and Kazem kept relighting
it with his. I vowed to try to hold on to my faith in the revolution even
though what was happening was not Shariati’s vision for our nation. I convinced
myself that Prime Minister Bazargan would not stand by and let this happen.
A couple of days later, Bazargan’s cabinet resigned en masse in
protest over the hostage takeover. The prime minister ordered the hostages
released, yet the government was powerless to enforce its decrees over
extremists who answered only to Khomeini and called the incident “the second
revolution.” Bazargan had no choice but to resign, humiliated. With his
resignation, all hopes for a liberal democracy died. It was Khomeini’s country
now.
Never before had a Middle East leader made a major decision without
considering how the superpowers would react. Here Khomeini displayed his first
sign of genius for playing the superpowers against each other. Guards insiders
told me that Jimmy Carter had instructed U.S. General Robert E. Huyser to order
Iranian generals not to stage a coup to reinstate the shah. Carter’s foreign
policy team was worried about the Soviets taking over in Afghanistan and
reasoned that nothing would hold more strongly against a Communist state in
Afghanistan than an Islamist state in Iran next door. The Guards told me that
Khomeini understood all this. But he wanted both capitalists and communists
out, so he played to their hopes and fears, becoming the puppeteer of two
superpowers. In the chess match of the Cold War, the pawn was manipulating the
players under the rallying cry “We are neither capitalists nor communists. We
are Islamists.” This cleric was overthrowing kings, seizing control from
superpowers, and fomenting revolution in Iran simply by talking. The madness he
inspired in my fellow citizens chilled my blood.
The only revolutionary force that refused to turn in their weapons
when Khomeini called for them was the Mujahedin. The People’s Mujahedin of Iran
was a religious socialist group formed in 1965 to oppose the shah. The
Mujahedin based many of their beliefs on Ali Shariati’s writings, including the
assertion that Mohammad strove for a classless commonwealth. Naser sympathized
with them as a reaction against the mullahs, and he began to
spend time with students aligned with the organization. Anti-shah,
antiWest, and fierce fighters, now the Mujahedin turned their violence against
Khomeini, and could match him fanatic for fanatic. During the shah’s reign,
they’d gone so far as to assassinate U.S. civilians and military personnel
working in Iran. Now they were demanding a share of the power, since they saw
themselves as having contributed to the overthrow of the shah. However,
Khomeini barred Massoud Rajavi, the leader of the Mujahedin, from running in
the first presidential election, Khomeini loyalists concentrated attacks
against the organization, and things got progressively uglier from there. The
Mujahedin organized demonstrations that turned into clashes with the new
government’s forces.
The ideological split between the clerics and the socialists drove a
wedge between Naser and Kazem that made our once friendly meetings a study in
conflict avoidance. For a long time, they didn’t confront each other, but when
we got together for our New Year in March 1980, Kazem could keep his silence no
more. He said that the Mujahedin’s violence and demonstrations were desecrating
the revolution. Naser countered that the heavy-handed governing of Khomeini’s
clergy was a betrayal of the revolution. The argument continued to escalate.
“Political freedom and power should be shared among different
political parties,” Naser argued. “That stupid referendum making Iran an
Islamic Republic was a sham. They gave the people no choice whatever. What kind
of choice do you really have voting either for or against it? You still get the
mullahs ruling the country.”
“Imam Khomeini is leading this nation into prosperity and preserving
the rights of Iranians against the interference of foreign powers,” Kazem
responded. Kazem, and other followers like him, had begun to call Ayatollah
Khomeini an imam, a saintly leader. “Islam is the only way to purity, and
you’re going to lose your soul if you’re not careful, Naser. Islamic values
should be instilled in people, and all the decadence the shah introduced should
be abolished.”
“Islamic values!” Naser protested. “What happened to the promise of
freedom of dialogue? Is arresting the opposition and throwing them in prison
for having different views part of Islamic values? I am sure you know about
Khomeini’s henchman, Khalkhali, executing all the army officers that served
under the shah. You call that value—killing people without giving them a
trial?”
“They had people’s blood on their hands,” Kazem said angrily.
I tried to arbitrate, pleading that they both had good points and
that the revolution needed time. Neither listened.
“This is the beginning of fascism and you’re an idiot for not
seeing,” Naser said to Kazem bitterly. “You are blind, Kazem, and people like
you will cause this nation to suffer more.”
My dear friend stood and headed for the front door, unable to stand
my other dear friend’s presence a moment longer. Before leaving, Naser turned
to say something. But rather than doing so, he waved his hand in disappointment
and whispered, “Forget it.”
Then he slammed the door behind him and left.
THE INVINCIBLE IMAM
But I wasn’t as certain about this as I had once been. When I
traveled through the country, I saw the crack in my personal life mirrored in
others. Many people were angry with their loved ones for their political
beliefs. How could I have known then that this acrimony was only the barest
hint of the horrors to come?
I decided to go to Kazem’s office to talk to him about getting
together with Naser. It was early in the morning and he hadn’t arrived yet. I
left a note for him to call me. An hour later, he rushed breathlessly into my
office saying, “Reza, Reza, have you heard what happened?” He caught his
breath. “The Americans have invaded!”
He said this with such joy that I wondered if I’d misheard him. Why
would he be this thrilled about an American invasion? And then he told me.
“They’ve already been crushed! God created a sandstorm to defeat
them! They crashed in the desert!”
“What are you talking about, Kazem? What crashed in the desert?”
“Helicopters, planes, everything. Brothers have already been
dispatched to secure the area.”
He turned a chair backward and sat facing me. “They came here on a
mission to rescue the embassy spies. A sandstorm came up.” Kazem took another
deep breath. I thought he might hyperventilate. “The whole invasion fleet
crashed in the desert.”
“My God,” I said in disbelief.
Kazem didn’t hear it that way, of course. He interpreted my
exclamation as praise to God. “Allaho Akbar. They were struck down as
they approached Tehran.”
I couldn’t tell him I agreed with most Iranians, who wanted the
hostages freed. As was so often the case now, I found myself measuring my
comments in his presence. I never had to do that before we joined the Guards. I
realized that broaching reconciliation between Naser and him would be fruitless
at this point. All he could think about right now was the “miracle” that had
happened in the desert.
When I got home that night, I found my mom glued to the TV, stunned
over President Carter’s attempt to sneak specially trained forces across the
desert into Tehran under cover of night. I learned that the high-tech operation
landed on a secret abandoned highway in the middle of the desert in Tabas,
about five hundred miles east of Tehran. Immediately, a busload of poor
families discovered them, driving up to stare at the helicopters and commandos
with night-vision goggles. So much for sneaking into Tehran. The would-be
rescuers took these forty-three Iranians hostage and searched their sparse
belongings for any signs of threat.
Then the sandstorm came. Three helicopters were unable to take off
because of this, forcing the soldiers to abort the operation. While refueling
in order to flee, a helicopter crashed into a gigantic transport plane,
igniting the ammunition and fuel in a fireworks display that rained bullets.
Eight commandos died, scores more were wounded, and every vehicle received some
level of damage. While Iranians slept in their beds, the weather defeated the
greatest military machine in the world. The Revolutionary Guards didn’t even
know the country had been invaded until after the invasion had already failed.
My mother got up and turned down the volume on the television. “I
don’t know what to feel now. This is a treacherous act by the Americans. But
what other choice have the mullahs left for them. The mullahs took innocent
people hostage for no other reason than dirty political games. God help us all
if these mullahs are always so lucky.” She did not wait to hear my thoughts,
turning to go to bed.
The next night, Ayatollah Khomeini claimed that God had created the
sandstorm to defeat the Great Satan and called upon the people to go to their
rooftops and shout “Allaho Akbar” at the heavens. Quickly, the swell of
voices rose joyously in every corner of the city.
My mother was not home that night, so I decided to go up on the
rooftop to see what was going on. It was an eerie scene. I watched as some
neighbors turned out their lights, pretending they were not home while the
Khomeini followers screamed “Allaho Akbar” into the night,
their homes ablaze with light.
The feelings of those on the rooftops were abundantly clear. I
wondered about those who chose to cower in the dark, though. Were they
wondering how this ayatollah was able to accomplish the impossible so
consistently? Less than two years before, he’d ordered a king from his throne.
Then he made President Carter scurry to appease him. Now he was calling forth
sandstorms to defeat our enemies and protect our cities. What more proof did
they need that God was on his side?
Meanwhile, Kazem and Naser still hadn’t spoken and the chances
became dimmer that they ever would. In the months that followed, the clashes
between Khomeini loyalists and the Mujahedin escalated to a terrifying pitch.
Hezbollahi—“those from the Party of God”—attacked the meeting places and
businesses of the Mujahedin, provoking just the sort of violence that the
Guards needed to move in and violently pacify. At work I heard congratulatory
talk among my brothers of their rounding up Mujahedin members and taking them
to the dreaded Evin Prison, where the shah’s SAVAK had once hosted torture
sessions.
One day in June, I stopped by Kazem’s office to talk to him about a
minor work-related issue. I’d barely sat down when he said, “I think it would
be a good idea if you talk to Naser.”
“Naser?” I said, hoping he was asking me to broker a reunion.
“Tell him to stop hanging around people associated with the
Mujahedin. He’s going to end up in Evin Prison.”
I swallowed. Kazem worked in the Intelligence Unit. He must have
heard something. Was Naser’s name coming up during interrogations?
“You know how stubborn he is, Reza,” Kazem said, breaking through my
skittish thoughts. “You need to talk some sense into him.”
“He’s just a sympathizer, Kazem. He’s not involved in any
demonstrations or any of the violence.”
“You and I both know the authorities won’t make that distinction. If
he’s arrested at a Mujahedin meeting, my brothers in the Intelligence Unit will
treat him as any other betrayer.”
“But can’t you vouch for him?”
When Kazem broke eye contact, I detected worry in his voice. “He’ll
listen to you, Reza.”
I rushed home, thankful that Kazem still treasured his friendship
with Naser enough to give me this warning. I vowed that I would get through to
Naser and make him rethink his actions. As soon as I got home, I called Naser
and told him that I needed to see him.
He arrived at my mother’s condo a short while later. When he entered
and saw the look on my face, he knew immediately why I’d asked him over. “Kazem
said something to you, didn’t he?”
I motioned for him to sit down and sat across from him, leaning
forward as I did so. “Kazem told me he still considers you a friend, Naser. He
asked me to talk to you. You’re on a dangerous path with these guys. I respect
that you believe what you believe. I admit that some in the government are
abusing their power. But the Mujahedin are not the answer, either. They are
fighting for power, too.”
Naser’s eyes flashed anger. “Reza, have you forgotten what Shariati
taught us? We must stand up for what’s right, even at the cost of our own
lives. If you don’t say what you believe about this madman, you’re complicit in
evil.”
I held out a hand, as though trying to reach through to him. “Look,
this is not just about saving a friendship. Kazem works in the Intelligence
Unit. He must have heard something specific—about you.”
Naser stood up and paced around my mother’s living room. “Look
around, Reza. Everything is changing. Banning the opposition parties, shutting
down the universities, attacking whoever disagrees with them. They’re taking
our rights away. They’re arresting innocent people for nothing more than
reading a flyer.”
I tried to calm him down, attempting to soothe my own rattled nerves
at the same time. “We’re in a transition, and change is always difficult. Maybe
you should be more careful. Things will get better, you’ll see.”
Naser took a moment before speaking again. When he did, there was
pain in his voice. “I wish I felt the same way, Reza. I don’t want to argue
with you, but if people don’t speak up now, it will only get worse.”
We didn’t say much to each other after that. It was obvious that I
wasn’t going to be able to change his mind, and if that were the case, I
couldn’t simply pass the time with him as though nothing was going on. An image
of one of the carefree pranks we’d played as boys came into my head and tore at
my heart.
Before he left that night, Naser smiled at me and said, “Bi-khialesh.”
He was telling me to let it be. Naser’s courage, which I once admired, now
seemed reckless. Writing letters in defiance of the shah’s censors was one
thing. Being seen with rebels targeted for torture by the government was
another.
My mother had stayed in the kitchen the entire time Naser was at the
apartment, not wanting to get in our way. Now she came into the living room
with a cup of tea in her hand. She had a bitter smile on her face and she was
shaking her head.
“Things will get better,” she said in a tone that mocked the
conciliatory message I had tried to send Naser. “For who? For the mullahs?”
I didn’t say anything. The conversation with Naser had left me
spent.
“I need to go to Agha Joon’s. Please take me there.”
I nodded, and we prepared to go. Before we left the apartment, my
mother took a scarf and covered her hair. “A lifetime of freedom, and now I
have to cover myself or be confronted by those Hezbollahi thugs,” she said
darkly.
In the elevator, we ran into one of my mother’s neighbors. A retired
teacher who once supported Khomeini, he looked at me with disgust because he
knew I worked for the Guards. He smiled at my mother, though. “Salam,
Mrs. Kahlili.” He looked at the scarf on my mom’s hair. “I hope to God that
these mullahs will be kicked out of our country soon and we’ll all be free.”
Mom looked up and whispered, “Hope to God.”
It had been only one year and four months since a million devotees
met Khomeini at the airport and already many Iranians were hoping for the
overthrow of his regime. Brigadier General Ayat Mohagheghi, a highly decorated
air force commander, tried to turn that hope into action but he instead served
as another example of the omnipotence of the imam.
I first heard of the incident the way I heard about most things:
from Kazem. The public would learn about it the next day. I walked into a
hallway to see Guards rushing about excitedly and ran into Kazem.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
Kazem’s eyes shone. “The air force pilots tried to stage a coup. But
Imam Khomeini found out and squashed it! God is great, Reza. The brothers moved
in to arrest these traitors. I’ll keep you informed.” He rushed off to attend
to his intelligence business, leaving me stunned.
I pieced together the whole story from bits and snatches of gossip
among my brothers in the Guards. Iran’s best fighter pilots and paratroopers,
led by General Mohagheghi, planned to fly F-14 Tomcats from the Shahrokhi Air
Base in Hamadan and bomb strategic military targets. They also planned to drop
seven hundred and fifty pounds of cluster bombs on Ayatollah Khomeini’s home in
Jamaran, which was only a six-minute flight from the air base. Another team of
officers was to take over the radio/television building in Tehran and announce
that a new Western-style democracy was in control. The night of the coup,
Guards stormed the conspirators’ camps. Every officer arrested was tortured but
refused to give the names of those few who escaped.
Khomeini was there to save the revolution once again. Later, the
government radio station announced that the mother of one of the officers had
turned them in, so loyal was she to the Islamic Republic.
The gathering at my grandparents’ house that week was limited to
watching the trial of those officers. Naser and Davood were there, as well as
my mother and many of my aunts and uncles. My relatives wanted to pull out
their hair from frustration over what might have been. “How can this happen?”
my grandfather said. “How can professional air force pilots and decorated
generals be outwitted by these mullahs?”
The inquisitors brought Mohagheghi before the cameras freshly
beaten. Hojatoleslam Reyshahri, a theologian and the chief judge of the
Military Revolutionary Tribunal, questioned him. Despite the general’s unshaven
face and haggard appearance, and though he faced torture the day before and the
specter of execution the following day, he looked self-assured and movie-star
handsome as he sat in a white short-sleeved summer shirt. Without shame, he
explained why his duty compelled him to stage a coup.
“What right does this imbecile mullah have to act like the moral
superior to a general?” demanded Agha Joon. “This pervert married the daughter
of Ayatollah Ali Meshkini when she was nine!”
Reyshahri wanted the officers to confess that they were mere puppets
in a plot by Israel or the U.S. They each stated that they acted on their own
initiative, not out of corruption by foreign agents, but out of their sacred
oath to protect the Iranian people. “My decision to participate in the plot
stemmed from my disillusionment in the face of what was happening to my family
and country,” Mohagheghi said unwaveringly.
Those words resonated with me more than anything from Khomeini or
even Shariati. Mohagheghi didn’t plan the coup to attain paradise. He didn’t do
it to mimic Imam Hussein. He did it out of compassion for his people.
“Imagine,” said Davood, finally breaking our somber silence, “if we
had awakened that morning and heard these men had taken our country back.”
“And killed the mullahs,” my mother spat.
When the camera panned back to show all the unshaved faces of the
officers, Davood said, “I wonder which one of their mothers turned them in?”
his voice dripping with loathing.
My grandfather waved his hand angrily at the television. “It’s the
new propaganda these dogs are peddling, congratulating mothers who turn in
their children and children who turn in their parents. Anyone who puts Khomeini
above his own family is lauded as a hero.”
“They’ll even execute their own children if they’re associated with
the Mujahedin,” Davood added.
I shot a glance at Naser, who was leaning back in his chair with his
arms folded defiantly.
“It’s all nonsense,” Agha Joon grumbled. “No mother of an F-14 pilot
would turn him in because she’s loyal to Khomeini. It must have been the
British who informed the mullahs.”
“Here we go with the British again,” said Davood.
Davood and Agha Joon had a long tradition of reading between the
lines of state-controlled newscasts in search of the real story. Kazem, Naser,
and I had many times listened to their debates for entertainment.
“It behooves the British to keep the mullahs in power,” said Agha
Joon, “so the country will go backward hundreds of years while they take
advantage of our oil reserves. Keep people hypnotized with religion. Instill
fear. You think the mullahs overthrew the shah by themselves?”
Davood shook his head. “It’s not always the British. We have new
superpowers now. I think it’s the Russians. They always wanted to influence
Iran, and they are one of the main causes of the shah’s downfall. Now they are
trying to protect this new regime.”
Naser moved forward in his chair. “Why would the West—or even the
East for that matter—want Iran to progress when they can take advantage of our
oil while having stupid people rule the country? It’s up to us to protect our
rights and control our own future.”
“The first step,” my mother said, “is to get rid of the mullahs.”
No one was addressing the elephant in the room: me. I was sitting on
the couch, feeling sad for the officers, yet wearing a beard to show my
commitment to traditional religious values and leaving for work every day as a
member of the Revolutionary Guards. Every time my mother called those who still
supported the revolution “donkeys,” “jackals,” “traitors,” and “imbeciles,” she
was including me—whether she meant to or not—with those who supported the
revolution. My mother was secular to the point of agnosticism. She did not
pray. She was no fan of the shah, but she hated the mullahs. And there sat her
only son, a sorry-ass symbol of tyranny.
Only Grandma had a smile on her face, walking in and out of the room
serving food and then tea and dessert, telling everyone not to make themselves
upset over politics. “This too shall pass,” she said. “As all things do.”
She was intervening on my behalf. Khanoom Bozorg was protective of
me and gently inserted her kindness between her grandson and her
daughter-in-law without angering anyone. She was proud of my education and the
fact that I still did my prayers just as she had taught me.
“Say a prayer that the pilots will not be executed,” she said,
patting my cheek with her wrinkled hand. I remember smiling sadly at her kind
face, knowing prayers of that sort were not answered anymore.
For the first time, I felt uncomfortable putting on my uniform the
next morning. A beaming Kazem greeted me at work, eager to share the joy that
God had stepped in to save Khomeini and vanquish the traitors. The rising
confidence among my brothers in the Guards was palpable. They all knew they
were going to heaven and they would be glad to die for Khomeini.
I sat amid the celebration vacillating between two forces—the
invincibility of Khomeini and the humanity of my family—pulling my heart in
different directions. Everyone I knew was committed to something. Only I was
indecisive.
I later learned from one of my relatives in the air force that
intelligence provided by the Soviets to Iran’s Foreign Ministry had alerted
Imam Khomeini to the coup attempt. Davood was right. Nothing happens in an
oil-rich nation without the superpowers meddling.
When Agha Joon read in the newspaper of the execution by firing
squad of every air force officer, he got up from his seat and walked in his
garden, muttering, “Today the best of Iran has been executed by the worst.” He
then
bent over, caressing one of his roses, and whispered, “How history
hinges on the smallest details.”
A FUNERAL AND A WEDDING
More than a hundred people attended her memorial service, including
many I’d never met before. This shouldn’t have surprised me. My grandmother
loved people and she was always making new friends. She was also very proud of
her home, so she was constantly having new people over. I tried to greet
everyone who came to the service and to interact with them, sharing our
memories of this vibrant woman. Ultimately, though, I chose to sit alone by the
fishpond, grieving and thinking about everything she’d meant to me. Khanoom
Bozorg didn’t allow me to get away with much, but she made me a much better
person than I ever would have been otherwise, and I knew I needed to consider
the impact she had on my life and how I would carry her example with me for the
rest of my years.
While I sat in silence, a young woman caught my eye. She was sitting
next to my mother, engaged in conversation. And she was beautiful. So beautiful
that I couldn’t stop looking at her, even through the haze of my grief. Every
time she smiled while talking with my mother, my pulse quickened. As the
memorial continued, guests came toward me to offer their condolences, but I
couldn’t keep my eyes on those people; I was too busy searching for her.
Agha Joon, who was also in the yard welcoming and thanking guests,
came over and sat next to me. He was an observant man and I was afraid that he
saw me staring at the woman. This shamed me, because I didn’t want him to think
that I’d stopped thinking of my grandmother because of a pretty face.
“Khanoom Bozorg had a dream for you, Reza jon,” he said,
putting his arm around my shoulder. “She loved you even more than her own
children. Do you see that nice girl next to your mom? Her name is Somaya.” He
smiled. “Her grandma and Khanoom Bozorg were close friends. Khanoom
Bozorg had her in mind for you. She even talked to Somaya’s grandma
about you. You know how women are. All they want to do is to hook young people
up with each other. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
I didn’t know what to say to this. Fortunately, my grandfather
wasn’t looking for a response. He kissed my head, gave me a nudge, and said we
should have a chat about Somaya when the moment was right.
Somaya!
On the way home, I asked Mom to tell me more about her. My mother
said that Somaya’s Lebanese father was a British citizen and that he and her
Iranian mother split their time between London and Tehran, where her
grandmother and most of their Iranian relatives lived.
As clichéd as it might sound, I fell in love with Somaya the instant
I saw her. Thoughts of her filled my head. Over the next few days, I would call
her name in my daydreams. Whenever I closed my eyes, I saw her smile. My
stomach felt delightfully uneasy. I knew I needed to have her in my life.
I wasn’t surprised when Agha Joon dropped by for a visit a few days
later and announced that he would arrange a meeting with Somaya’s parents while
they were still in the country. He wanted to make Khanoom Bozorg’s wish come
true by asking Somaya’s parents for their daughter’s hand for me. I realized
with horror that he planned to go khastegari for me. Going khastegari
was like arranging a marriage. It was an old-fashioned thing to do and I did
not want Somaya to think of me as an old-fashioned suitor. I told Agha Joon I
was uncomfortable with this.
“Can’t I just ask for her number?” I pleaded.
“We have to go khastegari first,” he said, adopting the tone
of the grand patriarch of our family. “I know Somaya’s grandmother and her
parents. They are very traditional, and to respect their customs we should tell
them that your intentions are pure and moral. I know you’ve grown used to
American ways, but this is the way it is done in this country. At least some
families still do it this way. If her parents agree, then you can go out on
dates, get to know her, and do it your American way.” He patted my back,
lifted his prominent eyebrows, and, with a big smile, made it clear that I had
no other option.
Moheb Khan, Somaya’s dad, agreed to the meeting and told Agha Joon
they looked forward to getting to know me. On the day of khastegari,
Agha Joon and Mom accompanied me to Somaya’s grandmother’s house. As part of
the khastegari tradition, the intended bride did not attend the initial
phase
of the gathering. While we waited, Agha Joon regaled Somaya’s family
with stories about my limitless abilities and glorious plans for the future.
This made me squirm.
“Reza jon is a family man, just like his dad. A good son to
his father, he will be a good father to his son. As you know, he is a graduate
from a fine university in California. USS, isn’t that right, Reza jon?”
“USC, Grandpa,” I said, embarrassed.
“Of course, USC. Reza has never wasted his life and he is destined
to make a good living for his future wife, providing whatever she wishes.”
I tuned out Agha Joon’s ceaseless praise. All I wanted at that
moment was to see Somaya. I’d heard that women liked their men to pass some
kind of test to prove their affections. Certainly my bearing up to the
embarrassment of my grandfather’s bragging had to show the depth of my
commitment to her.
When Somaya finally entered the living room carrying a tray of tea,
the room went quiet. Gently and elegantly, she offered tea to each guest, from
the oldest to the youngest. I could not stop looking at her, but she didn’t
look directly at me. She was wearing a green satin blouse that enhanced the
dark green color of her eyes. Her long black hair shone like smooth silk around
her neck, and her shy and innocent smile made my heart beat faster.
She came toward me with the tray and the last cup of tea, offering
it without looking at me. Her smile was even more magical up close. I found her
so captivating that I was afraid I would drop the tea and make a fool of
myself. When I hesitated, she glanced up. I knew at that moment that the clever
girl had noticed me admiring her at the memorial, somehow without ever looking
back at me. The gleam in her eyes made me realize that I would be the luckiest
man on the planet if I could convince her to be next to me for the rest of my
life.
Our families met one more time and then, trusting that I was a
responsible young man, Somaya’s parents agreed that we could go out on dates.
At first the dates took place in her grandmother’s living room, but at least
her grandmother allowed us to be alone. Somaya talked about her life and
friends in England, saying that she mostly socialized with her father’s side of
the family. She visited Lebanon occasionally and finished school in London. But
she adored her grandmother and longed to spend more time in Iran, as the rich
culture and hospitality of the Iranian people fascinated her. I told her that I
loved people who were multicultural. She smiled and said
that she was glad we went khastegari first, as she also
believed in the traditional ways. My grandfather found it especially satisfying
when I told him about that last part later.
As I began to spend time with Somaya, I fell in love with her beyond
my control. Eventually, her family allowed us to go out together, and I took
her to parks, restaurants, and the movies. At some point, I realized that she
had fallen in love with me as well and I knew that our marriage would be
everything I could have dreamed.
To respect Grandma’s passing and Agha Joon’s grief, Somaya and I
agreed to wait a year to get married. But Agha Joon insisted that because
Somaya and I seemed so happy together, it would have been my grandmother’s wish
to see us marry sooner. I knew he wished the same. I also knew that since my
grandmother’s passing, my grandfather had been thinking more about his own
mortality. While he didn’t specifically say this, I believe he was worried that
he wouldn’t be at the wedding if we waited an entire year. That would have
devastated me, so following his prompting, Somaya and I married only a few
months after we first met.
Agha Joon insisted that the wedding take place at his house. This
delighted both Somaya and me. We held a big ceremony in Grandpa’s beloved
garden and it felt as though new life were blooming in that spot where so many
plants had flourished. I found this deeply encouraging. Despite the end of the
ancient Persian monarchy, and despite the crisis after the revolution, the
Iranian people could still fall in love and celebrate.
Everybody was there, just as when we were kids. Naser and Kazem
attended, careful to avoid each other. That they declared a truce to be with me
on this blissful occasion touched me. Although Kazem came alone, Naser came
with his parents and siblings. He was also holding hands with a woman I’d never
seen before. Though he hadn’t said a word to me about her, they had to be
serious if she was coming to an event like this with his family.
Naser and the woman approached us. He had a huge smile on his face.
“So you finally tied the knot,” he said, hugging me and kissing Somaya’s hand.
“Congratulations to both of you. Especially you, Reza. You are a very lucky
man.”
Somaya blushed. “We are both lucky.”
Naser put his arm around his guest’s shoulder. “This is Azadeh.”
I shook her hand and said hello. Then I turned toward Naser. “And
…?”
“And we are dating.” He glanced over at Azadeh with deep affection
in his eyes, and this warmed me. When Azadeh complimented Somaya and her gown
and started asking about wedding details, I pulled him aside.
“What’s going on? Is it serious? I saw your mom and dad all over
her. This looks like more than dating to me.”
Naser laughed broadly. “I guess that makes two of us with a leash
around our necks! She is such a great girl, Reza. I think I am in love.”
Azadeh reminded me of my cousin Haleh, whom Naser had a crush on
when we were kids. She had the same hairstyle and a similar smile. Naser had
always been so casual about romance; it was amazing to see him looking at this
woman with such devotion. I felt so happy that Naser was with someone who made
him feel this way. I allowed myself to believe that maybe love could conquer
ideology after all, and I wished at that moment for Kazem to find romance, too.
The party was joyous. Naser’s father, Davood, as he had on so many
occasions, sang for us and led us in dance. Naser and Azadeh danced together
the entire night. For those hours, life was as simple and untroubled as it had
been when we were children.
But the outside world would never allow this peaceful satisfaction
to continue. The last hopes of shah loyalists had already been extinguished
when Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi died of cancer in Egypt in July 1980. An
imperial tradition that had begun in 500 BC with Cyrus the Great was now fully
at its end.
“Allaho Akbar!” some people cried in the
streets. “God is great!”
Agha Joon denounced this celebration of Khomeini followers. “Shame
on this nation,” he said, “to have the last king of kings die in exile like a
gypsy.”
And then on September 22, 1980, just two weeks after my wedding to
Somaya, Iraq attacked Iran, raining bombs on several targets, including our
city. I was at work with Kazem when several explosions shook the walls.
Concerned that the ceiling would fall on us, we ran into the courtyard,
confused. Soon, our commanders told us that Iraqi planes had attacked several
Iranian airports to disable the air force’s ability to launch. The bombs did
minimal damage, however.
Soon after the invasion, Imam Khomeini appeared on television to
announce, “Etefaghi nayoftadah, dozdi amadah va sangi andakhte”: “Nothing
important has happened.” It was just a thief throwing stones. The
country breathed a communal sigh of relief. However, the next day
Kazem informed me that Saddam had attacked with six army divisions on three
fronts. These divisions were, at that very moment, moving quickly into Iranian
territory.
This news chilled me, though I could not have realized at the time
that this would mark the beginning of an eight-year-long war. Or that half a
million Iranians would die in the conflict before it was over.
The violent rivalry between Arabs and Persians was centuries old,
stemming from the Muslim conquest of Persia, where Arabs defeated the Sassanid
Empire, ending the dynasty of Sassanid and the practice of the Zoroastrian
religion in Persia. Saddam seized upon our moment of vulnerability to launch
his attack. Our government, having just executed all of the leading military
commanders who served under the shah, had no trained generals, and it was using
revolutionaries instead. In addition, we ousted not only the shah but his
superpower ally with him. The American hostage crisis isolated Iran from the
rest of the civilized world and the Mujahedin seemed determined to hurl our
country into a guerrilla war. In the uproar and chaos, Saddam saw his chance to
become the dominant oil power in the Middle East and to seize the oil fields
near his border with our country.
Like all aggressors, Saddam claimed he was preemptively attacking in
defense. His Sunni regime worried that the Islamic Revolution was spreading
like an infection to the oppressed Shiite majority in his own country. In fact,
an Iraqi version of Khomeini had emerged among the emboldened Shiites, a mullah
named Muhammad Baqir al-Sadr, who preached the Islamic religion in a style
similar to Khomeini’s. Saddam executed him as soon as al-Sadr’s voice rose
above the crowd. When the U.S. passed satellite intelligence to Saddam that
suggested that Iranian forces would collapse quickly if attacked, Saddam
launched his offensive.
The September 22 attack was our Pearl Harbor. Imam Khomeini asked
every male Muslim who could walk to volunteer to defend God’s government.
Heeding the call were army officers, Guards, normal citizens, and—most fearsome
of all—Basij, a paramilitary force with boys as young as thirteen. Two hundred
thousand untrained volunteers—a far larger militia than the number of trained
servicemen we had—arrived at the front within months and met the Iraqi
invaders. Since the Guards and Iran’s soldiers operated separately, there was
no coordination of movements among our
troops. But we soon learned that Basijis—many of whom were
adolescents infatuated with martyrdom—could not be defeated by mere tanks and
machine guns.
A short time after the first Iraqi attack, the Foreign Ministry
announced they were closing the airports and that no one could travel outside
the country except foreign nationals, Iranians studying abroad, and Iranians
with residential status in a foreign country who had been in Iran less than six
months. Those who qualified stood in long lines to secure permission to leave.
Somaya’s parents were anxious to get out of a country under attack, and I asked
Kazem to call his contacts in the Foreign Ministry to facilitate their
departure.
My in-laws did not want to leave their only child in Iran during a
war that was intensifying every day. I could sympathize with them. I told
Somaya that I would feel better if she left with her parents, and I promised
that I would visit her in England as often as I could. She refused flatly,
telling me that she did not marry me to leave in times of trouble. This made me
cherish her even more, despite my fears for her safety and my concerns about
whether I could do what was necessary to protect her.
I did not go to work the day Somaya said her tearful farewell to her
parents. I knew she needed me to be with her while she dealt with this abrupt
change to her world. We were renting a small house that came with a neglected
garden, and Somaya had been spending most of her days tending to it and
planting flowers. When her parents left, she went there and I joined her,
watching her work and thinking of how much she reminded me of my grandfather
when she did this. We spent hours in the garden that afternoon. When we were
done, Somaya’s face glinted with a wide smile. “It’s so beautiful, Reza. I
especially love the lilies.” I was glad they had given her a measure of peace.
After dinner, Somaya sat on the bed quietly. I knew she was missing
her parents. I sat next to her and took her hands. It was one of the first
times in our marriage that we were alone completely. Her parents were gone, and
the constant stream of family and friends visiting us was dissipating. I needed
to be there for her. I needed to hold her in my arms and show her how much I
loved her. I looked into her eyes, still not believing that someone as
remarkable as she had chosen to marry me. I moved her hair away from her neck.
“You are so beautiful,” I said, pressing gently on her hands. She
smiled at me warmly, defining the dimple on her cheek. I kissed her neck and
pulled her close to me. She closed her eyes. I wrapped my arms around her waist
and caressed the heat of her skin.
“I love you,” I said, kissing her again.
She started to respond when a loud whistle suddenly filled the air.
Somaya jumped from the bed as if catapulted.
“Oh my God! There is an attack! Reza, get the radio!”
Startled, I ran to the kitchen to grab the radio and turn off the
lights. On the radio, an announcer instructed everyone to get to a shelter, as
Iraqi bomber planes were entering the sky of Tehran. I knew the Iraqi planes
were going after military targets. But I also knew they wouldn’t worry too much
about hitting civilians at the same time.
We had a small cellar in our house but Somaya didn’t feel safe
there. She worried about being buried in rubble if the house took a direct hit.
We rushed outside and leaned against a wall. This made even less sense than
going to the cellar, but for some reason Somaya felt better there.
As we stood outside, it was ominously quiet.
I held Somaya’s hand, her palm wet and cold. The heat I had felt
only moments before was now gone from her body. I brought her close to me and
she pressed me tight beneath the night sky, shivering. Then the shrill whistle
of Iranian antiaircraft guns screamed only blocks away. That meant the Iraqi
fighters were somewhere close by. Just that day, I’d promised Somaya’s parents
that I would take care of her. But how could I protect her from this madness? I
looked at her innocent face illuminated by explosions and antiaircraft fire.
She had stayed in this conflagration to be with me. If not for me, she would be
safe with her parents in England now. I felt her chest beating hard against
mine.
“I am okay, Reza. I am not afraid,” she said as her voice broke. She
was afraid, of course, but she was not a coward.
“I know,” I said, “but I am not okay. Hold me tighter!”
This got a small reaction from her. She pinched me and told me to
stop joking, smiling as she said it. I prayed to God to let this attack pass
without any harm coming to her.
A loud blast shook the wall against our backs. I knelt down, pulled
Somaya with me, and covered her body. We huddled in that position for the
longest minutes of my life, as the explosions and missile fire continued.
Finally, the green siren announced the all-clear signal.
The attack was over.
For now.
That night, neither of us could sleep. Instead, we listened to
reports on the radio with growing trepidation. The next day, I pleaded with
Somaya to leave for London. I told her it wasn’t too late, that Kazem would
help her get out. She wouldn’t hear of it.
In the midst of this, another war continued. The Mujahedin increased
their violent fervor, attacking anyone associated with the Islamic forces,
including the Revolutionary Guards, the Komiteh (the revolutionary police), and
the Basij. Officials of the Islamic regime were assassinated one after the
other, some at the very base where I worked. Now Kazem and I were in no less
danger than Naser.
At the same time, Hezbollah (Party of God) gangs of radical
Islamists, sporting uniforms of dirty long beards and buttoned-up shirts,
roamed the streets on motorcycles, brandishing sticks and chains, shouting “Allaho
Akbar” and “Khomeini Rahbar” (“Khomeini is our leader”), and
attacking people who did not adhere strictly to Islamic rules.
These rules were extreme, and few among us agreed with all of them.
They included a dress code for women that required they wear no makeup and that
they appear in public with a proper Islamic hejab covering their hair
and body. Men could not wear shorts. Only married couples could be seen
together in public places. Alcohol was banned. No parties or music were
allowed, even within the walls of homes. Failure to follow these rules led to
arrest and lashing in public.
The radicals called people who objected to the mullahs mohareb,
or “those waging war against God.” Khomeini issued a fatwa on the Mujahedin,
calling them hypocrites and ordering their arrests. He asked people to inform
authorities of anyone they suspected of belonging to that group. Neighbors
began turning one another in, and I shuddered to think of where Naser’s
inability to censor himself would lead him.
Mainstream Iranian society cheered for neither the Mujahedin nor the
clerical government. We were caught up in three wars: Iraq against Iran, the
Mujahedin against the mullahs, and Hezbollah against the people. Our youth were
slaughtered on battlefields and our citizens were rounded up, whipped, beaten,
and humiliated as punishment for disobeying some arbitrary rule of decorum.
Somaya was constantly worried about me and I was beside myself with
worry for her. She always wore a hejab in public and she adhered to the
Islamic laws, but I never knew if this would be enough. It seemed that people
were being arrested for no apparent reason.
The violence kept creeping closer to our home. One day, a cab
dropped me off across from our house. I saw a Land Cruiser with the Komiteh
logo there and this immediately made me nervous. The coming traffic kept me
from crossing the street to the other side, raising my anxiety. Was Somaya in
some kind of danger? As I waited, a motorcycle with two riders crept up
alongside the Land Cruiser, and I saw the man on the back of the motorcycle
throw a grenade through an open window of the car.
I flung myself to the ground as the car exploded thirty feet in
front of me, raining debris and glass on me. I jumped to my feet as the
motorcycle sped down a narrow alley. Among the dust and explosions, I ran to
the Komiteh car and looked inside. There had been four men in there. Blood was
splattered throughout the inside and three men were in pieces. One man, I
believe it was the driver, actually managed to get out. He was severely
disoriented, but through some odd effect of blast physics, his only injury was
a bloody hand. In his other hand, he held a machine gun.
Somaya had heard the commotion and rushed outside along with many of
our neighbors. She saw me by the destroyed car, my face covered with dust from
the blast and with some drops of blood on my shirt. She rushed to me with
tears.
“Reza, are you okay? What happened to you?”
I let go of the man I’d helped to the sidewalk, asking a neighbor to
call for help. Then I took Somaya into our home. She was terribly frightened
and I knew I needed to calm her down and let her know that we were going to be
okay.
I just wasn’t sure how I was going to manage that.
EVIN PRISON
on january 20, 1981, the day Ronald Reagan
became president of the United States, Imam Khomeini ordered the release of the
American hostages. Americans celebrated this and saw it as the end of one of
the most disturbing chapters in their history. Iranians of all ideologies
celebrated as well. Khomeini’s followers rejoiced in this final slap in Jimmy
Carter’s face, knowing that the hostage crisis had a great deal to do with his
defeat, and seeing it as retribution for his support of the shah. They believed
that sending the Americans home was a way to punctuate Khomeini’s triumph over
the world’s biggest superpower. For other Iranians, including my family, the
release of the hostages allowed us to hold out hope for better relations
between the U.S. and our country. Perhaps, we thought, Khomeini was now ready
to begin dealing diplomatically with the rest of the world and Iran could
escape from its self-imposed isolation.
I worked every day at my office training Guards members in the use
of computers. This work was challenging and it kept me busy. Although I saw
Kazem at work all the time, Naser and I had not been in contact for quite a
while. Marriage consumes time, love consumes attention, and war consumes both.
Naser had Azadeh, who unfortunately hadn’t helped blunt his increasing
political activism, I was content to nestle in with Somaya, and Naser and I
just never found the opportunity to get together. The three “battlefields” in
Iran left a pervasive strain among all of us, but despite this, I reveled in
the time I had with my wife. She was so full of energy and so loving that I
found it possible to forget everything else when I was with her. For me, Somaya
was the antidote to war.
“I want us to have three children,” she said one afternoon as we sat
in her garden.
“Why three and not two or four?”
“This way I can spoil them all.”
I laughed at this. “You can only do this with three?”
“Three is the perfect number, Reza. Let me tell you how it works.”
She settled back in her seat, drew her legs under her like a little kid, and
put her hair back in a ponytail. “You always adore your oldest kid because it
is your
first one. The third one is your favorite because you know he or she
will be the last. So you spoil both of these. And you spoil the middle one
because you don’t want him to feel neglected.”
Her reasoning brought a huge smile to my face. “Then three it is,” I
said, delighted that this would make her happy.
The phone rang and I got up to answer it. “Three spoiled kids,” I
said as I rose. “I hope I’ll still get a chance to spoil my wife as well.”
I winked at her and went into the house.
My mother was on the line. Her voice was frantic, pulling me
immediately away from the reverie I’d just shared with Somaya. She was so upset
that I couldn’t understand her.
“Mom, what’s going on?” I said nervously. “Are you okay?”
She sobbed and then gained a modicum of control over her emotions.
“Reza, you have to do something. Naser, Soheil, and Parvaneh have been
arrested.”
I felt a chill to the depths of my soul. “Arrested?”
“Davood has not heard from them for a couple of months. He does not
know what to do. They are in Evin Prison, and he can’t visit them.”
My knees started shaking and my entire body went numb. Fear raced
through me. I had heard the stories about Evin Prison. Everyone had. If Naser
and his siblings were there, they were in horrible straits.
I grabbed my jacket to go to Davood’s house. Somaya came in at that
point, saw my panic, and rushed toward me.
“I’ll be back soon” was all I could say before I headed out the
door.
When I got to their house, I found Davood and his wife, Mahin khanoom,
hysterical.
“Reza jon, I know I should have called you earlier, but I
didn’t know what to tell you until now. We just learned that they’ve put Naser,
Soheil, and Parvaneh in Evin.” His shoulders shook and I thought for a moment
that he wouldn’t be able to keep speaking. The next words that came from his
mouth were strained and halting, as though he could hardly bear to utter them.
“They pounded on our door in the middle of the night and grabbed my children
from their beds.” He ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “I’ve been
looking day and night to find out what happened to them.”
Mahin khanoom had been crying while Davood spoke. Now she
wailed. “God damn these shameless animals. They took my Parvaneh and my sons.”
Everything about this seemed surreal to me. “I don’t understand why
they took them,” I said, though I, of course, had an inkling of why they’d come
for Naser. It made no sense to me that they would have taken the two younger
ones as well, though.
“They took them for no reason,” Davood spat. “Reza jon,
please do something. Get my children back. They are innocent.” He grabbed my
arm. “They are in prison, Reza! Prison!”
“I’ll do everything I can, Davood jon.”
He squeezed tighter on my arm. “It has been two months. Two goddamn
long months! Reza, I have to see them. I need to know how they are doing. I
want them back home.”
I couldn’t understand why he didn’t let me know sooner. Even if he
didn’t know where his children were, he should have let me know they were gone.
Was he distrustful of me—in spite of all our history—because I was with the
Guards? Could he have possibly thought that I would side with the monsters who
had stolen his children and my friends?
“I will talk to Kazem immediately, Davood jon. We will do
everything we can. I promise.”
“I need to see them,” he said mournfully. “Please.”
I rushed to work the next day, planning to catch Kazem as soon as he
arrived. When I got to his office, though, he was already standing behind his
desk reading some files. I told him the news and his face blanched. But his
eyes showed no sign of surprise. It was as though he’d been waiting to hear
this from the moment Naser started throwing his support behind the Mujahedin.
Regardless, Kazem stopped what he was doing immediately and started
making phone calls. It took him some time, but he finally came to me with a
name, Haj Moradi, to contact inside the prison.
The next morning, I picked up Davood in my car. He was nearly
senseless with anxiety. I could barely reconcile the man sitting next to me
with the one who’d led us in song and dance for so many years. I had no
reference point for what he was going through. Considering how the simple
prospect of discussing having children with Somaya had caused me so much joy, I
could only imagine how eviscerated Davood felt by the crisis he now faced.
Evin Prison sits at the foothills of the Alborz Mountains in the
northern section of Tehran. A tall redbrick wall surrounds it. There is nothing
architecturally appealing about this compound. Its design had one
obvious purpose—to strike terror in the hearts of those who approached it.
Things grew more ominous as we approached and heard the roar of a
mob. Several hundred people had gathered in front of the huge iron gates. They
were shouting and chanting, demanding to see their family members. Some of the
women wailed in agony. As Davood and I got out of the car and tried to push our
way through, the guards fired their machine guns into the air to quell the
crowd. This led to immediate chaos, with people scattering, yelling, screaming,
and running for cover. I grabbed Davood and brought him closer to the wall. We
stooped down, covering our heads. I told Davood to stay pressed to the wall as
I went inside to secure our visitation pass.
I entered a small office and approached the guard behind the desk. I
showed him my card, and after he checked my name with the list of scheduled
appointments for that day, he nodded and gestured me in. I noticed a tall tree
in the courtyard as I went into the prison. From somewhere in my subconscious,
an image flashed before me of Naser dangling from that tree with a noose around
his neck. My trepidation increased a thousandfold.
I met Haj Moradi in the prosecution wing. I introduced myself and
told him that Kazem sent his greetings. Then I watched in silence as Moradi
called another prison guard and said with little emotion in his voice, “Take
care of Brother Reza and see to it that his request is arranged.”
Haj Moradi handed the guard a folder, presumably containing
information on Davood’s children. This man took me to a ward on the back side
of the prison, one of the several buildings that segregated prisoners by the
nature of their offenses. He told me that my brothers in the Guards’
Intelligence Unit operated this one, where political prisoners were held. It
was a nondescript space, clean and devoid of personality. I actually found some
comfort in this. Unlike the outside of Evin itself, this ward didn’t seem
designed to intimidate.
But then we got inside the main hallway. Despite the Guards’ best
efforts to keep the prison clean, the stench of body odors and dank sewage
assaulted my face and crawled up my nose. At first I heard no sound, which made
the smells that much more overwhelming. Then distant screams and pleas for
mercy cut through the silence. They echoed through the hallway from a floor
below us. Moments later, I saw a line of blindfolded prisoners
being led to a room. By this point, my palms were sweating and my
heart was pounding.
The guard told me to wait in the hall while he arranged my visit
with Davood’s children. The sounds and the smells continued to swirl around me
and I felt dizzy and aghast.
Moments later, I stared straight into the abyss. A group of armed
guards emerged from a doorway. With them, a dozen teenage girls struggled
barefoot down the hall. I went numb as they passed in front of me. These
children seemed broken both mentally and physically. I could see that some were
in shock. Some had tears rolling down their swollen faces. Others had blood
caked on their skin. The rest seemed hopeless and resigned, an expression one
should never see on someone so young.
I didn’t think it was possible for me to feel more miserable than I
felt in that moment. Until I realized that one of the faces was Parvaneh’s.
This stunned me so much that I fell back and had to brace myself against the
wall.
The guard who had escorted me to this spot emerged then and I
approached him instantly. I pointed to Parvaneh, pleading with him, “That’s
Davood’s daughter and he’s here to see her.”
The man took my arm, pulled me aside, and whispered, “The order for
execution is already in effect. Nothing can be done.”
“But she is innocent.”
This meant nothing to him. I wanted to rush forward, grab her, and
pull her to safety. I wanted to plow through the guards imprisoning her and
steal her from this hellhole. But before I could make a move, Parvaneh just
lowered her head, totally defeated, and turned away. She never even
acknowledged my presence. I have no idea if she knew it was me or if she just
saw another tormentor when she looked into my eyes.
Tears welled up and I said a silent prayer, feeling damned by my
helplessness. I stood paralyzed. Within minutes, dozens of gunshots echoed
through the hallway from the distance. I heard a rush of birds in the courtyard
flapping off toward the heavens.
And I screamed silently.
When the peal of the gunfire ended, the Azan, the call for the
prayer, blared over the speakers.
“Allaho Akbar, Allaho Akbar …”
The guard who had just paraded Parvaneh and other girls in front of
the firing squad joined others in his group in their praise of God.
“Allaho Akbar…. Ash-hadu anna la ilaha illallah…. Ash-hadu anna
Muhammadan-rasool Allah…. Hayya ala-salat…. Hayya alal-falah…. Hayya ala khair
al-amal…. God is great…. I testify there is no God but Allah…. I testify
that Mohammad is Allah’s messenger…. Haste for prayer…. Haste for deliverance….
Haste for good deeds. …”
I forced myself to complete the arrangements for Davood’s visit with
his two remaining children. As instructed, I waited in a room in the
prosecution wing, trying to make sense of what I had just seen, trying to
believe that any hope remained. At last, a guard led in Naser and Soheil, and
my heart dropped lower than I thought possible. Naser was hunched over, his
arms hugging his rail-thin body tightly, trying to preserve body heat. His
clothes hung loosely, mocking him. His face was so gaunt that his cheekbones
seemed to be protruding obscenely. He was only twenty-six years old, but white
streaks coursed through his jet-black hair. None of those streaks was there the
last time I saw him, and I tried to force myself not to think about what had
caused them.
Soheil limped in behind him, looking just as broken and dragging his
foot as he walked. A livid scar stretched from his lower jaw across his neck.
Again, I tried to avoid thinking about how he developed the scar and the limp,
but it was becoming increasingly impossible not to imagine the torture
inflicted on people I’d known and loved most of my life.
Straightening out the collar on my uniform, I marched past my escort
in the hopes of gaining a few private moments with Naser. The guard lifted his
hand to stop me.
“Baradar, you have to stay here.”
I glared into the man’s eyes. He must have seen the fury and
desperation in my eyes, because he wilted back, allowing me to approach Naser.
My dear friend’s bloodshot eyes engaged me for the first time since
he walked into the room.
“Naser, I am here with your father. He will be here shortly. What
have they done to you?”
I’m sure Naser realized that he did not have much time to talk to
me. He leaned close and whispered through tears, “Reza, please get Parvaneh and
Soheil out of here. I can’t watch them being tortured anymore. This is
unimaginable hell in here. These bloodthirsty animals raped Parvaneh in
front of me. They made me watch as they twisted Soheil’s ankle
around in a circle. How can God allow this? I pray for my death every second. I
can take all the torture they do to me, but I can’t stand seeing what they’re
doing to my innocent brother and sister any longer.” He paused for a moment,
trying to gather his emotions. Finally, he continued, unable to stop his tears
or the tremor in his voice. “I cannot forgive myself for not being able to
protect my family. I don’t know how I’m going to face my father. Reza, please
get Parvaneh and Soheil out of here.”
I put my hand around his head and pulled him close, whispering in
his ear, “I will get them out, Naser. And I will get you out, too. I’ll do
anything for you. I promise.”
The others in the room, including some of my fellow Guards, watched
as our foreheads touched, but I did not care. I needed to offer Naser whatever
comfort I could, even if it were only momentary release from the barrage of
pain his jailers had been inflicting on him. I could not tell him that his
little, blameless sister had only minutes before been paraded in front of me
and then sent to her execution while I stood by helplessly. I held Naser close
to me for a moment longer and then, as if sleepwalking, I walked back through
the prison to retrieve Davood.
“Naser and Soleil are there to see you,” I said when he looked up at
me.
When I brought Davood into the room, I saw an expression on his face
that will live in my memory for the rest of my life. It was an expression that
said that he’d lost all faith in humankind in an instant.
“Bebakhshid, Baba jon, bebakhshid.”
Naser and Soheil said these words together, apologizing to their father as
though they were somehow at fault.
Davood melted into tears at that point. I thought I’d seen grief
before. I even thought I’d experienced it when my father and grandmother died.
But what I witnessed here—the grief of a father anguishing over his broken
children—was far beyond anything I’d ever witnessed or felt.
Davood took both of his boys into his arms, and for ten minutes all
he could do was cry. No questions; no words. Just crying as they hugged in a
circle. I stood to the side, waiting to escort Davood back out.
One of the guards walked toward me and informed me that the visit
was over. I gently reached under Davood’s arm, telling him it was time to go.
As we left, I took one last look over my shoulder at Naser. I tried to convince
myself that I would find a way to help him, but the self-exhortations seemed
hollow.
As soon as we left the room, Davood grabbed my sleeve and pleaded,
“I have to see Parvaneh now. Please take me to her.”
Telling myself that I was doing something merciful, I didn’t let
Davood know that his little butterfly had already flown off. Choking back
tears, I said that the jail allowed only one visit, and then put my arm around
his shoulder to guide him out. He allowed me to lead him, too weakened to do
anything of his own volition.
We made our way past Evin’s iron gate. Hundreds of people were still
outside, but the earlier show of force by the prison guards had subdued their
spirits. As we reached the car, Davood turned to look back at the forbidding
building.
“Did you see what they did to my children, Reza jon?”
I nodded to him silently, knowing that I had seen more than I could
even say, and knowing that what I had seen had changed me permanently.
COMMITMENTS
I continued to hope that Kazem would help free Naser and Soheil
until the Monday morning when I walked into my office and Kazem asked me to
come see him. Something in his voice told me that he wasn’t going to tell me
what I wanted to hear. I walked heavily to see Kazem in the building next door,
as though I could avoid bad news simply by forestalling this meeting.
When I entered his office, Kazem looked up at me and pointed to the
seat in front of his desk, indicating that I should sit down. The room was dim,
the blinds were closed, and on the wall behind his desk, a picture of Imam
Khomeini stared directly at me. I sat nervously, my eyes wandering to the
folders stacked on Kazem’s desk, the papers sitting on top of those, and the
small flag of Iran Kazem always had there.
For what seemed like a very long time, Kazem did not say anything.
He would clear his throat, but no words would come out. I tried desperately to
convince myself that he wasn’t about to deliver the worst possible news to me.
Maybe, I thought, he was going to tell me only that there had been a delay in
his efforts to free Naser and his brother. As Kazem continued to struggle to
say what he needed to say, I felt growing tension and despair.
Finally, he stood and came over to my side of the desk, putting his
hand on my shoulder.
“Reza, I just received a phone call from Haj Moradi at Evin Prison.”
He cleared his throat yet again. “A few days ago, an order was issued from high
authorities and …” He took a deep breath before continuing. “Naser and Soheil
were both executed yesterday.”
As much as I’d come to expect him to say this over the past few
minutes, the words hit me with unimaginable force. I felt the room start
spinning and I had trouble breathing. I turned toward the Imam’s picture
angrily and stared at his eyes, silently cursing him. Then, bending forward, I
put my head on the desk, crossed my arms around my head, and collapsed into
myself. An image flashed in my mind immediately of the last time I saw Naser,
at my wedding, when he was caressing Azadeh. He was dancing and laughing like
there was no tomorrow.
“Reza, I’m going to marry her. I am in love. Now that makes two of
us. …”
I felt Kazem’s hands on my shoulders, gripping me tightly. “Reza, I
am so sorry. I did all I could do, I swear.”
I stood up. I needed to get out of this office. I needed to figure
out how I was going to face the future that now lay in front of me. Before I
could leave, though, Kazem hugged me and whispered, “Lanat bar in
Munafeghin.” Damn the Betrayers, the Mujahedin. He wiped a tear and shook
his head. I’m sure he thought he was commiserating, but his sympathy felt
hollow. Why wasn’t he feeling this loss the way I was feeling it? Did all those
years of soccer, Friday gatherings at my grandparents’ house, and late-night
homework help mean nothing? Was our oath of friendship just an empty promise to
him?
“I need to go home,” I whispered back, moving quickly toward the
door.
I lived in a bubble of confusion for the next few weeks. What was
happening to my country? Where was the revolution I—and Naser—had supported? I
could not believe that young people like Naser, Soheil, and Parvaneh, the
future of our country, were being tortured and executed. How could this
possibly lead us to a better Iran? All Naser wanted for his country was to see
justice. The revolution inspired him because he saw it as the end of a
dictator’s repressive rule. He truly believed that the revolution would bring
us freedom. Instead, it snuffed him out.
I, too, had dreamt grandiose dreams about the revolution. I felt
that Islam, the religion of honesty and hope, would bring justice and equity to
all. But
that revolution now had the blood of my best friend on its hands. In
the name of God.
The guilt of wearing the uniform of the Revolutionary Guards weighed
heavily on me now. I forced myself to go through the motions of working, but I
did it bitterly, wondering if I were helping to destroy other futures with
every computer I fixed and every Guards member I trained. Kazem kept a little
distance because he knew he couldn’t help me grieve. For the first time, I
thought about leaving the Guards, but I didn’t know where I would go or what I
would do.
Somaya tried to comfort me, but even though her sympathy was genuine
and her desire to help me was strong, she couldn’t begin to alleviate my pain.
One night, when I was sitting alone at my desk in the den, she came in, held me
in her arms, and kissed my forehead.
“Reza, there are other people being arrested for no reason. I know a
girl named Roya, who was just released from prison. She won’t talk about what
happened to her in there. A close friend of hers told me that she was not
involved in any opposition group, but she was badly tortured anyway, and she is
still in a state of shock.”
This caught my attention. I wanted to know more about what was
happening in that prison. My heart went to Parvaneh, her last look at me. The
shame and defeat in her eyes, the confusion. I needed to talk to Roya. I needed
to learn more about what Parvaneh went through, if only to help me understand
what my brothers were becoming.
When I asked Somaya to set up a meeting for me, she hesitated at
first. I knew my position in the Guards sometimes embarrassed her with her
friends. These days, most people looked at a bearded man, especially in
uniform, as a threat to their freedom. She tried to allay this by bragging
about my knowledge and skill in the technical aspect of my job, but I knew some
of her friends questioned how she could be with a man like me. In spite of her
reluctance, Somaya agreed to connect me with Roya. This took some time because
Roya didn’t want to speak with anyone. In deference to her, I did not wear my
uniform when she finally agreed to see me.
Roya kept her head down, her eyes fixed on her fingers, as she
guided me inside her house. She was wearing the proper hejab but
constantly checked her forehead to make sure her hair was not showing while we
talked. She would not look at me, keeping her gaze focused on some distant spot
on the floor.
“Roya khanoom, I know you weren’t sure about meeting with
me,” I said delicately. “I completely understand and respect that. Please
believe that I would never do anything to bring you more pain or sadness. I
just want to know if there is something I can do to help fix the system.”
There was an uncomfortable silence while she pondered my words. Then
her head started moving slowly, side to side. Very quietly, she said, “Nobody
can help.” She paused and put a hand to her face. “Do you know what they did to
Hamid?”
Somaya had already told me about Hamid, Roya’s boyfriend. He was a
member of the Mujahedin and the Guards arrested Roya and him at the same time.
They released Roya after holding her for nearly a year, but they tortured and
executed Hamid.
“Na, Roya khanoom, no, I don’t know what happened,” I
said in the hopes that she would talk about it.
She said nothing for a minute. And then she spoke very softly. “It
is not important. I am sorry I brought it up.”
I needed to do something to reach out to her. “Roya khanoom,
I am not part of any of this. I recently lost very good friends in that prison
and I would like to know more about what is happening in there. What they are
doing is inhumane. But I can’t do anything if I don’t know the facts.”
Normally, I would never say anything like this to someone I didn’t
know well; it would be too dangerous. But I was trying to reassure her that it
was okay to talk to me. I didn’t succeed. She said very little and I left a
short while later, feeling terribly empty.
Just before I left, though, I told her about Parvaneh, finishing by
saying, “I need to know what happened to her, Roya.”
I had hoped that my visit with Roya would help me get a grasp on the
sense of hopelessness and fury I felt. Instead, it only made me feel more
confused and impotent. A few days later, though, I received a letter. It came
with no sender’s information, and with the word confidential written
sloppily across it. I rushed to my study and opened it.
Reza Khan,
I know what happened to your friend Parvaneh.
While I was in the prison, I wished many times that I could be free,
that I could get out and forget about what happened in there. But now that I am
out, I wish I were one of those girls who were lucky enough to go in
front of the firing squad. They took everything from me in that
prison. I have nothing left.
They killed Hamid. We had plans to get married and to have a family
with lots of children. He was a good person, he believed in God and justice. In
order to get his body back, they made his parents pay for the bullets they used
to shoot him. He was missing an eye. They did terrible things to him—his arms
and legs had broken bones protruding out. Every spot on his body had cigarette
burns on it. Hamid’s mother is now in a mental hospital. She lost her mind
after seeing his body.
When I was released from prison, I rushed home to see my mother, but
she wasn’t there. She had a stroke a few months after I was arrested. I did not
know I could cause so much agony and grief. I feel as though I killed her.
Every day I blame myself for the pain I brought her. I prayed to God to let me
see her one more time when I was in the prison. I asked God to send me home to
her and let me put my head on her shoulder and cry, to ask for forgiveness. She
was the only one I had. Now there was nobody to tell what happened to me. I had
nobody to cry to. My mom was not there to hug me and tell me that it’s
okay—it’s not your fault, Roya, it’s not your fault to have a binamoos touch
your body, private and sacred, which God forbids a namahram to see. She was not
there to tell me—it’s not your fault that they whipped you every day, beat your
bare feet with cables. I could not tell her that I bled so hard that I would
faint, never knowing what they did to my unconscious body.
When I was in solitary confinement, these filthy, evil men would
come to my cell—every time a different rotten, dirty, nasty guard. Not even
animals would do what they did to me. I am embarrassed even to say what they
did. They raped me, but it was more than rape. They said the most disgusting
things to me. When they were through, they kicked me in the back as hard as
they could, threw me down next to the toilet, and told me, “You piece of shit,
do your namaz now.” Reza Khan, I am a Muslim. I believe in God, and my faith
kept me alive in there. I did my namaz every single day, but these shameless
people worship Satan, not God.
The day you came to see me, it was impossible to tell you what you
wanted to know. But I have since thought about it a lot. I thought about your
friend Parvaneh. I felt you were sincere. I could feel the pain in your voice.
Today when I woke up, I knew I was ready to tell you what is going
on behind those bars—what happened to a lot of other girls like me
and Parvaneh.
Reza Khan, there are thousands of innocent young girls like Parvaneh
being held in there. When I was finally released from solitary, they took me to
a small cell, a cell designed for just a few, but which held more than thirty
women. I had no complaints about being squashed in with these women. Seeing
their tormented bodies and minds gave me the strength and the feeling that I
was not alone.
Every few days they would call out names over the loudspeaker. We
knew what that meant, and we would gather together, hold each other’s hands,
and pray that they would not call our names. But always at least one or two
from our cell would have to go in front of the firing squad. We could hear the
sound of the screams, the pleas for forgiveness, and then the gunshots filling
the air.
They would line up the rest of us and make us hold one leg up for a
long time. If you got tired, they would lash you on the tired leg and make you
stand on it. All of us were crying. Some would faint from the pain and
bleeding. Every day we had to undergo interrogation. I never knew what they
wanted, nor did I know how to answer their questions. No matter what I said,
they would hit me. One day, to answer their questions, I told them that I was
not part of any opposition group and that I had no information. I said I didn’t
know anybody in the Mujahedin. They got more irritated when they heard the name
of the Mujahedin. They cut my arm with a knife and told me that they would cut
my throat the next time if I did not confess. The next day they sent me to a small
dark room where another guard raped me.
This was the routine.
As disgusted and down as I was, I never lost hope. I thought about
Hamid all the time. Every time I was tortured, every time I heard the click of
my broken fingers, I thought of Hamid and the good times we had together and
the good times we would have in the future. At night, I thought of my mother
and how she would be happy when I came back home—how our life would be the same
and how we would put all of this behind us.
One day they released me. Even thinking about it gives me shivers.
Haj Agha Asqar Khoui, a mullah who was in charge of guiding the
prisoners to the Islamic path, became fond of me. In the third meeting I
had with him, he told me of his interest in me and said that he
would arrange my freedom if I agreed to become sigheh to him. I don’t
think I gave much thought to it. Being free was enough reason for me to make a
bad decision. I made that decision not understanding that I had to give myself
to another demented person; not understanding that I was committing myself to more
torture and mental anguish by accepting the sigheh, by being temporarily
married to a man who already had a wife or two.
For a few months, there was no physical pain, no beatings, no
lashings, and no breaking bones. But I was disgusted with myself, of betraying
myself, selling my pride to a mullah in return for my freedom. Was it really
freedom? I did not know at the time. I did not know the heavy price I had to
pay to get back to my life. The only life I knew.
Nothing is the same; it won’t be the same for anybody that has been
in that damned prison.
Today is a different day for me. Last night I had a dream. I saw my
mother, Hamid, and my father, who died many years ago. They were all waiting
for me behind Evin Prison’s gate on the day I was to be set free. I ran toward
the gate as fast as I could to embrace them, to tell them that I was free at
last. But before I could get out, the gate closed and I was stuck in that
cursed prison.
Reza Khan, I no longer can carry the burden of this guilt. I know
what Parvaneh and many other girls and boys inside Evin Prison experienced. No
one can help; no one can change our lives. I wish I had been shot dead in
there. I can no longer go to that dirty mullah every week and pretend that
being out of that prison is freedom.
I can’t live like this anymore. You are habs, a prisoner,
forever. This is what’s happening to every prisoner in there. This is what
happened to Parvaneh.
Roya
Roya had hanged herself shortly after mailing the letter.
THE PRAYER
I knew I needed to do something, but I didn’t know what I could do
or whom I could talk to for help. I knew only that my desire to act and my
sense of helplessness were warring inside of me.
One rainy afternoon, I was sitting in my study looking out the
window, staring at the sky, still hoping for an answer. I felt the raindrops
were God’s way of telling me he was as devastated as I was. Somaya’s knock at
the door interrupted my thoughts. She entered the room and placed a tray of
food on my desk. She rearranged some books and papers to make room for the
tray, picked up the tray from that morning that I’d left untouched, and said,
“Reza jon, you should eat something. I am so worried.”
I had not spoken to her much in the days since Roya’s death, nor had
I gone to work or left my room. Before she left with the tray, Somaya’s eyes
went to the floor where my sajadeh lay. “Do you want me to fold your sajadeh
and put it away, or do you still have to do your afternoon namaz?”
I looked down to where my prayer rug, my holy stone, and my prayer
beads lay. I had not done my namaz for days. I rubbed my eyes, looked at
Somaya, and said, “No, dear, I was about to do my prayers.”
She smiled sweetly; the dimple on the side of her left lower cheek
gave her perfect round face a delicate highlight. The sparkle in her eyes
revealed the satisfaction of her attempt to bring me back to life. Before
leaving, she said, “Ghabool bashe.” May God accept your prayers.
I let the blinds down and sat before my sajadeh. I moved the
little rug a bit more toward Ghebleh, Mecca, and worked its corners to
make sure it sat properly on the floor. Then I put the prayer beads on my side
and I sat on the rug in front of the holy stone. I raised my arms toward the
sky.
“God, tonight I am doing my prayer differently. I am not following
the routine and rules of namaz. As much as these Arabic words sound
gracious and comforting, I have to talk to you in my own language. I need to
tell you about my true feelings. I believe in your power. You are my creator
and I have felt your presence throughout my life, but I have to make a
confession. If what I am seeing in my country is Islam, then I no longer
believe Islam to be the religion of honesty and sacrifice. I feel what is happening
in my country is wrong. I feel the killings and crimes happening in your name
are unjust. How can I watch all these atrocities? How can I watch people being
slaughtered and not be able to do anything? How can I forgive myself for not
being able to deliver the promise I made to Naser, to rescue him and his
brother and sister? I cannot witness Parvaneh, Roya, and thousands of girls
like them being held behind bars, their hearts ripped to pieces, and do
nothing. How can I believe Khanoom Bozorg’s stories anymore? I don’t believe
that the Islam preached by Khomeini and his men represents true love and
munificence. They kill for their own survival. They use you as a shield, an
excuse. How can I stand by and watch while they demolish our proud history and
civilization? We are a nation with a rich and vibrant culture. They are taking
us back to an era where the barbarous acts of Mongols left nothing but
bloodshed throughout the land. God, I am scared. I can no longer remain quiet
and watch my country disappear into a morass of evil.
“God, I admit I am helpless and am begging you for guidance, as you
represent true love and justice and I believe in you and your power.”
I folded my sajadeh and put it away. Then I went back to my
desk, opened the drawer, and reached for Roya’s letter, hidden with an old
picture of Naser and me posing next to Davood and Agha Joon. I stared at the
picture, unfolded Roya’s letter, put the picture inside it, and put it back in
the drawer.
As I closed the drawer, a thought came to my mind that I’d never
considered before. God had clearly put it there as an answer to my prayers. I
realized with sudden clarity that there was only one thing I could do to honor
the spirit of my lost friends and all of the other innocent victims. I needed
to go back to America, to the one other place I’d ever called home. America was
one of only two true superpowers in the world, and I was convinced that
Americans didn’t really know what was happening inside of
Iran—and that if they did, they would do what they could to free us.
Someone needed to tell them about the atrocities.
I was that someone. I believed this now with every fiber of my being
and I needed to act on it.
Feeling emboldened and feeling that I had to set things straight
with the people I loved, I decided to make two visits I’d put off for too long.
The first was to Davood, whom I had not seen since I dropped him off after our
ill-fated trip to Evin Prison. On the way back that day, he barely spoke. But
as he got out of the car, he turned his face away from me and stared into the
distance. In a broken voice he said, “How can you wear the uniform of such a
murderous regime, Reza?” He left without another word.
That question left a scar on my heart, a scar that grew more livid
as I came to understand that I had no acceptable answer for it.
Mahin khanoom, Naser’s mother, opened the door for me when I
arrived at the house. She was barefoot and dressed in black and she looked much
older than her age. She showed me no sign of recognition, though when I asked
her permission to enter and see Davood, she took me to his room.
Davood was lying on his bed. The lines on his face were deeper,
longer, and more defined; his gray hair drooped over his forehead to one side.
When he tried to smile to be polite, I could see that the effort nearly
overwhelmed him. Had he forgotten how? Or did he now think of me as one of the
enemy?
I bent toward him and kissed his wrinkled, warm, and fatherly hand.
“Davood jon, I am here for your forgiveness. …” I was not sure if he was
listening to me. He stared at a wall in front of him. But whether he was or
not, I needed to tell him how I felt. “I am so deeply sorry. I wish I could
change everything. I wish I could carry all your pain. I wish I had the power
to bring back the peace you and your wife deserve. I wish I could bring back
your children. Davood, I am not happy with who I have become. I am not happy
with what has happened to us. Please forgive me, pedar jon, if I caused
any pain to you. I am sorry, Davood jon. You are like my own father and
I can’t see you like this.”
He hadn’t looked directly at me to this point, but when I spoke to
him, calling him “dear father,” something he would never again hear from his
own children, he turned slowly and made eye contact through his tears. His
expression warmed. He put his hand over mine, tightly clasping it. As his
sleepy brown eyes fixed onto mine, I felt the blessing under his
fatherly touch. He then closed his eyes and, with a tender smile, fell asleep.
Davood died two days after my visit, his heart unable to bear the
burden of so much grief.
A rage brewed inside me. I couldn’t tell Davood that I was going to
use the uniform he despised to avenge his son’s unjust death in prison. I
couldn’t tell him that with this uniform I was going to burn and bury
Parvaneh’s filthy murderers. His death was another sign from God that my
mission was necessary. I needed to save other fathers from the misery that had
killed Davood.
With new resolve, I approached Kazem, intent on involving him in
helping me. I was going to give him a problem, and let him come up with the
solution. Agha Joon had told me that doctors had diagnosed my aunt Giti with
Parkinson’s disease, and that he wished a family member could attend to her
during this difficult time. I now realized that I could use this event to take
the dangerous steps I needed to take.
“Kazem, I just had a call from Agha Joon. My aunt Giti is in
declining health and needs to go to a rest home. Agha Joon says it is time for
me to pay back my dues. Since she provided for me during my stay in the U.S.,
it is my duty to go there and take care of her needs.” I shook my head. “He’s
put me in a very awkward position.”
Kazem considered this for a moment. “I think you should help her,
Reza. You owe her for all she did for you. We have to take care of our
relatives.”
“But I am not sure how to go about it. I can’t just leave work. I
have no idea how long I’ll need to stay there.”
“Don’t worry, Reza. I will talk to Rahim and take care of it.”
“You are a true friend, Kazem. You have always been there for me.” I
swallowed my pride to be able to continue. “I never got to thank you for your
efforts to rescue Naser. I knew you would if you could. Naser went a different
way. You were always right that the Mujahedin manipulate our young people and
that Naser did not see that.”
“It is sad what happens to these people. They are turning to these
stupid opposition groups. For what? We have everything that God wants us to be
in our Islamic government and they still allow themselves to fight against his
rules!” He shook his head and said nothing more, never mentioning Naser by name
or acknowledging the loss of our friend’s innocent siblings. I let that pass,
as I needed him to help me with my travel plans.
I called Agha Joon first to let him know that I would be able to
travel to America. Then I went on the second trip I needed to make: to see my
mother. The relationship between us had become strained and I had to fix that.
The last time we talked was when she called me to let me know that Davood’s
children had been arrested. It was no longer unusual for this much time to pass
between conversations because it had become nearly impossible for us to talk
without offending each other. My decision to join the Guards had driven a wedge
between us. The last time we were in a room together, a discussion over the
president at the time, Abolhassan Banisadr, turned into an ugly argument.
Banisadr had been elected the first president of the Islamic Republic of Iran
in January 1980 with almost 80 percent of the vote. He was a liberal
counterpoint to the mullahs, someone Khomeini tolerated because he offered the
illusion that the clerics hadn’t taken complete control of the country. More
than a year after Banisadr’s election, people like my mom, who were so
disappointed with the Islamic regime, saw him as the only hope for a free Iran.
Although Khomeini had approved of this election as a concession to liberal
powers in the country, Banisadr had taken to giving stirring speeches on the
virtues of freedom and self-governance, criticizing the mullahs for their
torture and execution of the opposition. He never directly challenged Khomeini,
but incendiary slogans shouted by his crowds, such as “Free us from the
mullahs!” were deemed acts against God.
My mother was among those who shouted this from the crowd. She
participated in Banisadr’s rallies with much enthusiasm. I was secretly proud
of her and I supported those courageous souls demonstrating on Banisadr’s
behalf, but I did not want anything to happen to her. I tried to stop her from
joining the rallies, especially after club-wielding Hezbollahi had beaten other
demonstrators and the Guards had fired on the crowds— and especially after my
best friend and his siblings lost their lives for doing less. She mistook my
concern for her as being anti-Banisadr and our words became bitter.
With the hope that I could reconcile with my mother, and a wish that
her motherly instinct would recognize the purity of my intentions, I knocked on
her door. When she opened it, she just glared at my beard and then left the
door open and walked into the living room.
“I am going to Los Angeles to take care of Aunt Giti,” I said as I
shut the door and followed her in. She turned up the television and sat on the
couch.
“They are destroying our only hope,” she said as she stared at the
TV. The broadcast showed a report about the rising opposition of the clergy
against Banisadr.
“Things are not going to stay like this, Mom. I promise.” I was sure
in my mind that I could make a difference with my plan. She glanced at me, got
up, and turned off the television.
“Reza! I don’t know how someone like you, who never cared much about
this religious nonsense, can suddenly come back from America and devote himself
to a man like Khomeini. Do you even realize that what they are doing is
inhumane? Do you see what is going on around you? Do you even care about Naser
and what happened to him?”
Every accusation she had made carried a sting, but this one struck
me right in the heart. I got up to leave.
“Your father and I had high hopes for you. We thought we raised a
man.”
I slammed the door and left her house. For her safety, I had to bite
my tongue and let my mother be ashamed of me. To tell her what I was about to
do would put her at even greater risk. But now I was even more passionate about
my mission.
I will prove it to you, Mom. I will prove it to you that you raised
a man, not a coward.
I waited a few days for Kazem to get back to me about Rahim’s
reaction to my travel plans. At that time, the government didn’t permit
ordinary citizens to travel because of the war with Iraq, and I needed his
approval to secure the necessary authorization. When Kazem called me into his
office, I thought he was going to give me an answer.
“Come on in, Reza,” he said, motioning me to sit. He was behind his
desk signing papers and reviewing some files. After putting the folders to the
side, he looked up and said, “Thank God Imam Khomeini finally reclaimed the
position of commander-in-chief from Banisadr. It’s about time. We can’t afford
a president who is weak on war. This is a serious time in our movement. Our
enemy, Saddam, is wreaking havoc on our soil and Banisadr is drawing up a truce
and negotiating the terms to end the war.” He shook his head.
I knew then that Banisadr was in trouble. The mullahs did not intend
to allow his verbal insurrection to continue. Nothing had so galvanized the
population behind the mullahs as this war, and no one, not even the president,
was going to interfere.
“Kazem, have you talked to Baradar Rahim yet?” I asked with
hesitation.
“Is everything okay, Reza? You don’t seem to be yourself.”
“You know how Agha Joon is. He’s been calling me nonstop. He is so
worried about his daughter.” I tried to compose myself. “He is afraid to lose
her, too. He’s already lost his son and his wife. And now Aunt Giti is sick.”
“Of course, it is a hard time for him. I did talk to Rahim and he is
looking into it. I mentioned it was urgent.”
I thanked Kazem and left his office, frustrated at the time this was
taking, but feeling satisfied that he was at least trying to help. Rahim,
however, had other things on his mind. In the days following my conversation
with Kazem, the parliament impeached Banisadr for standing in opposition to the
mullahs. The brothers in the Revolutionary Guards, including Rahim, were
ordered to invade the presidential palace to arrest and kill the deposed
president. They didn’t succeed at this, as Banisadr went into hiding and later
managed to escape to France with Massoud Rajavi, the leader of the Mujahedin.
They did manage to arrest several of Banisadr’s friends and associates, and
they executed them.
My anxiety level was rising. The loss of Banisadr, the only liberal
in a position of leadership in Iran, meant the country was moving even further
from the ideals of the revolution. I needed to act and I now had a plan, but I
couldn’t do anything without permission to travel. I couldn’t push Kazem any
harder than I’d already pushed him without the risk of raising suspicion. On
top of this, Agha Joon kept pressuring me to go to LA to attend to my aunt.
On June 27, a week after Banisadr’s impeachment, I ran into Rahim in
the hallway of our building. He waved and gave me a short “Hi” as he passed by
me.
I found this simple gesture deflating. Apparently, my request was of
little concern to him. Weeks had passed since I asked Kazem for his help. With
the crisis escalating in the country, it looked less likely that Rahim would
approve my travel. I was about to enter my office and rethink everything when
someone called my name.
“Baradar Reza!”
I turned my head. It was Rahim.
“I need to see you. Tomorrow I am busy attending a meeting, but come
to my office the day after tomorrow and we will talk.” He started to walk down
the hall. “By the way, bring your passport.”
I went home anxious to let Somaya know that I was finally getting my
permission to leave. Rahim’s asking for my passport was a good sign, as I
needed the authorization to exit stamped in my passport. Somaya told me that
she was happy for me, but I could hear the sadness in her voice.
“Why don’t you go to London and visit your parents while I’m gone? I
can arrange for that. And then we can come back together.”
“Reza, you need this trip. I know you’re going because Aunt Giti is
sick, but you also need to get away for a while with everything that has
happened.” She smiled. “Don’t worry about me. My grandma is having a surgery on
her back and I promised my mom I would take care of her.”
I held her in my arms and told her how deeply I loved her. She was
the purest soul in a country gone mad and I felt lucky to have her.
When I went to work, I saw Kazem and told him about my planned
meeting with Rahim, thanking him again for arranging everything. That night,
Ayatollah Beheshti held a high-level meeting at the Islamic Republic Party
(IRP) headquarters. Beheshti was the head of the judicial system and the second
most powerful man in Iran next to Khomeini. Rahim and several Guards members
from our base attended this meeting, which was why he couldn’t meet with me
until the next day.
That night, while in my study, I grabbed my passport to make sure I
didn’t forget to take it with me. Then I pulled out Roya’s letter and Naser’s
picture. I looked at Naser and then my eyes flicked to my grandfather. I
thought about how Agha Joon always used to say “Grow old, young man” to us. I
finally realized what he meant by this: Every person has the right to grow old
and be part of this world. No one should be allowed to take that from anyone.
Somaya came into the room. “I am a little tired. I am going to bed.
I’ll leave the light on.”
“I am almost done here. I am coming to bed in a little bit.”
I put the picture and the letter back and checked to see that the
passport was in my pocket. As I did, a loud blast shook the house. I ran out of
my study and screamed Somaya’s name. She was already outside the bedroom,
running toward me, asking about the explosion. She rushed to the family room to
turn on the television while I tuned in the radio.
“Do you think it was an attack by Iraq?” she asked anxiously.
“I don’t think so. There is no siren or power outage. Let me make
some phone calls.”
I called Kazem, but there was no answer. I then called Agha Joon and
Mom. They had not heard the blast. We spent the rest of the night fearing what
would happen next, unable to sleep.
The following day at work, I learned that a series of powerful
explosions rocked the Islamic Republic Party’s headquarters where Beheshti was
holding his meeting. Chaos spread through our unit. I went looking for Kazem,
but he was not around. I rushed to Rahim’s office. He was not there, either.
Only then did I remember that Rahim had been at the meeting. I hurried back to
my office and made a dozen calls to find out what I could.
I learned that this was a well-orchestrated attack. The assailants
had planted bombs throughout the adjoining area to guarantee the greatest
amount of devastation. Beheshti and more than seventy other party members died
that night—among them cabinet ministers, deputy ministers, and parliament
deputies. Many Guards members had been injured. Rahim was one of them.
I was devastated. Nobody would be trusted enough to leave the
country now. Meanwhile, Khomeini, fearing a coup, ordered the Guards and the
Basijis to surround the military bases. He named the Mujahedin the perpetrators
of the attack and ordered the execution of many political prisoners in
retaliation.
The Khomeini regime used this tragedy, as they did with all
calamitous events, as a vehicle for public relations. They immediately claimed
that seventy-two people died in the attack, calling them martyrs and comparing
this incident to the martyrdom of Imam Hussein and his men, also seventy- two
in number. The mullahs added a dramatic flair to the story when they spread
rumors that Beheshti had told the crowd just prior to the explosion that he
could “smell heaven.”
A few days later, Rahim came back to work with a broken leg. He and
Kazem came to my office, Rahim on crutches and Kazem helping him navigate.
“Baradar Reza, I did not forget about you,” Rahim said as he handed
his crutches to Kazem and sat in a chair. “I hope you have your passport with
you. Kazem told me how close your family is and he has great respect for your
grandfather. I have talked to the authorities and, with my concurrence, they
are allowing you to travel.”
Kazem winked at me.
“But Baradar Rahim,” I said, “I know this is a very sensitive time
in our revolution. If I am needed here more, I would rather stay and serve my
country and our imam.” I said this shrewdly, knowing Rahim had already made his
decision and wouldn’t change it, but also knowing that he would remember my
willingness to stay and therefore have no suspicions of my reason for going to
America.
All that was left now was for me to board the plane. The morning of
my trip, the dawning sun cast a persimmon glow on the white marble of the Azadi
(“Freedom”) Tower as I headed to the Mehrabad International Airport in Tehran.
I felt a tang of bitterness in my throat, remembering that this beautiful
monument was built to commemorate the twenty-five hundredth anniversary of the
Persian Empire. The Ayatollah Khomeini changed the name after the revolution
from Shahyad Tower, for the shahs of Iran. The original intention of the tower
was to remind Persians of their great history—the history that made my
grandparents so proud. I heard Agha Joon’s voice saying, “This is the land
where Cyrus the Great ruled one of the largest empires the world had ever seen.
He brought dignity and respect for all to this great civilization: a land where
the first charter of human rights was introduced, a land where women were
respected, where slavery was abolished, and a land where the Jews were free to
return to their native land at the end of Babylonian captivity. This was the
Persia where poets, philosophers, and scientists were the bedrock of national
pride, where religion was based on three simple premises: good thoughts, good
words, and good deeds.”
Once on the plane, I had a moment of panic. How could I be thinking
of doing such an insane thing? There was still time to change my mind; I hadn’t
yet committed a single treasonous act. I could simply go to LA, help Aunt Giti
as promised, and then return. But then I thought of Naser, Soheil, Parvaneh,
Davood, Roya, and the countless others the revolution had stolen from us, and
my resolve returned. As the Iran Air 747 climbed into the sky, I noticed that
the cake-frosting snow spreading unevenly across the Alborz mountain range to
the north looked vaguely like the San Gabriel Mountains that guard Los Angeles,
except for the occasional distinctly Persian buildings that dotted the
landscape. I knew that once I landed in Los Angeles, my life would change
forever. Like thousands before me, I was going to America seeking help, seeking
hope, and above all, seeking
freedom. The freedom that the Islamic government had promised once
and then so shrewdly taken away.
In response, I had to commit treason against an outlaw regime, a
thugocracy. I had made up my mind to deliver every secret I knew about the
Guards and ask the American authorities for help. I could not allow fear or
anything else to deter me.
CODE NAME: WALLY
I grabbed a shuttle for the short ride to the Sheraton hotel on
Century Boulevard, arriving behind a line of limos dropping off members of a
wedding party. Scenes like this had become rare in Iran since the revolution
banned parties and alcohol. If the regime caught people committing these
indiscretions, they laid them out in public, stripped off their shirts, and
thrashed them with a whip.
I couldn’t sleep that night, anxious thoughts cycling through my
head. Was I doing the right thing? Would it make any difference? Would anybody
care? Would the Guards catch me? Would they hurt my family? Was I losing my
sanity? I needed to draw strength from my memories of the people who had
suffered and the realization that so many continued to suffer.
This is what you have to do for your country. This is the only way
to bring democracy and fairness to your people. This is your duty, Reza!
I tried to quell my uneasiness by thinking about the kind of
information I would pass along. I knew of names and positions of the
Revolutionary Guards’ commanders. I knew of their connection to other radical
Islamic groups and their plans to export their dangerous Islamic beliefs beyond
Iranian borders. I had taken notes in my head of all the meetings I attended
with Kazem, and I could quote details verbatim.
The long night finally ended with dawn over the Pacific Ocean.
Before heading out, I contacted my aunt to let her know I was in town. She
insisted I stay with her, but I told her that since I had plans to see some old
friends, it was better for me to stay in a hotel. I promised I would take care
of her
while I was there, though. I knew I owed this to both her and my
grandfather.
Aware that there was a good possibility an Islamic agent would be
watching me, I tried to act as normal as possible. I did not trust Rahim, my
commander. How could I possibly trust him or anybody associated with the
regime? Returning to my old stomping grounds from my college days, meeting up
with old friends, and going to my aunt’s on a regular basis would provide the
perfect cover for my travels around Los Angeles.
I called my college friends Johnny and Alex to set up a time to get
together with them at the Horse Shoe Bar of Tom Bergin’s Tavern in the Fairfax
area of LA. We used to meet there after the USC football games on Saturdays. We
always staked out the first booth to the right of the front door, as it was the
best spot in the restaurant. When I got there this time, I discovered that
“our” booth still featured paper shamrocks with our names on them.
Chris, the bartender, surprised me when he recognized me. He pointed
to the table where my old roommates, Johnny and Alex, sat.
I felt an immediate rush of good old memories. The red Mustang with
mag wheels, the LA girls, and my old girlfriend, Molly. How I had embraced that
carefree life for a few years until my father’s death. How Naser and Kazem had
brought me back to reality upon my return home. I wondered how different my
life would have been if my father had lived and if I had stayed with Johnny and
Alex and my American life. Would I have been a happier person if the revolution
in Iran had been nothing more than a news item to me?
“Reza, look at you, man,” Johnny said, interrupting this wave of
thoughts with a smile as he hugged me. “What’s with the beard?”
The question, and, in fact, the entire reunion, had a surreal
quality to it. How could I reconcile the easy college life I shared with these
men with all the changes in Iran that had caused me to grow the beard? Would
Johnny understand if I explained it to him? I decided not to try. Instead, we
reminisced.
“It is the new thing. Everybody grows a beard these days in Iran,” I
said as I hugged him back.
We talked for a while about our lives after college. Johnny told me
about his wife and his two-year-old twin boys, and about how being a father had
changed him. Alex was still with Suzan, whom he’d been dating since
our USC days. I told them about Somaya and showed them a picture of her.
“Wow, she is beautiful,” Johnny said.
“How’s everything back in Iran?” Alex asked. “We’ve been watching
the news and it seems like a lot is going on.”
As much as this was an invitation to talk about my true feelings, I
did not divulge much. I said only that we were in the midst of a transition and
that I believed things would get better.
As we caught up, we fell into our old, familiar rhythms. It was as
though no time had passed since we last saw one another. But I knew that wasn’t
true. I’d gone through the equivalent of a lifetime since leaving California.
I did nothing more than visit with my aunt and get in touch with old
friends for a few days. Then it was time to contact the U.S. authorities. I
wanted to reach out to the CIA. I found that thought intimidating, but I knew
they would take my information seriously. They weren’t listed in the phone
book, but the FBI was. I knew of their offices in the Federal Building on
Wilshire in Westwood, a short distance from USC’s crosstown rival, UCLA, and
not too far up the I-405 freeway from where I was staying. After looking at
myself in the mirror and summoning up my courage, I took a deep breath and
picked up the phone.
Contacting the FBI was easy enough, but getting to the right person
took some doing. “I’d like to talk to an agent in charge of international
matters,” I told one person after another. “I have some confidential
information about Iran that is important.” The experience was frustrating and
was quickly becoming discouraging. Maybe, I thought, this isn’t such
a good idea after all. Finally, after an hour of bouncing from one person
to the next, I managed to schedule a meeting with two agents for that
afternoon.
I gave myself plenty of time to get to West LA. As the cab took me
there, I looked out the window and remembered that the last time I took this
ride up I-405, I was on my way to Westwood for a college party. I felt as
though I were on top of the world then. Would I ever feel that way again?
The streets outside the Federal Building brought back less happy
memories. This had been the scene of several pro- and anti-Iranian
demonstrations during the revolution. A few of us from the Islamic Students’
Association would join the demonstrations supporting Khomeini and clash with
the shah’s supporters. There had always been a number of
television cameras present. I now suspect that there were quite a
few Islamic agent cameras present as well.
I decided not to go directly to the Federal Building but instead
maintained my deception by calling a friend and meeting him at the popular
Mario’s Restaurant. From the entrance to Mario’s you could see down Gayley one
way and down Weyburn Place the other. If anyone had followed me, I would know,
since I kept careful watch on my way to Westwood. I finished my lunch, bid
good-bye to my friend, left through the rear exit, ducked into the parking
structure across the alley, and went out the other side onto Veteran Avenue. It
was a long walk down Veteran to Wilshire, where the FBI building is located. It
would have been impossible for anyone following me to remain hidden. Still, I
didn’t go directly to the building, instead turning down Wilshire and coming in
through the rear.
Once I registered at the front desk, two officials escorted me to a
twelfthfloor conference room. One man introduced himself as Special Agent
Cully Madigan and the other as Al Mancini. I gave them my name and immediately
wondered if I should have used an alias. They offered me a cigarette, which I
declined, and water, which I accepted. Strangely, I was not in the least
nervous. I think my hosts were more anxious than I was, which made me realize
that mine was not the kind of call they fielded every day. I was, after all,
Iranian. The FBI, I would come to realize, was not an international agency.
Most of the people they dealt with were Americans or foreign nationals from
Eastern bloc countries. Men of my color were not yet their main concern. Little
did they know how much that would change.
After exchanging pleasantries, we finally got around to discussing
my reasons for contacting them. It was awkward at first, because they seemed
confused about what I was telling them. I told them I held a position in the
Revolutionary Guards in Iran and had access to information that was critical to
both of our countries. To my astonishment, they kept calling the Revolutionary
Guards “the Red Army,” obviously confusing the mysterious Iran with the more
familiar Soviet Union.
Again, I had misgivings. If these agents weren’t even aware of what
was going on in my country, why would they care about any information I had to
give them? They jotted down everything I said, but it was obvious this was not
an area of their expertise. When they asked if I could show anything to prove
my claims, I took out the documents I’d brought with me. The documents,
embossed with the official Revolutionary Guards’ emblem,
included a payroll list with the names of high-ranking officers and
internal orders from several base commanders. Some of these orders had my name
on them. I explained each, and they nodded as I did so, but the documents were
all in Farsi and neither agent spoke the language.
I also had a picture of Mohsen Rezaei, the commander of the Guards,
in his uniform behind a podium speaking to a large crowd. Armed guards stood in
the corners, and behind him stood Kazem, Rahim, and me. The agents’ interest
sharpened when they saw this, and they started asking more questions. They
asked if they could keep the documents to verify them. I told them I was
worried about confidentiality, about where the documents were going, and about
whether I would get them back. Madigan assured me that the entire matter would
receive only the most top-secret treatment and then suggested that I keep a low
profile.
“We’ll get back to you in a few days,” Madigan said. “We need to
sort a few things out. There are some people we need to talk to.”
“What people?” I asked innocently enough.
Madigan locked my documents in his attaché case. “We’ll contact you
in a few days, Mr. Kahlili.”
They escorted me out, thanked me for my time, and took note of my
hotel on Century Boulevard.
“The Sheraton? Yeah, I know the one,” Agent Mancini said. “How about
you move out of that hotel into another one? Let me suggest the Shutters in
Santa Monica. It’s right on the beach and has several exits. Take a couple of
cabs to get there. We’ll call you very soon.”
The next few days were full of uncertainty. On the one hand, I knew
there were Islamic agents in the U.S. watching Iranians who entered the
country. Kazem had told me once that the Guards had their agents keep an eye on
the members of the opposition outside Iran and closely monitor the Guards
members traveling abroad, as they knew that foreign intelligence services were
looking to recruit operatives. On the other hand, I was worried about getting
myself into some difficulty with the FBI if they didn’t believe my story.
Trust between Americans and Iranians ceased to exist after the
embassy takeover in Tehran. I had been at that takeover—though I certainly
didn’t have anything to do with the taking of hostages—which meant that they
could have had pictures of me there. The FBI could have received my overture to
them in any number of ways. The worst possible scenario was
that they and their counterparts in the CIA would view me as an
Iranian spy attempting to infiltrate their ranks by walking right through their
front door with some preposterous proposal about giving them the Guards’
secrets. I could only hope that the documents I gave them would prove that my
intentions were the ones I stated.
Mancini’s suggestion to move to the Shutters hotel did a great deal
to persuade me that they believed me. If they thought I was lying to them or if
they thought I was trying to spy on them, they wouldn’t have made any
effort to protect me. The room overlooked the beach, which provided diversion.
For the next few days, I stayed in this pleasant room, but the hours couldn’t
pass fast enough. One minute I would call myself crazy, the next a hero for
trying to figure out a way to help Iran. I tried to distract myself by watching
TV or spending time on the beach, occasionally ordering room service. But the
waiting was nerve-racking. Whenever my anxiety rose to the point where I
thought I couldn’t take it, I reached into the left-side pocket inside my
jacket where I kept Roya’s letter wrapped around Naser’s picture. Without
unfolding it, I pressed it to my heart and reminded myself of why I was there.
Finally, four days later, Madigan called and directed me to a
Holiday Inn a few blocks away. I could have walked there, but I chose a cab
instead, irritating the driver who had waited over an hour for the fare just to
drive a few hundred yards. He started complaining, so I had him drive a
circuitous route just in case someone was following me and then gave him a
generous tip. Even that didn’t seem to appease him.
I climbed the stairs to room 303 as instructed, and Mancini and
Madigan greeted me. Another agent sat at a table by the window. He stood up and
said, “Glad to meet you, Reza. I’m Patrick Barry.” He had a handshake that
reminded me of Agha Joon’s, who would always shake with both hands with a tap
or two on the shaker’s hand to give reassurance. In my mind, I repeated words
from my grandfather to bolster my confidence: “Life is like a river. At
times, we must flow with its current and enjoy the journey. But when it reaches
a fall, if you don’t fight against its current, you will fall, too. God has
given us strength and his blessing to go through the rough times and keep our
faith alive, Reza.”
Agent Barry didn’t give me his title, but it was clear he was in
charge. We talked for a half hour, rehashing much of what I’d already covered
with the other two agents. I assumed he was taping the conversation. We
discussed
the documents I’d brought with me to the previous meeting and he
told me that a translation confirmed that these documents were real. Barry then
mentioned the deputy commander of the Guards, a man named Reza Movahedi.
“We’re a little concerned about how current these documents are,” he
said. “We’ve been told that there’s a new man in that position.”
“Oh, no. I assure you that Movahedi still has that job,” I said,
wondering who was passing them bad information. It wouldn’t have surprised me
if the Guards had sent agents to the U.S. specifically to feed the Americans
with the wrong details.
At that point, a door opened and another man entered from the
adjoining suite. He was much better dressed than the other FBI agents were. I
guessed his age to be early forties.
“This is Mr. Clark,” Agent Mancini said, coming to his feet. I stood
at the same time, not sure what was going on and measuring my five-eight height
against his six-two or so. Clark seemed to fill the room.
“Steve Clark,” the man said, smiling and holding out his hand.
“United States Central Intelligence Agency. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr.
Kahlili. Did I say your name right?”
“Yes,” I said. He had a firm handshake and penetrating eyes. “It’s a
pleasure to meet you as well.”
That was the last meeting I would have with FBI Agents Madigan,
Mancini, and Barry. Clark’s arrival now aligned me with the CIA.
I liked Agent Clark from the beginning. He had a relaxed manner
about him, and he took my proposal seriously. We talked that first day for a
couple of hours after the FBI agents left, but the conversation was more
general than I expected. We reviewed the information I’d given the FBI, and he
asked several more questions about the structure of the Guards and its
leadership. He was much better informed about what was going on in Iran than
the FBI agents had been. He asked if he could keep the documents I’d brought
from Iran, and I agreed. Feeling a connection to him, I showed him Naser’s
picture and Roya’s letter, and I told him her story. I told him how they
tortured and killed young girls, in God’s name, and before their execution they
raped them because they believed that if a girl dies a virgin, she will go to
heaven, and they wanted to deny them this reward. I explained how Asadollah
Lajevardi, the head of the Iran Prisons Organization, created this atmosphere
of terror to keep the prisoners
frightened and submissive. Iranians knew him as the “Butcher of
Evin,” not only because of the thousands he killed, but for his practice of
draining the blood of prisoners about to be executed to use the plasma for
soldiers injured in the war with Iraq. He left his victims with just enough
blood so they were conscious as they faced the firing squad.
I met with Agent Clark, whom I quickly began to call Steve, several
times over the next few days. Each time, we took extreme measures to ensure
that no one was tailing me. I would take two cabs to our designated meeting
area, which changed every time, and then I would walk the last couple of
blocks.
Steve listened sympathetically when I became emotional. He accepted
my words without overreacting. I was relieved to be able to talk freely at last
as I discussed the Guards and the nature of my position in the organization. My
hopes grew with every meeting.
And then Steve said something that completely shocked me.
“Reza, I am touched by your painful story and I can feel your
sincerity in wanting to help your country.” Steve paused, looking me in the
eyes. “But you could help the most if you went back working for us.”
I froze in my chair and could not come up with any response. Even
though I had initiated this process, I never thought that the CIA would ask me
to be a spy on their behalf.
“I know how hard it must have been on you to take the huge risk of
coming here and contacting us. Believe me, we are grateful for that. But we
need your help if we are going to help your country. You will be our eyes and
ears in Iran.”
I hadn’t come here with the intention of becoming a spy. I thought I
would pass some information to the Americans and that they would take over from
there. But now I realized how little they knew about what was going on in my
country. They needed so much more than I’d brought with me, and if they didn’t
get it from me, they might not get accurate information from anyone.
“I will do it,” I said hesitantly.
“That’s exactly what I wanted to hear,” Steve said, rising from his
chair and patting me on the shoulder. “By the way, we’ve assigned you a code
name. From now on, we’ll be calling you Wally.”
TRICKS OF THE TRADE
I repeated the name to myself.
Even though I knew from the moment I boarded the plane to America
that my life was going to change forever, hearing this code name drove home the
point that it would truly never be the same again. The idea that I now had a
CIA code name brought all kinds of words to mind: traitor, secrets,
deception, suspicion, lies. And these words weighed heavily on me. My
parents didn’t raise me to be a traitor and a liar. But they did raise me to
believe in a higher good and to understand that destroying evil sometimes required
us to do things we never would have imagined for ourselves.
My relationship with Steve grew into a comfortable daily exchange
between two businessmen—whose business happened to be espionage. Steve seemed
steady, direct, and honest. He was a well-grounded man, quick on the uptake.
When I was with him, I felt comfortable and what we did felt natural. I didn’t
feel doubts and fears about the turn my life had taken when we were working
together.
Hotel meetings turned out to have too many logistical complications,
so Steve told me that we would continue our sessions at a safe house deep in
the mountains above Malibu. I had to take a bus or cab to a predetermined
location, walk a couple of extra blocks, and meet up with Steve. From there, we
would continue to the safe house together.
The night before our first meeting at this new place, I examined all
of the bus routes I was to travel. I memorized the information Steve provided
about shopping centers along the way, which stores had back doors, which had
big reflective windows, and where the restaurants were. All of this would help
me if I needed to avoid having someone follow me. As it turned out, I would put
this to use immediately.
At the first bus stop on the way to the meeting, I lined up with
other passengers, checked the number on the bus against a printed schedule,
looked around for street signs, and checked a map against the schedule. I
looked very much the tourist. Just before I got on the bus, I asked the driver
about various bus routes, hanging back to allow the other passengers
to board.
One man wearing a baseball cap pulled low lingered behind me. He had
a rolled-up newspaper in one hand and he kept the other hand in his pocket. He
definitely set off my radar.
“Will this bus take me to Fox Hills?” I asked the driver, thinking
quickly.
“Fox Hills?” the driver asked as though my question made no sense.
“You’re on the wrong side of the street, young man. Take the bus on the other
side.”
“Thank you.”
I casually crossed the street and caught another bus going in the opposite
direction. The man with the baseball cap followed me. This sent a surge of
adrenaline through my body as I struggled not to look at him. In my early
meetings with Steve, he taught me some “spy tricks,” including how to lose a
tail without being obvious. I did my best to remember his lessons now. I got
off the bus at the Fox Hills Mall and wandered the stores, constantly checking
reflections in the windows for the man in the cap. Heart pounding, I entered a
bookstore. I picked up a magazine and stood reading it for a while as Baseball
Cap wandered up and down the book aisles. After some time passed, I put the
magazine back in the rack and left the bookstore.
I took several other evasive measures, but after each one, I soon
spotted Baseball Cap again. My mind raced with the implications. I had to call
Steve. I found a phone booth in the mall and dialed his number, but there was
no answer.
I hung up, checked the number, and dialed again. Baseball Cap was
across the mall talking to an old woman. He seemed to be asking for directions,
as the woman pointed north and then west. Baseball Cap nodded and the phone
kept ringing.
Dammit, Steve, pick up.
Frustrated, I was about to put the handset down when Steve finally
came on the line.
“Steve, it’s Wally. I’m being followed.”
“Followed?”
“There is this guy who followed me from the bus stop to the Fox
Hills Mall.”
“Okay, Wally, stay calm. Just go back to your hotel.”
“But what if he follows me there?”
“Do what I have taught you and try to lose him. I will call you in a
few days to set up another meeting.”
I started to ask another question, but Steve had already hung up.
This made me feel very alone and very vulnerable. Maybe I should just abort
the whole enterprise and fly back home. If spy work was this dangerous in
America, how much more dangerous would it be when I returned to Tehran?
When I went outside of the mall, I found Baseball Cap at the bus
stop, probably waiting for me to make my next move. Steve’s suggestion to go
back to the hotel was not going to work, so I went back into the mall and
slipped into and out of several stores, ultimately trying on random outfits in
a May Company dressing room for twenty minutes. When I finally came out,
Baseball Cap was gone. It appeared that the evasive methods Steve taught me
paid off.
Relieved and satisfied, I decided that instead of going back to my
hotel, I’d go out to Tarzana, where my aunt Giti lived. What better way to
throw off my pursuers than to act as normal as possible?
Aunt Giti lived in a neighborhood made up mostly of expatriate
Iranians. Some had been around as long as she had and many more fled Iran when
Khomeini came to power. I took a cab to the San Fernando Valley and asked the
driver to drop me off a couple blocks from my aunt’s home so I could walk the
rest of the way and keep my eyes open for anyone following me.
“Bia tu, azizam,” Aunt Giti exclaimed
when she saw me at the door. “Come in, my dear.” Hearing her speak Farsi with
so much affection in her voice brought me an ache of longing, a reminder of the
easy days of my earlier time in California when I didn’t have to lie and I didn’t
have to look over my shoulder. This made me homesick for the home I once had,
and I took my aunt to a nearby Persian restaurant on Ventura Boulevard, a
popular gathering place for the local Iranians. I didn’t care if anyone
followed us there. I was just another Iranian visitor on family business. This
was the closest I had felt to normal in days.
As we ate, Aunt Giti handed me a couple of brochures her doctor had
given her explaining the progression of Parkinson’s disease. “Reza, I dread
what this insidious disease is going to do to me, but I’ve come to accept it.
It’s hard saying good-bye to all I have here. But I will be happy and safe if I
move to an assisted-living home.”
I wasn’t nearly as convinced as she was. Though one of the purposes
I’d had in coming to America was setting my aunt up in a new residence, I
wondered if this was really best for her. “But, Khaleh Giti, all of your family
members are in Iran. You should be among them. We’ll take care of you. I will
take care of you myself. …”
She interrupted me by shaking her head. “Don’t, Reza. Don’t make it
harder for me. You know I would never return to Iran. It’s not the same there
anymore.” She caught herself before the conversation turned more intense,
smiled, and continued. “I wish your father were alive so he could see what a
fine young man you’ve become.”
I knew then that her decision to move into a care home was final and
that discussing other options would be heartbreaking for both of us. I did what
I could to make this easier for her, taking several days to arrange her move
and put her house on the market.
When I dropped Aunt Giti at the assisted-living facility, she handed
me a picture of her and my father on the Golden Gate Bridge. “This is the first
summer your father was here. When he came to America, he told me he wanted to
see this bridge more than anything else.” She managed a difficult smile.
Smiling was much tougher for her now because of her illness. “After he saw that
magnificent bridge, he told me he wanted to be an engineer. And that’s what he
became. He was that kind of a man. He dreamed of something and he pursued it.”
She closed her eyes for a long moment before continuing. “After he
moved back to Iran and married your mother, and, of course, you were born, he
continued writing me letters and talking about you, Reza. He told me he had big
dreams for you. He loved you so much.” At this point, she lost any semblance of
control. She burst into tears and hugged me closely. “I am glad you came here,
Reza. I am so proud that you cared so much that you left your wife to help your
sick auntie. Your father was right—you are a great young man.” I held her for a
long time while she cried. Then I helped her settle into her new home and
promised I would visit her again before I returned to Iran. As I left her that
day, I couldn’t help but feel a certain measure of shame. Yes, I’d come to her
aid at a critical time in her life, but I’d used her as a smokescreen for my
real activities in the U.S. Would I have been such a “great young man” for her
if her needs didn’t match so seamlessly with my larger agenda?
It took Steve the better part of a week before he set up another
meeting. On my way to our rendezvous, I noticed the same man again, wearing a
different outfit and a different hat. I changed a few buses and managed to lose
him with my very last transfer. This left me with a certain sense of
accomplishment, but a far stronger sense of foreboding. I suspected that the
Guards already knew of my contacts with the CIA. If that was true, my family
was doomed.
But when I met Steve at the rendezvous point in his car, he was
beaming. “Congratulations! You used your tactics to shake a very skilled
operative.”
“Excuse me?”
“I assigned one of our people to tail you to see if you could spot
him and shake him without panicking. You acted like a pro. You’re learning your
lessons well, Wally. Just keep it up and never let your guard down. You’ll stay
alive longer.”
I didn’t really need that reminder.
After a ten-minute drive through Pacific Palisades, we climbed up
Las Flores Canyon to Piuma Road and the safe house. It was one of the most
beautiful drives I’d ever made. Eucalyptus trees lined either side of the one-
lane road that rose rapidly toward the top of the mountain. At the end of a
driveway that approached from the rear of the house, a panorama opened up
revealing a sparkling Pacific Ocean with the Channel Islands to the north all
the way to Catalina Island and the Palos Verdes Peninsula to the south. We
exited the car and approached a small wooden A-frame house whose front was all
glass.
The interior furnishings were minimal, but the spectacular view was
so diverting, I temporarily forgot why I was there. Several places in my
country were this beautiful, and thinking of them now fortified my resolve. I
wanted Iran to be beautiful for everyone.
Steve sat me down and we got to work, my appreciation of the setting
soon forgotten. He took copious notes as we talked about the Guards: about how
the regime formed them to protect the country and the revolution and to
neutralize the regular army—and its many sympathizers—that had operated under
the shah, about their training, the size of their forces, and their armaments.
“I knew several Guards members who traveled back and forth to
Lebanon through Syria,” I told him. “They complained about the cowardice of the
Shia Muslim militias in Lebanon fighting the Israeli occupation.
They weren’t satisfied with the Israeli death toll.”
“What’s the Guards’ involvement in Lebanon?” Steve asked.
“They introduced training, arms, money, and, most important, the
idea of martyrdom.”
Steve sat forward. “Tell me more about that.”
“Muslim youth in the Middle East are being brainwashed by the mullahs
to think that sacrificing their lives for Islam is the greatest glory. Those
who choose martyrdom are promised the highest place in heaven next to Prophet
Mohammad and the great Imams.”
Steve said the CIA was concerned that Khomeini was extending his
tendrils of control into surrounding nations. I informed him that Khomeini had
already accomplished that goal. The Guards had established headquarters in both
Syria and Lebanon, where they conducted the command and control of various
radical groups, encouraging new recruits to carry out terrorist activities in
order to achieve the rewards of martyrdom. Even where Khomeini didn’t control
governments, he reigned in the hearts and minds of frustrated zealots who
wanted to regain the past glories of Islam by force. Khomeini wasn’t merely the
Supreme Leader of one nation; he was proclaiming himself the anointed head of
the One True Religion who took orders directly from God.
“And anyone who dares to oppose Khomeini or the ruling clerics is
defined as mohareb, those waging war against God. The Revolutionary
Courts deal with them. These men believe that torturing the opposition to
obtain a confession is proper. If a prisoner dies during torture this is fair
and just, and comes under the auspices of Islamic law. Virgin girls have been
raped prior to their execution so they would not go to heaven. Armed
demonstrators are killed on the spot. There are no exceptions, not even for the
wounded. Thousands of mohareb have been summarily executed without
giving them a chance to defend themselves.”
Steve shook his head and then looked at me with an odd expression.
I guessed what he was thinking. “These are the people who will deal
with me if I am caught,” I said.
He smiled wryly.
I went on to explain how Syrian diplomatic facilities and channels
were at the disposal of the Guards. On Khomeini’s orders, plane after plane
delivered arms and personnel to Syria to promote a new Islamic state. Often
the Guards’ convoys received Syrian diplomatic license plates so
they could operate in Lebanon without interference. At other times, the Guards
were chauffeured in Syrian diplomatic cars. This effort created Hezbollah,
which grew with the full financial backing of Iran, quickly becoming a major
force in Lebanon.
Steve continued to pepper me with questions, taking me in many
different directions. A conversation about where I worked wandered into
questions about my friends and family, about my education at USC, and back to
Iran and the Revolutionary Guards. This led to a discussion about who I worked
with, and I finally mentioned a difficult subject for me: Kazem. I told Steve
about the nature of our relationship and about why we continued to be friends,
though things were not the same between us as they had once been.
“You know, Steve, I don’t know if I can trust him anymore. I suspect
he was involved in Naser’s arrest. I wanted to leave the Guards after what
happened to Naser and stay away from Kazem. I decided to stay on because I
needed him to help me with my mission. He has a lot of contacts in the Guards
and he can make things happen.”
I told Steve about our childhood. He smiled as I recounted the
mischief we’d gotten into. But as we continued to talk, he began to understand
how friendship took on a different cast in Iran when ideologies conflicted. In
America, two friends could hold opposing political views and it would amount to
no more than perhaps some heated arguments. In Iran, it could result in the
arrest and execution of a friend—with his brother and sister thrown in for good
measure.
Sensing my sadness in relating these stories, Steve suggested we
stop for the day. I appreciated this. I was tired and I needed to refresh
myself. We planned another meeting for the next day. That night in my hotel
room, I felt relieved. Talking to Steve about Kazem had removed a heavy burden
from my shoulders. Trust in another man was something I hadn’t experienced in a
while.
The interviews with Steve went on for four to six hours each time we
met over the course of a month or so. I hadn’t intended to stay in America this
long, and I had to lie repeatedly to both Somaya and Kazem about the
“complications with Aunt Giti’s arrangements” that were keeping me here.
On our last day together, Steve asked me about the hostage crisis at
the U.S. embassy.
“Here’s what we know,” he said, pulling out a folder and beginning
to read from a report.
I quickly interrupted him. “No, that’s wrong.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I was there.”
“You were there?”
“Yes.”
“But you were a member of the Guards then.”
“Of course.”
He paused to absorb this. “So this wasn’t some grassroots student
uprising?”
“Not really. I did not know it then, but an order had come down from
Mousavi Khoeiniha, a radical clergy member. The Islamic students’ body
developed a plan for the takeover and Khoeiniha presented it to Ayatollah
Khomeini for his approval.”
Steve’s mouth dropped open. “I thought Khomeini didn’t know anything
about it. I thought he was just supportive after the fact.”
I shook my head. “Kazem told me afterward that once the plan was
approved by Khomeini, the students, who called themselves Daneshjooyane
Musalmane Peyro Khate Imam, Islamic Student Followers of Imam’s Line,
arranged for the demonstration. Guards and intel members posed as students
among them.”
“I can’t believe this!”
“The plan was to demonstrate against the U.S. for allowing the shah
to stay in America. The protesters demanded the shah’s return to Iran for
trial. But in truth, Khomeini’s clerics had already assigned individuals to
facilitate the takeover. They had even chosen the name Den of Spies beforehand,
so that after the takeover, they could feed that to the press and claim the
embassy was the center of spy activities against the clerical regime.”
Steve looked down at his folder. “So our best intelligence is
wrong.”
“They laugh at you and call you cowboys, Steve. They watch your news
shows and laugh.”
“Amazing,” said Steve, scribbling notes. “What was their ultimate
goal for this action?”
“Khomeini hated America. He wanted to sever ties with the U.S. while
at the same time making you look weak in the eyes of the world. This would
strengthen the position of the radicals within Iran and punish
President Carter for allowing the shah to stay in the U.S. They held the
hostages long enough to ensure that Carter lost the election. In doing this,
Khomeini went beyond unseating the king of Iran. He toppled the president of a
superpower. Could there be any greater proof that Khomeini is God’s instrument
on earth?”
Steve understood the point I was making. “They really believe that
stuff, don’t they?”
“They really do.”
We then had a long discussion about the three branches of the armed
forces formed after the revolution in Iran—the Revolutionary Guards, the
Komiteh, and the Basij. The Palestinian Liberation Organization had trained
some of the Guards’ commanders and these commanders were active in guerrilla
warfare in Lebanon before the revolution. Steve wrote furiously as I related
the details of the Guards’ organization. I even sketched out an organizational
chart of the various officers and their responsibilities. Then I talked about
the Komiteh, the police force formed by the mullahs whose job it was to provide
security and ensure strict adherence to proper Islamic behavior. And I told him
about the Basij, or People’s Army, the volunteer paramilitary force consisting
primarily of teenage reprobates deployed throughout the main cities to confront
any uprisings among the population. The regime recruited most of the Basijis
from very poor families in small towns and villages. They taught them the
virtues of martyrdom, gave them minimal training, and handed them machine guns
to intimidate people in the cities. Steve knew very little about either of
these organizations.
I told him about an incident with the Basijis that involved a
prominent doctor and his family from my neighborhood. The Basijis spread
throughout the city, especially at night, setting up checkpoints and searching
cars for guns or members of the Mujahedin. At the same time, they, too,
demanded adherence to proper Islamic behavior. For example, a man and a woman
had to be married if they were in a car together unless they were family
members. Two Basijis would routinely stop cars at random to interrogate the
occupants, while two others would take a position nearby behind trees.
This particular doctor had taken his wife and two teenage daughters
out to dinner when the Basijis stopped them on their way home. The teenaged
militiamen were rude and insulting, and they scared the doctor’s wife and
girls. The doctor objected and he slapped one of the offenders in an
effort to defend himself and his family. After all, these people interrogating
them were young teenagers who should have been showing respect to this decent
man. When the doctor slapped the Basiji, the others behind the trees opened
fire, killing the man while his loved ones watched.
As I told this story, the outrage I felt when I first heard about it
returned. When I finished, Steve massaged his writing hand and said, “Wally,
we’ve covered a lot. Let’s take a break and have some lunch. We should get away
from this for a while.”
Steve was right. I hadn’t realized how drained I was feeling, how
much emotional energy I was expending, until we took some time away. We sat on
the balcony and ate in the warm afternoon breeze. Relaxing at last, I thought
of Somaya and about how much I missed her and looked forward to seeing her
again.
“You’re smiling, Wally. Why’s that—not that it’s not a good thing.”
It was comforting not having to hide what I really thought. “I was
thinking about my wife. I wish she were here now. She loves nature and warm
weather.”
That afternoon, Steve and I talked about our families. We discussed
the difficulties of lying to our loved ones. Steve’s wife thought he was a
contracts supervisor in charge of telemetry systems acquisition for the FAA.
This provided him with the cover to travel and be away from home for long
periods. He made sure he’d chosen an occupation that was too technical to
discuss with anyone who knew him well.
I told Steve that I thought Somaya was the most beautiful woman on
earth. He smiled while I told him how smart and caring she was and when I
called her “the prettiest angel I’d ever seen.”
“Then you believe in angels too?” he said with a laugh.
The thought sent pangs to my heart. While I did believe in angels,
I’d come to believe in devils as well. I’d seen them at Evin Prison.
“Let’s go back to work,” I said. “I have a lot more to tell you.”
Back in the living room, Steve pulled out his notebook and said that
we should wrap up soon. He asked me to focus on areas I thought were most
valuable to him. Torrents of stories and facts rushed through my mind. There
was so much to say. We discussed the Foundation for the Deprived, which had
seized the assets of people who worked for the shah’s regime. They were
responsible for the thousands who fled the country in fear of
reprisal. This included minorities such as the Jews and the Baha’is.
Since the mullahs don’t recognize Baha’i as an official religion, they executed
and imprisoned hundreds of practitioners and prevented thousands of others from
getting jobs, education, and any opportunity. The Foundation for the Deprived
seized factories, homes, money in banks, and personal belongings.
“Do your people know what they do with this money?” I asked Steve.
He shrugged.
“They fund terrorist groups through charitable organizations. The
Revolutionary Guards supervise all of the transactions.”
“Jesus, Wally, this is great stuff. Please go on.”
“I learned through Kazem and my commander, Rahim, that the Chinese
are providing military training for Guards members on a base in China and that
the Soviets are setting up the intelligence apparatus and security
infrastructure for the mullahs. They are responsible for introducing torture,
polygraph tests, and truth serum injections at Evin Prison. And this is not
just for high-ranking enemies of the state. This is where they take all
political opponents, from journalists to teenage girls.”
“Really.”
“They don’t just punish crimes, Steve. They punish thoughts. Torture
and truth serum are ways to find out what you really believe in your heart.”
“It sounds like the Inquisition in Europe.”
“Except much more sophisticated and systematic.”
“This direct contact between the Soviets and the Guards—did you see
this or just hear about it?”
“I witnessed the Soviets’ political attachés and businessmen in
high-level contacts with the Iranian government while visiting several
ministries with Kazem.”
Steve put his notebook on the coffee table, took a sip of water,
straightened his back, and looked at me. “Wally, you have no idea how helpful
all this information is to us. Believe me, your total candor is very much
appreciated.”
It was rewarding to know that what I was telling him was having such
an impact on him. I knew that I had information the CIA could use, but I didn’t
realize until Steve started debriefing me how uninformed the U.S. was about the
ayatollah’s activities in the Middle East. The thought made me realize how
valuable my contribution would be—and how savagely the
Guards would punish me if they ever caught me. That morning, on the
way to the safe house, I thought I’d noticed another tail.
“Hey, Steve, did you assign someone to follow me today?”
He froze. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, the reason I was late was that I thought I was being
followed.”
Steve said nothing, only staring. This made me very uncomfortable
and I started talking quickly to cover my nervousness.
“At first I thought I was mistaken, but after taking a few
diversions, I noticed the tail was still there. It took me an hour to lose
him.”
At that moment, Steve turned into someone else, confirming for me
that whoever followed me that morning worked for an organization other than the
CIA. His jaw hardened and his voice became stern. “I want you to be completely
aware of the consequences if things go wrong, Wally. The United States
government will deny any relationship with you. There won’t be a navy fleet
coming to your rescue. I’m sorry to be so blunt, but it’s absolutely necessary.
Do I make myself clear?”
It took me a moment to answer. Maybe Steve had two people inside him
also: the Steve who liked me and the Steve who would sacrifice my family and me
for his cause.
“I understand.”
Steve’s sudden transition jarred me. As did the news that this was
going to be our last meeting of this sort. He told me that my training would
continue in London and that I needed to take a lie-detector test. I was
surprised that he hadn’t asked me to do this earlier, but I guess it truly
mattered to the CIA only now that they were about to share some of their spying
secrets with me.
He handed me a slip of paper with information about my new contact.
I stared at it and wondered if Steve’s empathy had just been keen professional
interest. After all, training the Iranian patsy who would deliver dangerous
secrets to his department would garner him accolades from his colleagues and
boost his career. His safe, secure American career.
I swallowed my rising resentment and reminded myself of what I had
already accomplished by reporting the madness to someone who could do something
with the information. I had told him things I had never told anyone. I had
trusted him, utterly. And at that moment, in spite of his shift in attitude, I
was certain he trusted me.
My days in California were coming to a close. But my training was
not. Next I would go to England, where I would truly learn how to be a spy.
TRAINING FOR ESPIONAGE
I didn’t feel like a hero. I felt like a traitor and, worse, a bad
husband.
Then Steve entered—the “friendly” Steve—smiling broadly as he
informed me I had passed with flying colors. This time, I couldn’t muster
enthusiasm for his pride in me. In the time that had passed since our sobering
conversation, I couldn’t stop thinking about the look on his face when I said I
thought I’d been followed. The look said that if someone had been following me,
the CIA knew nothing about it.
“Let’s talk about salary,” he said jovially, clearly not on the same
train of thought as I had been.
I was surprised at the mention of money. We’d never discussed it
before. I knew spies received compensation, but that had never been my motive,
so I didn’t think to ask about it. Steve offered me $2,500 a month. This was
probably the bare minimum by American standards, but it was a good amount with
the exchange rate in Iran. Without even considering negotiating, I accepted.
Steve offered a few options regarding getting the money to me. The
first was a cash delivery, which I rejected because it would be difficult to
explain my having so much cash if someone found me with it. Another option was
to set up an account in another country, where one of the CIA’s shell companies
would deposit the money every month. That worked for me. He offered to have
proof of deposit sent to me anywhere I wanted, but I declined. I wanted to
reassert our relationship of trust. The CIA would have
to trust that I would deliver important information to them, and I
would have to trust that they would make deposits for me. We agreed to set up
the account in London; I would need to memorize the details.
Once we finished this conversation, Steve stood. “Good luck, Wally,”
he said, taking my hand in a firm grip.
“Thanks,” I said, less steadily than I would have liked. With no
further words, I left for my hotel.
I never saw or heard from Steve again.
Once I packed my bags, I called the FBI agents I had originally
contacted to say good-bye. My journey into this new life had started with a
random connection to these men. Now, for good or bad, I was about to embark on
the path I first stepped onto with them. The two agents put me on the
speakerphone and both were gracious. Agent Mancini said he truly hoped to see
me back in the States soon and wished that God would bless me in my endeavors.
Before I left, I went to see Aunt Giti to say good-bye. Once again,
she told me what a good man I’d become, and once again this left me feeling
like something of a fraud. I hugged her tight before I left. This would be the
last time I’d ever see her. She died several years later and I never got the
opportunity to visit her again.
I spent the sleepless twelve-hour British Airways trip to England
practicing my new job in my head and thinking about what I would have to do.
From this point on, I would be leading a double life. Half of me would continue
to be a loving, devoted husband and a loyal member of the Revolutionary Guards.
The other half of me would be reporting every salient fact about the Guards and
would be putting everyone I loved in mortal danger. I wasn’t sure I would ever
be able to reconcile these two selves. I prayed for guidance and hoped my
actions would have some meaning.
London was typically dreary when I arrived—overcast, hazy, and gray.
It fit my mood. I checked into the Park Inn by Hyde Park as the CIA had
instructed me. The hotel sits on the northern edge of Hyde Park, with easy
access to the Tube, London’s subway, and within walking distance of most of the
tourist spots. It’s close to the Marble Arch, which stands on the site of the
Tyburn gallows, where grisly executions—many of people who opposed the
government—took place centuries ago. The irony of this was not lost on
me.
I passed by Marble Arch nearly every time I went out. I learned that
the executions gave rise to a couple of familiar English phrases. The term “one
for the road” originated here because the executioners allowed a condemned man
to have one last drink at any alehouse en route to the Tyburn gallows. The same
experience led to the phrase “on the wagon” because the guards minding the
prisoner had to remain on the wagon that carted the prisoner while he had his
last drink, and they were not allowed to imbibe while they were on the job.
When I settled in at my hotel, I called Somaya’s parents. I told
them that since my connection was through London, I decided to stay for a week
to meet with some old friends and to pay them a visit. I found some small
comfort in talking to them about Somaya. Thinking about my wife always made me
smile, though I could no longer think of her without wondering about the future
I’d created for us and of the lies I would be living. Her parents asked me
about the friends I was seeing—yet another lie I hadn’t prepared in advance—and
insisted that I stay with them. They were quite upset when I politely declined,
but I held steadfast. I couldn’t allow them to become suspicious of my comings
and goings.
I didn’t do a particularly good job of mollifying them with my
excuses. This led me to wonder yet again how equipped I was for a life of
espionage. If I couldn’t even come up with convincing lies to tell my wife’s
parents, how would I function as a professional liar under the watch of the
Revolutionary Guards, who searched for spies in every turn of phrase?
After this, I went to a public phone booth and called my new
contact. A few hours later, a soft-spoken woman came to my hotel room,
introducing herself as Carol. She was a smallish American dressed in a brown
outfit with knee-high boots. I assumed she dressed this way to blend in with
high- end shoppers on Park Avenue or Oxford Street. I liked Carol right away.
She was calm and reserved, and I found her presence reassuring. This feeling
increased dramatically when she spoke to me in Farsi, which surprised and
warmed me.
“You know, Wally, I lived in Iran for a long while with my parents
when I was younger,” she said when she noticed my reaction. “My father was a
military attaché.”
This meant a great deal to me. It meant that she would have a good
picture in her mind of life in Iran before the revolution and that she would
sympathize with what we had lost.
“I have lots of good memories of Iran,” she continued. “Iranians are
very hospitable. I made some good friends. I am grateful for the time I spent
in your country.” She talked about places she visited, making me feel as though
I were having a conversation with an old friend and catching up on what we had
done while we were apart. Of course, this was only an illusion. Carol had my
complete dossier and knew everything there was to know about me and why I was
there.
Although she spoke Farsi, we talked mostly in English. We’d been
together for more than an hour when her smile dropped and she locked onto my
eyes.
“Wally, you don’t have to do this. You can quit right now and it
will be okay.”
Her saying this surprised me. Since my last meeting with Steve, I
had felt as though there was no turning back. But what Carol was saying was
true. If I wanted to walk away, I could do so without consequences—assuming, of
course, that the Guards were not already aware of my activities. The fact that
I could do so didn’t matter, though.
“I’m in this, Carol. I need to do this. My decision is firm and
final.”
Carol’s expression softened. “I had a feeling you were going to say
that.”
We went over the training schedule and Carol stressed the importance
of my taking every precaution to keep my destinations secret and secure. Losing
someone in a crowd was a little easier in London than it was in LA, but I would
still have to be cautious.
My in-laws lived in the Mayfair district, which was convenient since
the safe house was in the same area. Several means were available for me to get
there: the ubiquitous black cabs, the Tube, or even a walk across Hyde Park or
down Park Avenue. I usually walked because it allowed me to take in the
surroundings, distinctive for their combination of new and old architecture. If
I suspected that someone was following me, I altered my route slightly and
dropped in for a visit with my in-laws. They were always delighted to see me,
although it also meant that I would have to endure their further pleas for me
to stay with them and provide my fumbling reasons why I couldn’t do this. The
safe house was down a narrow alley filled with several small shops that had attached
flats. It was easy enough to duck into one of the shops to obscure my
destination.
Carol had asked me to meet with her in a café in the Mayfair
district. This made me nervous in a completely unanticipated way. Rather than
worrying
that an agent of the Guards would see me, I was more concerned that
my inlaws might find me with Carol. How would I explain being with another
woman? Although she was at least ten years older than me, she would still raise
Somaya’s parents’ eyebrows.
We went from the café to the safe house immediately. I didn’t ask
her why we went to the café in the first place because I felt I needed to trust
her. When we got to the house, she said, “Are you ready for your first training
session?”
“I’m a little nervous, but I’ll be fine,” I replied, feeling more
than a little apprehensive. But in a sense I was excited as much as I was
nervous. I thought of James Bond movies and I had to smile thinking of myself
filling the role of Sean Connery or Roger Moore. It was the first moment in a
long time when this life didn’t seem like a burden to me.
There were two American men waiting for us in the safe house. David
was a young man who was to teach me how to write messages to Carol from home.
Joe was a man in his midforties who would teach me how to receive code messages
from the CIA. I worked half a day with each of them. These sessions turned out
to be nothing like the James Bond movies and I certainly did not get a magic
pen or a multitasking watch.
“You are getting this fast,” David said after my first session with
him. I found it easier to figure out how to send messages than to learn how to
receive them.
The classes reminded me of being back in school. In the ensuing days
my instructors presented me with a lesson and then gave me a test to see how
well I absorbed what they taught. Although at first it seemed a little hard and
confusing, I caught on quickly, and I discovered that I had a natural affinity
for deciphering code. In all, the training lasted less than a week, filling me
with new skills—and the new anxieties that came with having these skills.
For the final exam that I “had to pass,” I received the coded
message “Welcome to the CIA, Wally. Carol will be your contact from here on out
and she will take good care of you.” When I deciphered this, I knew I’d
mastered this skill with Joe. David then challenged me to respond, using the
methods he’d taught me.
“I am glad I have joined the CIA and I am looking forward to working
with the agency to help free my country from the tyrants,” I coded back. David
deciphered this and then shook my hand.
“You are a natural,” he said as he congratulated me. “Working with
you was a pleasure.” He gave me a package containing all of the documents I
needed for my communications and I said good-bye to the two trainers.
Carol walked me to the door and put a hand on my shoulder.
“Be very careful, Wally.”
I nodded. “I will be.”
“Don’t do anything that could bring harm to you or your family.”
I offered her a bittersweet smile. “That’s a little bit of a
challenge in Iran these days.”
“Just remember, Wally, if you need anything, I’ll be here for you.
Just let me know with your letters. I will do my best to guide you with my
messages.”
I went back to the hotel to pack. After being away for nearly a
month and a half, I was headed home. I would be going back a different man than
when I left, quite literally. Once I started packing, a wave of emotion struck
me unexpectedly. I just started sobbing. I sat on the bed next to my suitcase,
wiping the tears from my face. It had been relatively easy to maintain my
resolve during my debriefing and training. But now that I was going back to
Tehran, the force of what I’d agreed to become overwhelmed me. From the moment
I set foot in my country, I would be living outside of the world around me.
Though I would be involved in the lives of people who loved me, I would be, in
many ways, alone.
I lay down on the bed, though I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. To
try to bolster my courage, I thought about Naser about how he witnessed the
devastation laid upon his sister and brother. I thought about Roya and the
degradations she suffered from soulless men. I thought about Khomeini, who
characterized himself as a representative of God, yet was so power hungry and
greedy that he caused the most brutal acts to be committed in his name.
None of it helped. I couldn’t let go of the fact that I’d convinced
myself that my only option was to become a betrayer of my country.
I had agreed to give sensitive secrets to the Americans. And while I
believed that people like Steve and Carol had good intentions, I had no
illusions about America’s foreign policies. Those policies had sometimes caused
pain in the world and especially in the Middle East. Ironically, the CIA, my
new employer, was responsible for orchestrating the coup known as Operation
Ajax in 1953. Funded by the British and U.S. governments,
Operation Ajax removed the democratically elected prime minister of
Iran, Dr. Mohammad Mosaddeq. He was responsible for nationalizing the oil
industry and eliminating the British monopoly on Iran’s oil. The CIA also
helped set up the shah’s SAVAK police, who tortured and executed the
opposition. The SAVAK model for treating prisoners continued at Evin under
Khomeini. Therefore, the very organization I was entrusting with my secrets had
actually contributed to the atrocities I was trying to end. Would they change
course this time and help me help my country?
I believed they would for two reasons. One was that while America’s
history in foreign affairs was hardly spotless, it was the country that had
liberated the world in World War II. I truly believed they could come to the
rescue again. The other was that in the face of all my confusion over my role
and the fate of my country, I knew one thing absolutely: the people of Iran
could never win without America’s help.
None of this helped me to sleep that night. But it did allow me to
hold my head high when I stepped onto the plane the next day.
A SPY RETURNS HOME
It was common knowledge among Iranians that Revolutionary Guards
agents made note of every individual traveling to and from Iran. They
scrutinized every flight coming into and going out of the country as if the
future of the clerical government hinged upon their doing so. I knew I needed
to be extra cautious to stay under the radar and to avoid arousing suspicion.
Fortunately, this was becoming second nature to me, and I boarded without
incident.
Sitting in a window seat, I flashed back on everything I’d
experienced in the past month and a half. From my initial meeting with the FBI
agents to my final test in London, these days had changed me overwhelmingly and
permanently. When in the midst of this the thought of my wife came into my
head, the fact that I’d redefined “normal” on this trip shook me and caused an
ache in my heart. I had half expected to feel relief to be going home when the
plane lifted off, but instead all I felt was anxiety. I was Reza/Wally now. I
was no longer the husband Somaya sent on this trip, no longer the son my mother
believed she’d figured out, and certainly no longer the Guards member my
brothers thought me to be.
My thoughts stayed fixed while the landscape passed beneath me as we
traversed the European mainland, then over the Danube River and the Adriatic
Sea, the scattered mountains of the Taurus range, and the rugged peaks of the
Zagros Mountains of my own country. The captain finally broke my reverie by
announcing that we had entered Iranian skies. The clouds parted as if to
proclaim a new beginning. The hills shone with shades of verdant green and
golden browns—beautiful, God-given scenery. A reflective band of water
shimmered like stained glass, and soon familiar glimpses of life appeared—a
farm, a village, a city.
The seat belt sign flashed and I tried to cajole myself to stay in
the present. I thought about Somaya waiting to pick me up, and this time the
thought filled me with excitement. I’d missed my beautiful wife terribly and
maybe fully realized how much I missed her only now that I was about to see her
again.
But first I needed to go through customs. Once again, anxiety seared
me. Everything could fall apart in this instant.
All of the passengers on the plane received equal scrutiny. Still, I
felt invisible eyes watching me specifically, and the tension built. Remember,
you are a member of the Revolutionary Guards, I repeated continuously as I
headed toward the front of the line.
As I did, I heard all tourist interviews start with the same
question: “Where are you coming from, and what are your plans for your visit?”
The first question for all Iranians was “Where have you been, how long did you
stay, and what have you brought back?”
When it was finally my turn, I answered, “America and England.
Visiting family. I don’t have anything to declare.”
One customs agent stamped my passport while another opened my
luggage. My heart started beating harder as I watched him leaf through the
layers of clothes. What if he found the codebook the CIA had given me? What if
he knew the purpose of those papers in my luggage? My breath nearly caught when
he picked up the picture frame that had the codebook hidden in it. He kept the
frame in his hand while he continued searching. Then he found the military book
I’d purchased on the trip.
“Why do you have this?” he said, his eyes sharp, his voice
accusatory.
Not wanting to sound intimidated, I adopted my own officious tone.
“It is a gift for my commander in Sepah-e-Pasdaran.”
The agent’s expression changed to a faint smile. Or perhaps it was a
smirk. Regardless, he quickly put everything back in my suitcase, saying,
“There you go, Baradar.” He closed my luggage and waved me through.
No one else approached me.
No one pulled me aside and said, “We know where you’ve been, Mr.
Kahlili. We know who you talked to, jasoos. Come with us.”
I felt the tension drain from me as I walked through the terminal to
my waiting wife. Somaya looked even more beautiful than the picture in my mind,
and my heart leapt when I saw her. Even though she’d covered her hair with a
black scarf, her face brought life and strength to me. Was it her
eyes or the way she looked at me? Was it her lips or the way she
smiled at me? It didn’t matter; when I saw her, I knew I was home.
All I wanted at that moment was to run to her, to hug her and pull
her so close that we could become one. But it was not appropriate to hug and
kiss anyone—even your wife—in a public place in Iran anymore. Instead, when I
got close to her, I wrapped my arm around her shoulder and whispered, “I missed
you so much. I am so glad that I have you in my life.” She patted my back and
smiled, saying, “I missed you, too.” Though I desperately wanted to cling to
her, I pulled my arm away and we walked through the exit like two strangers who
had just met.
I managed to maintain a happy face until we got home. But as soon as
we walked into the house, I held Somaya in my arms and a rush of emotion poured
from me. I could not control my tears and I’m sure this worried Somaya
horribly.
“Oh! Reza, are you okay?” she said, holding my face in her soft
hands.
My emotions were still so overwhelming that I couldn’t speak.
She wiped my tears from her face. “I never want you to leave me
again.”
I knew that I needed to get hold of myself. I couldn’t let her think
that anything was wrong beyond my missing her and my having had a long and
difficult trip. “I feel bad for Aunt Giti,” I said at last. “She’s so sick and
I hated leaving her alone in that facility. I wanted her to come back with me,
but she insisted on staying.”
Somaya smiled at me tenderly. But I also thought I caught a glimpse
of something else in her eyes. Something that said she knew I wasn’t telling
her everything. It might have been only my imagination, but I realized at that
moment that I would continue to envision reactions like this from her as long
as I continued lying to her.
We talked for a while about the time we were apart, and I caught her
up on how well her parents were doing in London. Somaya told me how lonely
she’d felt without me and how hard it was for her to deal with this loneliness,
even though I had not been away that long.
“I was almost happy for my grandmother’s back surgery, though I know
that is awful,” she said. “Taking care of her kept me busy and kept my mind
away from how hard it is for me when we are apart.” She smiled at me. “I don’t
want to give you a big head, but I simply can’t be away from you.” She kissed
me and held me tight. Being with her in this moment was the best I’d felt in a
very long time.
That night, Somaya and I made love passionately, surprised when the
first rays of light signaled the coming of a new day. I held her in my arms,
wanting this precious time to last forever.
But it was necessary for me to return to work. I tried to anticipate
the day ahead of me and what my coworkers would say. I considered questions
they might ask and attempted to have ready answers. I was operating on no
sleep, so I knew I wasn’t going to be at my best under any circumstances.
Returning to my Tehran office filled me with emotions that ran from
trepidation and fear to bravado and enthusiasm. On the one hand, I was Wally, a
spy working for the world’s largest intelligence agency. On the other hand, I
was a member of the powerful Revolutionary Guards carrying out my duties as if
my allegiance to Ayatollah Khomeini and his clerical regime were the most
important thing in my life. Duality defined me now.
In my role as Wally, I would gather facts and information that only
an insider with my connections could possibly access. There was an inherent
danger to that. The regime was always on the lookout for spies, and when the
United States took action on the information I would be providing, a red flag
would surely go up among the Revolutionary Guards. How long could this go on
before they traced the leaks to me?
As Reza, a member of the elite Guards, my role was to look and act
the part of a devout Muslim enforcing all the new rules laid down by the
mullahs. A full black beard was a mandatory accessory to the Guards’ uniform,
and I sported one along with every other member of the Guards. The image of a
scowling black-bearded Guards member in uniform mustered fear and garnered
respect. Playing the part of a zealot did not come naturally to me, and there
were times I had to do things I dreaded: cautioning young girls to cover up,
barking at kids for not displaying proper Islamic behavior, taking on the
persona of a fanatic. Back in Iran now, I knew I would have to try to convince
myself that doing these things allowed me to maintain my role—and maintaining
my role allowed me to contribute to the downfall of the organization to which I
so fervently imitated allegiance.
Once I entered the base, I went straight to the office of Rahim, my
commander. He greeted me, shook my hand, and then we kissed on each side of the
face, as is the custom among Iranians.
“How is your aunt, Brother Reza? Were you able to move her into a
home?”
“Brother Rahim, it was your help that made it possible. May Allah
repay you many times over.” I went on to explain the situation with my aunt and
that she was now living in an assisted-living facility.
“So what else did you do, Brother Reza? Where else did you go?”
“I visited some old friends from college. They were very happy to
see me again. I also went to London and visited my in-laws on the way back.”
I did not go into any detail, as I was already getting nervous.
Hoping to cut the conversation short, I presented the gift I’d bought for him
in the U.S. because I knew he would love it. Titled Jane’s Weapon Systems,
it was an impressive volume with color pictures showing virtually all of the
weaponry used anywhere in the world at the time. This was the book that had
distracted the customs agent. Rahim received the gift appreciatively, telling
me that he was always looking for books and magazines on military equipment,
which I knew because Kazem had told me this about Rahim months earlier.
I left to go find Kazem. As soon as I walked into his office, Kazem
jumped up to greet me. With a grand gesture, he announced, “Reza, my dearest
friend, world traveler and mystery man. Back from the United States at last,”
and slapped me on the back.
We hugged and kissed the sides of our faces. As he sat behind his
desk, he added with a wide smile, “You didn’t give away all of our secrets to
the CIA while you were there, did you?”
The words stunned me and it took every bit of my strength not to let
the shock of it show. For a brief moment, I thought my knees would buckle. But,
of course, Kazem was only joking. Had the Guards known of my betrayal, they
would have arrested me the moment my plane landed.
“Of course I did,” I said, recovering quickly. “To go all the way to
America and not have a conversation with the CIA would have been crazy. And
while I was at it, I had dinner at the White House.” We laughed together, but
this failed to temper my uneasiness. We talked for a few more minutes—something
innocuous about work—but all I could think was, This is how it is going to
be from now on. I won’t even be able to have a simple conversation without
being on guard and on edge. I knew I’d created this life for myself. I even
knew that I desired this life because of the benefit it offered my country. But
it was going to take me a while to get used to it.
I prepared my first letter to Carol that night.
|
|
[Letter #—] [Date:———] |
|
Hi, Carol: 1—I am back safe and sound. 2—My family is well. 3—Today was my first day back at work. 4—Rahim and Kazem were happy to see me back. 5—I will look for your messages. |
Wish me luck, Wally |
BROTHERS IN ARMS
We received your first letter.
We are happy you are back safely.
Our team is very excited.
Please confirm receipt of this message.
Please take care and stay safe.
Carol
Receiving the first message from Carol was thrilling, yet it
unnerved me, as it was an unintended but firm reminder of the torture and death
that would await me if the Guards ever discovered what I was doing. While I’d
considered how my decision was going to affect Somaya, being home with her,
feeling her close, and feeling her love made it exponentially clearer what I
was risking with my activity. As with all young couples, we had made plans for
our future together. We wanted a family. Had I compromised that?
“Don’t take any unnecessary risks,” the CIA mandated. “Don’t put
yourself in danger. Be aware of your surroundings. Hide everything.” Routinely
switching on a light late at night might arouse suspicion, so I used a small
covered desk lamp in my study that was not visible from outside the house. Once
in my study, down the hallway from our bedroom, I would quietly close the door
and feel my way over to the table where the radio was.
Sitting alone in the near dark with headphones over my ears, I toyed
with the frequency control, twisting the dial and picking up chatter all along
the band. Back and forth, back and forth, up and down, up and down—just like my
life now. An enormous number of codes crossed over the air. It was an
international cacophony a linguist would love—German, Hebrew, French, Arabic,
and even Farsi. As tense as all of this made me, I had to smile. The spy world
was active and I was now in the middle of it.
The CIA’s messages started Friday promptly at 3:00 a.m. The coded
transmissions were not always easy to understand because they sometimes
overlapped or were obscured by static. After a while, though, the
garbled voices became easier to decipher.
I utilized the method I learned in London. First writing down the
messages carefully, guessing at a couple of them, and then using the codebook,
I deciphered them. Soon I recognized that these transmissions started with
“Hello, Wally,” which I found enormously exciting. It was like passing a club’s
initiation rite. This particular club—the CIA—had quite an exclusive
membership, and I was just starting to wrap my mind around the idea of my being
allowed to enter.
In time, my body clock adjusted in anticipation to my early-hour
foray into the undercover world. Soon, I could awaken without an alarm at two
thirty. Somaya accepted the pretext that I was getting up then because my best
ideas for projects for the Guards came to me at night. She soon grew accustomed
to my nighttime “insomnia.” I even prepared a bit of disinformation regarding
my listening to the radio while wearing headphones. If she ever came down to
see me doing this, I would tell her that the Guards wanted to know what the
English versions of Radio Free Europe and Voice of America were saying, and
that they’d charged me with this mission.
Destroying the evidence of the deciphered messages was imperative,
so I employed a technique they’d taught me in London. I folded the pages on
which I’d written the messages in an accordion shape, taking an inch from one
side and then the other, and placed them one by one in an ashtray. I then lit
these and they would burn down without smoke. To complete the cleanup, I would
flush the ashes down the toilet.
To let Carol know a message had come through successfully, I had to
write an invisible letter the way David taught me in London. I made sure I
followed everything I had learned. In another lifetime, I would have found it
laughable that I was sitting in the near dark writing invisible messages. In my
role as Wally, however, it was anything but funny.
I numbered each letter so Carol would know if she failed to receive
one.
[Letter #———] [Date:———]
Dear Carol:
1—Received your message successfully.
2—In a few days, I will be traveling to the front for a week.
3—I will not be here next Friday. Do not relay a message. Start from
the Friday after.
4—There is a major offensive planned in the Dezful-Shush area.
5—Should anything happen to me, please find a way to help my wife
through my in-laws in London.
Wish me luck,
Wally
It was the duty of every member of the Guards to serve, in either a
military or support role, in the battle against Saddam Hussein’s army. Rahim
sent Kazem, me, and three others to the Dezful-Shush region to fulfill this
duty only a few weeks after my return from my trip out of the country. The war
with Iraq had continued to intensify. Having taken advantage of the turmoil in
Iran during the revolution, Saddam’s army easily conquered and occupied many of
the border areas. The tide was turning, though. More than two hundred thousand
Revolutionary Guards, Basijis, and members of our regular army were cutting
through Iraq’s defensive lines, surrounding them and capturing thousands of
POWs. The Basijis sacrificed themselves by walking through minefields to clear
a path for the Guards or by tying bombs to their bodies and throwing themselves
under Iraqi tanks to blow them up. While it took remarkable dedication to do
something like this, each also believed that God would reward him for being a shahid,
a martyr, like Imam Hussein. Each was convinced that heaven and all of its
promises were awaiting him.
The mullahs used the legend of Imam Hussein to prepare the teenage
Basijis psychologically for their martyrdom before every offensive. Shortly
after we arrived on our first night, I witnessed this for myself. I sat on the
barracks floor with other Guards, along with many young Basijis and their
commanders. A hush came over the room, the lights were dimmed, and, with the
sound of “Ya Allah,” everybody stood to welcome the speaker.
The mullah told Imam Hussein’s story, climaxing with a retelling of
the battle in Karbala, Iraq, where the Imam demonstrated his bravery by
becoming a martyr. I’d been hearing this story since I was a child—how he
fought for Islam; how he sacrificed his life for his religion; how Hussein and
his band of seventy-two fearless warriors fought against an army of thirty
thousand and never wavered; and how, just before he died, he exclaimed,
“Dignified death is better than humiliating life”—but it still
brought me to tears. While it would be nearly impossible for
Westerners to understand how this story moved us, it charged us with deep
emotional courage. While singing “Ya Hussein, Ya Hussein,” we would
strike our chests as a display of devotion to Imam Hussein and in remembrance
of his suffering.
The night felt incredibly tense to me. My heart was with all these
brave young men and boys who deeply believed they were fighting for their
country, for their religion, against this unjust war of Saddam’s. Their parents
and their families were proud to place their souls in God’s hands. Upon their
martyrdom, their leader, Imam Khomeini, would congratulate their families for
their dedication to Islam, reminding them of the promise of heaven’s open gates
and the welcome embrace of Hussein, the Lord of Martyrs. However, it was
difficult for me to believe that this was the best way for us to utilize our
country’s youth.
The next morning before dawn, Kazem tapped me on my shoulder. “Reza,
it’s time. We need to do our morning namaz and leave.”
Our job today was to help transport the Basijis behind the front
lines. We loaded them, laden with their gear, into big trucks, and then
convoyed them toward the front with headlights off and only the moonlight as a
guide. The sky was clear and full of stars.
In our truck were brothers Mohsen and Madjid, ages thirteen and
fourteen and probably no more than a hundred pounds each. We’d met them the
night before at the mullah’s sermon. The boys were very quiet now, unlike the
night before, when they were full of energy and fooling around like kids their
age do. Kazem and I had talked to them for a while after the ceremony. They
were from a rural area near the city of Mashhad, and they were the only two
boys in a poor family with five kids. They left school for jebheh, the
war front, after their teacher, a mullah, decreed that it was the duty of every
Muslim to go to jebheh and become a shahid.
“I will kill as many Iraqi soldiers as I can,” Mohsen had said last
night as he squared his shoulders with a big grin.
Madjid, the older one, wrapped his arm around Mohsen and said, “We
will conquer Karbala and have namaz at Imam Hussein’s shrine.”
Now I could not take my eyes off them as the truck took us to our
destination. Both boys had their heads down, saying a prayer, and both wore a “Ya
Hussein” red bandana around their shaved heads. My stomach roiled as I
watched them.
“Are you okay, Reza?” Kazem said, looking at me in a quizzical way
that I, of course, interpreted as suspicion.
“I’m fine. I think it’s just the bumpy road making me nauseous.”
Of course it was the road—the road to an uncertain destiny. What was
waiting for Mohsen and Madjid at the end of this road? Who would come back? Who
among all of the teens in this truck would see another day?
“Brothers, get out,” the commander ordered when the truck stopped.
The Basijis exited the trucks and lined up in groups, as instructed. Hundreds
of children ready to defend our country. I couldn’t help but think about their
families, and about how little these boys had seen in their short lives.
“God, please save them!” I whispered.
“Baradar Reza, pray for our forgiveness,” Mohsen sputtered, as he
looked at me with his head tilted halfway up. His group’s mission was to blow
up a bridge behind the enemy lines.
Once we’d deployed the Basijis, we went back to the base behind the
front lines and waited anxiously. For several hours, the violent sounds of
gunfire, artillery, mortar shells, explosions, and screams of “Allaho Akbar”
filled the air. Reports from the battle were slow to come, though, until I
heard a commotion throughout the base.
Kazem ran up to me. “Reza, good news! The offensive was successful.
We have destroyed fifteen tanks so far and have taken many prisoners.”
“Is there any news of the Imam Hussein Battalion?” I asked
desperately. I wanted to know if Mohsen and Madjid’s mission was successful.
He shook his head in disappointment.
I knew that meant that I would not hear the news I wanted to hear. I
went outside the bunker to smoke a cigarette, wiping my face before anybody
could see my tears.
Just before maghreb azan (the evening prayer), Ibrahim, one
of the Basijis from the Imam Hussein Battalion, came back to the base. I rushed
toward him.
“Baradar Ibrahim, where is everybody else?” I asked.
He looked at me wearily and said, “Baradar, they all fought
bravely, but …”
“Khaste nabashin, Baradar,” someone said
to him in passing, praising him for a good job.
I regained Ibrahim’s attention. “What about Mohsen and Madjid? Where
are they?”
Ibrahim couldn’t hold my gaze. “We could see the bridge. There was
one more hill between us as we descended. The Iraqis were waiting for us,
hiding at the bottom of the hill. I had fallen behind and I could see bullets
flying, the screams and shouting. The bloodshed was everywhere. Our kids fought
back so bravely, but Mohsen was the last one standing. Iraqi soldiers
surrounded him and they ordered him to drop his weapon and surrender. Instead,
he opened fire while shouting, ‘Ash-hadu anna la ilaha illa Allah; ash-hadu
anna muhammadan-rasool Allah’ [I testify there is no God but Allah; I
testify that Mohammad is Allah’s messenger].”
Mohsen, the youngest brother of five children, along with his
brother, Madjid, died that afternoon.
I knew their sacrifice was going to stick with me a long time. I
also knew that it was going to cause me to reflect on what I was doing. How did
my espionage fit into a world where boys gave their lives to defend a country
whose government I’d vowed to undermine?
Because of the efforts of so many like them, the Iraqi army was
eventually defeated and chased back into its own territory, where it was now
defending against Iranian offensives. The Iraqis left behind horror stories of
the crimes they committed, raping women and killing civilians. Rahim told me of
one small border town where an Iraqi commander ordered all civilians to gather
in the city square, women and children included. Iraqi tanks surrounded them
and opened fire, slaughtering every single person. Our military executed many
Iraqi POWs in retaliation for those crimes.
At this point, Ali Khamenei was president of Iran. In June of 1981,
Khamenei had survived an assassination attempt by the Mujahedin when a bomb
concealed in a tape recorder exploded, leaving him paralyzed in his right hand.
The Iranian people elected him president in October of that year, after the
assassination of President Mohammad-Ali Rajai by the Mujahedin in August.
Someday, of course, Khamenei would succeed Imam Khomeini as the Supreme Leader.
I had heard from Kazem and others that Ali Khamenei regularly came to jebheh
to review the troops, and that he was at least as much of a zealot about
raising the flag of Islam across the world as Imam Khomeini. It was during this
conflict that we learned that he believed we must continue to wage war until we
destroyed all nonbelievers. This included, of course, the destruction of
Israel. Ali Khamenei also wanted
Jerusalem and the return of one of the most sacred mosques and
holiest places to Muslims, the Masjid al-Aqsa.
The regime made it their mission to topple Saddam. The Iraqi leader
had offered peace after our forces had pushed him out of our country, but
Khomeini roundly rejected this. The mullahs now harbored Ayatollah Mohammed
Baqir al-Hakim, an outspoken Iraqi opponent of Saddam, and gave sanctuary to
his supporters. The mullahs in Iran and Iraq had a long history of cooperation
through their seminaries in Qom, the hotbed of religious activity in Iran, and
Najaf in Iraq. They instructed the Revolutionary Guards to help Ayatollah Hakim
create the Supreme Council for Islamic Revolution in Iraq (SCIRI). This quickly
became one of the most powerful political parties in Iraq and it continues to
be so today. Part of the Guards’ role in developing the SCIRI was to send Hakim’s
followers back inside Iraq with specific instructions to disrupt Saddam’s army,
using covert military operations, infiltrating his operations, and gathering
much- needed intelligence.
My learning all of this provided a treasure trove of information for
Carol.
[Letter #—] [Date:———]
Dear Carol:
1—Khomeini issued an order to the Revolutionary Guards to further
help Ayatollah Hakim in strengthening the Supreme Council for Islamic
Revolution in Iraq in recruiting and forming military units and performing cross-border
operations in conjunction with the Revolutionary Guards.
2—The chief commander, Mohsen Rezaei, has appointed Esmaeil
Daghayeghi as the Guards officer to coordinate the recruitment of Iraqi Shiites
and sympathizers from the POWs.
3—Esmaeil Daghayeghi is fluent in Arabic and has been working with
the POWs. He has successfully recruited other Iraqis trained under the
Revolutionary Guards. He has formed the Badr Brigade and is the commanding
officer of that brigade. They are being used for intelligence on Iraqi army
communications and on cross-border operations. They are routinely sent into
Iraq to carry Ayatollah Hakim’s messages, recruiting Shiite volunteers and
inciting rebellion by the Shiites in the southern cities of Iraq.
4—The order now is to expand the brigade into a division. Mohsen
Rezaei has promoted Esmaeil Daghayeghi to be the commander of the new division.
5—Many of the Iraqis are being trained in the Revolutionary Guards’
bases in Tehran.
Wish me luck!
Wally
The following Persian New Year, with the war pushed back at the
borders and peace in the sky of Tehran after a long conflict, Somaya’s doctor
gave us the good news we’d been hoping to hear: she was three months pregnant.
I desperately wanted to believe that this was a sign that my life was at last
aligning with my dreams.
HOPE AND PERIL
This activity couldn’t have come at a poorer stage in my home life.
Somaya was pregnant and I wanted to be with her to share as much of this
singular stage in our relationship as possible. Instead, I was spending most of
my time at work and attending meetings and gatherings afterward with Kazem,
which left me feeling terribly guilty.
For most of her pregnancy, Somaya didn’t utter a word of complaint.
In fact, she gave me so little trouble about my long hours that I thought she
was fine with it. Until I came home late one night during her third trimester
and found her sitting in the living room looking miserable.
“What is wrong, dear?” I asked as I sat next to her.
She immediately burst into uncontrollable tears. For a minute, she
couldn’t say anything and I simply held her. Then she pulled back angrily.
“What is wrong? Everything is wrong. I barely get to see you. I am here
all alone with my big belly and no one to talk to. I am tired of this.” She
wiped her nose with the end of her sleeve and I could see that it took a great
deal out of her to say what she’d said.
My heart went out to her immediately. The last thing I wanted in the
world was to see her upset. “I am sorry that you feel this way, honey. I wish I
didn’t have to spend so much time away from you, but I don’t know what I can
do. Why don’t you get together with some of your friends and do some fun
stuff?”
She shook her head and sniffled. “Like what? Everybody is busy with
their own lives and I am stuck here all alone.”
“Then maybe you should go to England and spend some time with your
parents. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”
I actually thought I was making a productive suggestion, but Somaya
saw this very differently. She threw her eyes heavenward and then looked at me
in a way I had never seen before. “Your stupid solution to this problem is to
get rid of me? You want to send me back to my parents so you can do your nasty
Guards stuff with Kazem and those other awful friends of yours? Or maybe it’s
so you don’t have to think about me while you do whatever you do during those
nights in the den.”
She’d chosen these words to sting me and she accomplished that task.
I had no idea she felt this way about what I was doing. Why hadn’t she said
anything before this? It was almost as though some other woman now inhabited
Somaya’s body.
She stood up to go to bed and delivered another salvo. “Or maybe it
isn’t your work at all. Maybe you’re in love with another woman—a woman without
a big, ugly belly.”
As much as I sympathized with how upset she was, I found this last
comment to be a relief. I almost felt like laughing at the absurdity of the
notion that I would seek another woman. I blew out a deep breath, happy to
allay her interpretation of what I did at night.
“I would never, ever, ever cheat on you,” I said, hugging
her. She resisted at first, but soon leaned into my embrace. “You never have to
doubt how much I love you. You are the best thing in my life. And if your belly
gets bigger and stays that way even after you give birth, I will adore you even
more.”
She let me kiss her and then she went to bed, seemingly worn out by
the entire experience. I knew that what I’d just said to her didn’t make her
feel completely better, but at least I’d calmed some of her concerns. Still,
she’d made it clear that she resented my work with the Guards and that she had
some suspicions about what I was doing routinely in the middle of the night.
She might believe now that I wasn’t communicating with another lover, but she
was smart enough to consider other possibilities. I would need to navigate this
carefully with her.
Feeling shaky from this exchange, I probably should have gone to bed
with Somaya. But first I needed to write Carol about all that I’d learned
recently.
[Letter #—] [Date:———]
Dear Carol,
1—The Guards are sending hundreds more fighters to Bekaa Valley in
Lebanon through Syria.
2—The operations are being coordinated by:
The Revolutionary Guards Commander Mostafa Mohammad-Najjar, who is
in charge of the forces in Lebanon;
Ali-Akbar Mohtashemi, the Iranian ambassador in Syria; and
Ahmad Vahidi, the Chief Intelligence Officer of the Guards in Iran,
who is also charged with expanding the Guards’ extraterritorial activities in
Lebanon.
3—Rasool, who works out of the Intelligence Unit at our base, is
constantly traveling to Syria. He tells me that the activity is picking up and
Guards are transporting arms and ammunition to Syria.
4—Planes loaded with these munitions are regularly flying to Syria
in the middle of the night.
5—Imam Khomeini issued an order to Mohsen Rezaei, the Chief
Commander of the Guards, that the Guards are to get more involved in Lebanon to
fight the Israeli and American forces.
6—Somaya is doing fine. A little emotional, but that’s normal.
Thanks again for asking. The baby is due in a few months. They told us it is a
boy! I am so excited!
Wally
Over the next few months, the Guards continued to dominate my time,
though I tried where I could to get away early to be with Somaya. Then, while I
was having lunch in my office, she called with information that pulled me
delightedly from my work.
“I had some contractions after you left this morning. They’ve been
coming and going. They started twenty minutes apart and now they are down to
fifteen. I think it’s time for us to go to the hospital.”
I told Rahim what was going on, jumped into a taxi, and headed home.
When I got there, Somaya was already at the door with her little duffel bag and
we rushed to the hospital.
I wanted to go into the delivery room with her, but a nurse stopped
me. “We will let you know when the baby is here. Then you can come inside.”
“But is there any way I can come in, please? I want to be with her
for this.”
“I’m sorry,” the nurse said firmly. “I cannot do anything. It’s the
hospital’s policy.” Then her expression softened and she offered me a little
smile. “We will take good care of her.”
There was another man sitting in the waiting room when I settled
into a chair. He looked up at me when I sat. “Is this your first?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Prepare to be here for a long time. The first one takes the
longest. My wife is having our third right now and I have been here for almost
ten hours.”
I did not care how long I needed to wait; I just prayed to God that
Somaya and my son would be healthy. Thinking of the new baby as my son thrilled
me. We’d been talking about names, and after juggling with many, we decided
that Omid—which means “hope”—sounded perfect to us.
“I just love it because he will bring hope to our life and we will
have big hopes for him,” Somaya said when we agreed upon it.
I took my first glance at the clock fifteen minutes after I sat
down. As much as I would have been willing to wait as long as necessary to
ensure that everything went well, I also desperately wanted to see Omid. I
wanted to touch his little fingers and feel what it was like to be a father. I
found dreaming of him and the future he would have to be a welcome diversion as
the time passed.
A few hours later, a nurse opened the double doors leading to the
delivery room. Behind her was another nurse holding a baby. I looked at the man
with me in the waiting room, assuming the child was his. He got up with a big
smile and approached the nurse.
“It is not yours,” the first nurse said to the man. Then she turned
to me. “Mr. Kahlili, come see your son.”
For the first time all day, I felt nervous. I was about to meet my
little baby boy. The other man congratulated me and I just turned my head and
smiled. I could not say a word. I stepped through the doors and saw the face
that would change my life forever. Omid was beautiful, and magical, and mine.
The nurses allowed me to move to Somaya’s room after they
transferred her from the delivery room. They took Omid with them to bathe him
and set
him up in his little crib.
My wife was all smiles. “Did you see him, Reza? He is so cute. So
little.”
I kissed her wet forehead. I was still having trouble speaking.
“He was so good, Reza. He came so fast and I didn’t even have to
push hard. I just love him.”
They brought Omid in shortly, and we both stared at him and laughed
with every little sound or move he made. Later, after they took him back to the
nursing room, I stayed by Somaya the whole night. Neither of us could sleep, so
we talked about Omid and about what our lives would be like now that he was
around. I felt a huge sense of completion, and I knew I needed to strive ever
harder to make my home the center of my life.
But this goal would continue to elude me. On October 23, 1983, I
woke up to the delightful sound of Omid giggling in Somaya’s arms. I kissed
them both and got ready to go to work. Just before leaving, I turned on the
radio to catch what I could of the morning news when a breaking report
announced that suicide bombers had attacked the U.S. Marine Corps headquarters
and the French soldiers’ barracks in Beirut, Lebanon. The bombers detonated
twelve thousand pounds of TNT, reducing a four-story cinder-block building to
rubble and killing 241 U.S. personnel and 58 French paratroopers.
(Four years after this suicide bombing, Iran’s then–minister of the
Revolutionary Guards, Mohsen Rafiqdoost, boasted that “Both the TNT and the
ideology which in one blast sent to hell four hundred officers, NCOs, and
soldiers at the Marines headquarters were provided by Iran.”)
I’d written to Carol about the regime’s flying munitions and arms to
Syria and Lebanon, about the Guards and other fighters being inserted into
those countries, and about the infusion of capital into these regions to fund
Khomeini’s expansion activities. The news of this bombing was shocking not only
because of the enormity of the attack, but also because of its possibly
devastating consequences. Would the U.S. retaliate? Would it start a war where
American forces overwhelmingly outnumbered and outgunned us? If the U.S. didn’t
retaliate, would Khomeini feel even more emboldened and generate further
attacks? As my wife and son played in the adjoining room, the sounds of their
innocent entertainment served as heartbreaking counterpoint to the grim reports
on the radio.
I left for work filled with apprehension. I intended to drop off
another letter to Carol on the way, feeling a greater sense of urgency to
communicate with her and ironically touching on some of the themes
the new attack drew to the forefront. This new letter focused on the expansion
of the intelligence arm of the Revolutionary Guards under the command of Ahmad
Vahidi—a special force that would later be christened the Quds Force, whose
mission was to organize, train, equip, and finance underground militant
organizations throughout the world and conduct terrorist activities.
[Letter #—] [Date:———]
Dear Carol,
1—The Guards’ Special Forces is in contact with several terrorist
organizations, among them:
The Islamic Front for the Liberation of Bahrain;
The militant Egyptian Islamist “Gamaat Islamiya”;
The Japanese Red Army;
The ETA Basque nationalist terrorist group; and
The Armenian Secret Army.
2—Kazem told me that Rafiqdoost, the Minister of the Revolutionary
Guards, was personally involved in setting up a relationship with the Red Army
Faction in Germany.
3—The Revolutionary Guards are recruiting and training candidates
from Islamic countries for terrorist activities with training bases in Lebanon,
Sudan, and Iran. I witnessed Palestinians helping with the training of those
candidates operating out of the Guards’ bases.
4—Through Akbar, a Guard in our unit, I learned that the Foreign
Ministry has assigned members of the Revolutionary Guards’ Special Forces to
Iranian Consulates and Embassies. These are not political assignments; it is a
diplomatic cover for their operations. Their task is to take control of all
intelligence activities overseas, including assassinations, abductions, and the
transfer of arms and explosives.
5—Akbar is in close contact with several of those agents and is in
and out of the Foreign Ministry constantly. Akbar explained that the Special
Forces communicate orders to the agents outside the country through the use of
radio frequencies. He went as far as talking about
the formula. Maybe he will elaborate more so we can break their
codes.
6—I have learned through several sources that the Guards’ agents
have been placed in and are now working out of Iranian banks and airlines, and
in shipping line offices abroad.
7—Rafiqdoost is personally involved in buying arms through the black
market. Some of these arms are then shipped to Hezbollah and Islamic Jihad
through Syria—with their cooperation.
8—Rafiqdoost will be traveling to Syria soon with Ahmad Vahidi. I
will update you when I find out more.
9—The situation here is tense with the war and the Mujahedin
conducting assassinations. The Guards are on the lookout for infiltrators
because of this.
10—Javad, who works out of the intelligence department in our base
and who also knows Kazem, is constantly visiting me in my department trying to
start up conversations, and asking questions. I sense he feels uneasy about me
working there. However, it’s not a major concern yet.
11—Rasool told me about the Special Forces unit setting up safe
houses in many countries, successfully infiltrating the Muslim communities in
Argentina, Brazil, and Paraguay, particularly those of Lebanese descent. He
explained that the notorious Triangle there, with no police presence, makes it
easy for transferring arms and explosives. Their operation is coordinated
through the Iranian Consulates and Embassies.
Wally
(More than a decade later, the Guards’ infiltration of the Muslim
communities in Argentina paid off for them. In July 1994, with the assistance
of Hezbollah, the Guards conducted a terrorist attack on a Jewish community
center in Buenos Aires, killing eighty-five and injuring hundreds more. After
the attack, Argentinian intelligence services completed a comprehensive report
specifying the Iranian government’s involvement. The report also concluded that
the Foreign Ministry of Iran provided diplomatic cover for the Iranian agents
that perpetrated the attack with the help of a Hezbollah terrorist mastermind
known as Imad Mughniyeh. In late 2006, an Argentinian federal judge issued
arrest
warrants for Hashemi Rafsanjani, the president of Iran at the time;
Ali Fallahian, the head of the Ministry of Intelligence at the time; Ali
Velayati, the former foreign minister; Mohsen Rezaei, the commander of the
Guard at the time; Ahmad Vahidi; and three other officials from the Iranian
Embassy in Buenos Aires. Interpol also issued red alerts for the arrest of
Mohsen Rezaei, Ahmad Vahidi, and several other Iranian officials for their
participation in that attack.)
As I dropped off the letter to Carol along with another to my aunt
Giti, I felt somebody watching me. I always dropped Carol’s mail with other
letters to friends or family members in America or Europe to avoid suspicion.
If somebody saw me dropping the mail off and checked the mailbox, they would
find the actual letters from me to an actual person, but I was still nervous
today. The news of the Beirut suicide bombing had put me on edge.
I decided to go to see Kazem as soon as I got to the office. I
needed to maintain a close connection to him. I needed him to continue to be my
friend.
“Salam, Baradar Kazem,” I said as I entered his office. “I
heard the news on the radio this morning. God is with us.”
“Salam, Reza,” he said as he picked up his phone handset and
dialed a number. “Come in. It is great news.”
He gestured with his head for me to take a seat and then spoke into
the handset. “Salam, Baradar. It’s Kazem. …”
I couldn’t hear the conversation on the other end.
“This is shahadat,” he said, obviously speaking about the
martyrdom of those who’d committed the suicide bombing. He then nodded his
agreement as the other party spoke. “Of course … both were successful … they
were demolished.”
His expression changed and became serious. “On that … I will explain
the details to you tomorrow at our meeting. Congratulations one more time,
Baradar. God save our rahbar.”
I needed to keep a bright expression on my face through this. Only
God could know how sick I felt at this and every other moment when I had to
pretend that I was enjoying the killings, betrayals, suicides bombings, and
martyrdoms.
For several minutes after he hung up the phone, Kazem bragged about
the Guards’ power and about how soon we would defeat the enemies of Islam.
“Reza, you would be amazed at how much effort intelligence agencies
like the CIA, MI6, and the wretched Mossad put into learning about our
activities. They are obsessed with us. These evildoers don’t even realize what
we get away with right under their noses.”
The mention of the CIA sent a chill up my spine. Then I remembered
that he mentioned a meeting tomorrow to the person on the phone.
“Reza, I have to ask you something. It’s very important. I am
meeting with Haj Agha Golsari tomorrow. He has some questions about you and I
want to be prepared when I meet with him.”
That comment terrified me. What if they knew? I thought again about
the feeling that someone had been watching me that morning.
Oh God, if they find out, what are they going to do to Somaya. What
about Omid? I want to see him one more time. I want to hold Somaya and tell her
I am sorry for everything.
Kazem’s phone rang and he took the call, shifting away from me at
the same time. “Alo, salam aleikom…. Good…. Thanks…. It was great news….
I am with Baradar Reza now.”
He spun his chair around to look at me. That’s when I noticed the
wide smile on his face. “No, actually I was about to tell him…. We probably
leave in about three weeks…. I told Haj Agha Golsari that I will go with Reza….
I know, I have the same respect for him, too. Reza is a gift to our base,
Baradar Rahim.”
Only then did I start to breathe normally again. For a few moments,
Kazem’s talking on the phone faded into the background as I tried to gather my
thoughts. It finally dawned on me that they’d picked me for a special mission.
As much as I’d experienced mortal dread just a minute ago, my first thought was
More news for Carol and the CIA.
Kazem finished his phone conversation with Rahim and returned his
attention to me. His tone turned confidential as he related the news about our
traveling to Dubai to purchase equipment for the Intelligence Unit. He
emphasized that I could not discuss the details with anyone and smiled while
telling me about the special request he had placed with Haj Agha Golsari, the
head of the Intelligence Unit at our base, to bring me along because of my
knowledge about computers, the fact that I spoke English fluently, and, above
all, because he trusted me.
Kazem was in an expansive mood. He proudly revealed several specific
incidents in European and Middle Eastern countries involving the illegal
transportation of arms and explosives through their seaports and
airports. I made mental notes, trying to remember as many details as possible
for the letter I planned to write to the CIA that night.
When I finally stood to leave, Kazem gazed up at me with fire and
pride in his eyes. “Going on this mission is a great honor, Reza. I hope you
are excited about it.”
I smiled and tipped my chin forward. “You know, Kazem, that I would
do anything for Islam and Imam Khomeini,” I said with as much enthusiasm as I
could muster.
HEJAB
the night after I learned
about the Beirut bombing, I wrote Carol another letter.
[Letter #—] [Date:———]
Dear Carol,
1—The bombing news in Lebanon caused a big commotion in the Guards
today. Kazem was constantly on the phone congratulating other commanders. He
talked proudly of the bravery of the martyrs involved in the suicide bombing.
He was fully aware of the success of the bombing mission.
2—Kazem talked about transporting arms and explosives in Europe and
the Middle East. On one occasion, they transferred arms and cash in the amount
of $1 million through a high-ranking mullah and his entourage while on an
official trip to Germany, where it was given to Iranian agents. In another
incident, explosives and arms were transported by Iran Air to Spain then
transferred from the Iran Air office to Iranian agents to be used against the
Mujahedin. He told me an opposition member in Dubai named Ali was abducted and
taken to the Iranian Consulate, interrogated and transferred by Consulate car
to the airport, then to Iran Air and to Tehran and finally to Evin Prison. I
don’t know what became of him.
3—Kazem has asked me to travel to Dubai with him. He received
authorization from Haj Agha Golsari, the head of the Intelligence Unit at our
base. We are leaving three weeks from today.
4—The mission is to purchase computer equipment and software for
networking and data processing for the Intelligence Unit.
5—Please advise if you can be available for a meeting in Dubai. I
would appreciate a face-to-face meeting.
Wally
The following Friday, I received a message back from her.
Hello, Wally,
We received your letters.
Very important information. Excellent effort.
I will be in Dubai at Hotel X. Use———to contact me.
Abort contact if any suspicion.
Please update on Rafiqdoost travel to Syria, date, purpose, people
with him.
We are proud of you. Stay safe.
Keep us informed on Javad.
See you in Dubai.
Carol
Somaya was not happy about my trip to Dubai. The whole situation in
Iran had become so terrifying to her that she no longer felt safe going out by
herself. This feeling intensified after her personal involvement in a
frightening incident.
One night I volunteered to watch Omid so she could visit a friend. I
was a little worried that she didn’t come home when I expected her, but I
brushed it off, figuring she was enjoying herself and had lost track of time.
Somaya didn’t go out often, so I could easily imagine her reveling in the rare
opportunity. Given the state of our country, though, I should have been more
apprehensive.
When she came home hours late, she was in shock, shivering, and
crying. I had never seen her so scared and I immediately leapt to horrible
conclusions.
“I was waiting to catch a cab,” she said, hyperventilating. “There
were two other girls standing a few feet in front of me also waiting for a
ride. All of a sudden, a big SUV slammed on its brakes so hard that the car
skidded forward a few yards before fully stopping. You could see the smoke and
smell the burning tires. Then they backed up and got out of the car, yelling at
us to get into their car.” She burst into tears. “I was so frightened. All I
could think was what they would do to me.”
I quickly thought of Somaya’s friend Farah. The Zeinab Sisters—the
“Moral Police” in charge of monitoring the women’s dress code—had arrested her
for wearing makeup. The regime forbade polished nails, a peek of hair under a
veil, a hint of lipstick, some rouge, and anything of that sort, and they would
subject young women to lashings for attempting to look
more attractive. Farah stood up to them, thinking she was defending
her rights. They jailed her for four days, beating her and keeping her in a
cell with criminal women. Farah was tough, but upon her release, she was so
terrified that she never went out without a chador.
I put my arms around Somaya and pressed her into me, trying to calm
her, and trying to find out exactly what had happened.
“Reza, they took me to the Komiteh. It was so scary. There were two
other girls already in the car when they arrested us. The Zeinab Sisters were
very rude, mean, and filthy. Every time any of us would ask why we were being
arrested or where they were taking us, they would tell us to shut up and that
they would beat us if we said another word. They took down our names and
addresses.
“After they dropped us at the Komiteh, I saw another group of women
lined up in the corridor behind a door. I could hear a lot of screaming and
crying. While we waited, a guard came and said they were going to whip us fifty
times for disrespecting and disobeying the Islamic rules.”
My outrage exploded upon hearing this. If these bastards did what I
was thinking they did at that point, I vowed I would kill every one of them.
But before my imagination incensed me further, Somaya told me they
let her and some other women go without any physical harm. Apparently, the head
of the Komiteh released them since they had the appropriate hejab and
because the Zeinab Sisters had arrested them unfairly.
Though I desperately didn’t want to leave Somaya at this point, I
had to take the trip to Dubai. I tried to reassure my wife that I would be back
quickly, but I was obligated to go. On the morning I left, Somaya cried so hard
that I felt miserable. At the same time, though, her tears emboldened my
mission. I needed to do everything I could to prevent the people who made her
so fearful from maintaining control of our country.
Kazem booked two rooms at the Sheraton in Sharjah, not far from
Dubai and definitely a poorer neighbor of the growing modern city. Fortunately,
our rooms were located far away from each other. This made it so much easier
for me to meet with Carol. Shortly after we checked in, I called her to let her
know where I was staying, and to tell her that I would call her again to
arrange our meeting as soon as I found out my schedule with Kazem.
The next day, Kazem and I met with an Iranian merchant Kazem knew
well named Saeed. He owned an import/export business partnered with an Arab
named Fahid. Saeed arranged an appointment with an Arab
middleman named Abdul who was fluent in English. During this
meeting, each of us had distinct roles: Kazem was the point man and did the
talking and negotiating. Saeed was the coordinator and logistics man, and I was
the computer expert. Since Abdul spoke only Arabic and English, and since none
of the rest of us spoke Arabic, I also served as translator.
Abdul took us around to several companies that specialized in
computer equipment, telling them we were opening a new business with
headquarters in Tehran and expanding throughout Iran. We explained that we
needed not only computers but the networking, data-processing, tracking, and
communications software to support our business development plans. We needed to
use this level of subterfuge with these companies to prevent U.S. intelligence
from finding out what we were doing. If anyone learned that we were seeking to
purchase equipment for the Guards, it was likely that the CIA or some other
intelligence organization would have attempted to bug the equipment in some way
to monitor our activities or perhaps even sabotage it.
Kazem made plans to visit the Iranian consulate in the morning and
said we would continue our tour of Dubai in the afternoon. After we got back to
the hotel, Kazem went to his room to do his prayers, giving me an opportunity
to call Carol. Now that I knew Kazem’s schedule, I could arrange to meet with
her the following day. We discussed a variety of options and decided that it
would be safest for us to get together after Kazem was asleep. Since it would
be dangerous for me to be seen leaving the hotel on my own at that time, Carol
told me she would meet me in my room at one in the morning.
I left the door to my room unlocked so she could enter when she felt
it was safe. Then I waited for her, seemingly forever. I kept checking my watch
and checking the door, while I tried to focus on the issues I wanted to address
with Carol. Intermittently, I would gaze at a picture of my son that I planned
to show to her.
It occurred to me that the CIA must have gained at least a modicum
of trust in me to agree to such a risky meeting. I’d requested this appointment
because I had no idea what impact my reports were having and I needed feedback.
I was feeling isolated and vulnerable, and I needed to know that the risks I’d
been taking were serving some purpose.
Finally, the door opened and Carol stepped inside, locking the door
behind her. Her disguise—a long, light blue coat and colorful veil sitting
loosely on her head with her bangs peeking through—surprised me a
little. She looked very Middle Eastern and I didn’t recognize her at first. She
actually reminded me of Somaya’s aunt. Surprise registered on her face when she
saw that I was clean-shaven. It was Kazem’s idea to shave our beards to look
more like the businessmen we were supposed to be.
Carol immediately assured me that she hadn’t attracted any attention
on the way to my room, but stressed that she couldn’t stay too long because of
the late hour. Even though Dubai was a more open city than most in the Middle
East, it was not wise for a woman to be out by herself in the early hours of
the morning. Carol took out a pad and we got down to business.
“This morning, we went to the consulate and I saw Revolutionary
Guards members masquerading as political operatives. Kazem knew a few of them
and introduced me to them, but he didn’t mention their last names. There was
Baradar Mehdi, Baradar Jafar, and Baradar Gholam. While we were there, two
black stretch limos arrived displaying Iranian flags and consulate license
plates. Later that day, Kazem leaned over and said, ‘Do you remember those two
limos that drove up today? That’s how we do it. They were carrying explosives
and firearms.’ Then he smiled and told me that officials had even stopped the
limos, but that no one dared search a consulate convoy.”
“Did Kazem give you any specifics about what kind of explosives were
involved?”
“No.”
“Have you heard anything else about the bombing in Lebanon?”
“Kazem had a meeting with Haj Agha Golsari the day after the
bombing. He did not discuss the details with me, but they were all calling and
congratulating each other.”
“What are Kazem’s plans here in Dubai?”
“As I explained in my letter, we are purchasing computer equipment
and software for the Guards’ Intelligence Unit. Kazem said that the Guards are
expanding their operations and have set up separate departments for each region
of the world. Each department oversees special ops and the political situations
of each region. They are going to be dealing with a lot of data processing and
storage.”
“What company are you dealing with, and how long will you stay in
Dubai?”
“We’ve been negotiating with several companies and I think Kazem
will finalize a deal with Computer Dynamics Unlimited tomorrow. If everything
goes smoothly, we will fly back home in two days.”
I filled her in about Saeed and Fahid’s import/export business in
Dubai, explaining that they exported exclusively to Iran and adding my strong
suspicion that they were operating a front company for the Guards that handled
transactions for equipment under one guise (industrial, for example) when the
ultimate purpose of that equipment was military use. The Guards had been using
front companies for requisitions since their formation. We then focused on the
events back in Tehran, including an overview of the Guards’ activities. Though
she knew the arms blockade was working, Carol didn’t know until I told her that
it had caused an especially severe shortage of spare parts for Iran’s air
force. She took notes as I explained that Rafiqdoost had made several contacts
in the black market for the purchase of necessary firepower. He had acquired a
number of older, smaller ships for the Guards, using these to transfer black
market munitions to the ports of Iran. These ships evaded suspicion because of
their size and appearance.
“I heard from Kazem that Rafiqdoost will be traveling to Syria in
the next few weeks along with Ahmad Vahidi; I have seen several of his
directives to Rahim, our base commander. Vahidi is very active in organizing
operations outside of Iran. Besides Lebanon, where Mostafa Najjar is running
the Guards’ operation in close coordination with Vahidi and the Guards
Intelligence Unit, they are also focusing much of their effort on the countries
in the Persian Gulf and Africa. I am still not aware of the exact date of their
departure.”
Carol kept writing and the details kept pouring out of me.
“A week before coming to Dubai, I had a long conversation with
Rasool, whom I’ve mentioned in my reports. He is also in the Intelligence Unit
out of our base. He told me that during the last international day of Quds, the
annual event protesting Israeli control of Jerusalem, millions of dollars were
handed out in cash to the Hezbollah and Islamic Jihad leaders who had
participated. Rasool told me that he personally handed out some of this money
in secret meetings that were held by the Guards. This upset him because he
couldn’t understand why we needed to pay these people if they were fighting for
Islam. Apparently, the money was payment for terrorist activities against the
U.S. and Israel.”
Carol took in all of this. When I mentioned Rasool, she stopped
writing and said, “Rasool sounds like an interesting man,” without any further
explanation.
We continued to talk at length. When she finished debriefing me,
Carol gave me more of the supplies I used to communicate with her and a new
codebook.
“Wally, I hope you know that the information you’ve been relaying is
highly valuable to the U.S. government and that we are very grateful for your
efforts,” she said. “Now tell me more about Javad in your office. What does he
do to make you so uncomfortable?”
“Javad works in the Intelligence Unit at our base. He comes to my
office often and he has a very menacing way about him. He stares straight into
my eyes while asking me questions. The questions themselves are innocuous
enough: ‘How is your aunt doing in America?’ or ‘Did you like it there when you
were a student?’ But the way he asks them makes me feel like he’s probing. One
day he asked me how a guy like me with the opportunity to live in America could
live in Iran with so little pay when I could have it all with ‘the Great
Satan.’ He said it jokingly, but I didn’t get the impression he was joking at
all.”
“How would you react to his questions?”
“I usually handle his questions okay, but I’m worried that he is up
to something and that he is having someone follow me. He’s a hard-core zealot
and suspicious of anyone who’s traveled to America. I think he’s just testing
me, but it makes me very uneasy.”
Carol was supportive, telling me that it was going to be the case
that some people would make me nervous and that I just needed to stay on guard.
She reiterated how grateful everyone in the CIA was and stressed, as she had on
other occasions, that the agency would never pressure me to do anything I
didn’t want to do or felt uncomfortable doing. If I decided to stop at any
time, they would back me completely. I appreciated this. In fact, I’d been
looking for precisely this kind of pep talk.
“Don’t do anything to compromise yourself or your family,” she said.
“I want to see you back in the U.S. with your wife and son someday.”
That prompted me to show her the picture of Omid, and we talked
about him and Somaya for a while. She genuinely seemed to care about my family.
Then she reached into her purse and handed me an envelope.
“This is a bonus for all the hard work you have done. We consider
you our best contact in Iran. We’ve come to trust all the information you’ve
given us.”
There were about fifty one-hundred-dollar bills in the envelope.
That was a great deal of money in my country. A middle-class Iranian could
easily live a prosperous life on five hundred dollars a month, given the
exchange rate on the black market. As tempting as those bills looked to me, and
as much as the money would have made a difference to my family, I did not feel
right about accepting it. It made what I was doing feel like a business
transaction, and it was anything but that for me.
Carol seemed to understand my sense of conflict. “You deserve it.
Take it,” she said.
My eyes went to Omid’s picture one more time, and then I thought
about how this money would help him and Somaya if something should happen to
me. “Why don’t you wire it to the same account where you deposit my salary?” I
said, as I handed back the envelope.
Carol smiled at me gently and agreed to do so. Now we had to figure
out the best way for her to get out of my room. It was nearly 3:00 a.m. I
grabbed the ice bucket, opened the door, and walked out toward the ice machine,
leaving the door half open for Carol. I told her I would drop the ice bucket if
I saw something suspicious. She slipped out while I went down the hall.
Back in my room, I immediately hid the supplies in the bottom layer
of my suitcase among my notebooks and the magazines I had purchased that
morning. Then I put the codebooks in the frame that held Omid’s picture. The
thought of the image of his innocent face serving as cover for my dangerous
activity jarred me. I kissed the picture and whispered, “I am so sorry, Omid jon.”
THE TORCH IS PASSED
But Somaya’s usual smile was missing that day. As I got closer, I
could see tears in her eyes. We embraced briefly, and then she buried her head
in my shoulder and started crying.
I cradled her and took Omid from her arms, pulling him close to me.
“What’s wrong?” I said to her.
Somaya looked up at me sadly. “Reza, Nima was killed in jebheh.
We just got the news this morning.”
The army had conscripted Nima, her eighteen-year-old cousin, four
months earlier. They gave him only rudimentary training and sent him to the
front. The revolution had now claimed another one of us.
Kazem had given me a little space to greet Somaya. Now, having
witnessed our drama, he came over and asked what was wrong.
“Baradar Kazem, I just heard that my cousin was killed at the
front,” Somaya said.
Her calling Kazem “brother” touched me. It warmed me that she would
make the effort to show respect for my position, even though she detested my
being in the Guards, and even while she was contending with a tragedy.
“I am so sorry for your loss, khahar,” Kazem said, calling
Somaya “sister,” “but he is a shahid now and he paid his share of
sacrifice for Islam.”
For reasons that I can’t comprehend in retrospect, I felt it was
important for me to support this point. “Baradar Kazem, you are right. We
should be proud that now our family has a God’s warrior, a martyr.”
The words felt artificial to me the moment they left my mouth. And,
more important, I knew that by saying them I had crossed the line with Somaya.
While she might grudgingly accept my role in the Guards, she would never
accept my trivializing the death of a loved one in this way. I felt
miserable instantly.
Somaya reacted as I knew she would—and should. As soon as Kazem
turned his head to a voice calling his name, she pushed my arm away. Glaring at
me angrily, she said, “Let’s get out of here.”
On the plane, Kazem had told me that he’d learned from Rahim that
the Iraqi army was using chemical weapons on our forces in the offensive dubbed
Operation Kheibar, which took place on Majnoon Island in Iraq. These weapons, a
combination of sarin and mustard gas, had killed or injured thousands. Because
we lacked treatment facilities, the Guards were seeking help throughout Europe.
With no cure or antidote available and nothing to alleviate their suffering,
our soldiers experienced convulsions, nose and mouth bleeding, and finally
suffocation. Picturing Nima dying a slow, painful death made me feel all the
more guilty for what I had blurted out.
Our reunion destroyed by my callousness, Somaya had turned away from
me and was walking quickly toward the exit. I rushed a good-bye to Kazem,
saying I’d see him in the office next week, and ran to catch up with her.
Somaya did not speak on the way home, keeping her head turned out
the window. I knew I should have said something to her, but I couldn’t think of
anything. Should I apologize for being a devoted Guardsman and believing in
martyrdom? Should I tell her that I didn’t believe what I’d said, and did it
only to impress Kazem? Both explanations seemed empty to me, and I knew that
neither would comfort her. For the thousandth time since I contacted the CIA, I
wanted to tell Somaya exactly what was going on, and the fact that I couldn’t
do so frustrated me and left me feeling like a miserable husband.
When we got home, Somaya put Omid in his bed while I went to my
study. Minutes later, she stood in my doorway and broke her silence.
“You are a very insensitive person, Reza. You are not stupid, I know
that. But sometimes you do things and say things that make you unrecognizable
to me. How could you possibly say what you said at the airport? My aunt losing
her son makes you a proud Muslim? You are becoming blind, Reza. You are not
seeing things the way they are. I am so tired of this.” She paused and her eyes
narrowed. “And I am tired of you.”
She slammed the door as she left the room, leaving me with my head
in my hands and fighting back tears. I’d been so excited about coming back
home to her. This was the last thing I wanted when I saw her. I
rested my arms and forehead on my desk. Trying to be both Reza and Wally was
causing me to make mistakes and leading me to be inconsiderate to the ones who
mattered most in my life.
My head was still down when I awoke with a stiff neck in the middle
of the night. It was now Friday, which meant that I’d soon be receiving a
message from Carol, but I still had some time before that. I left my study and
tiptoed down the hall to check on Somaya and Omid, opening the bedroom door
quietly. Somaya was cuddling with Omid in our bed. I watched them for a while,
wishing I were there with them, longing for the simple pleasure they shared
with each other. Then I reached for the end of the blanket and covered Somaya’s
feet, blew a kiss to them, and left, closing the door softly.
Before turning on the radio, I wrote a short letter to Carol.
[Letter #—] [Date:———]
Dear Carol,
1—I got back from Dubai to learn Somaya’s cousin was killed in the
war.
2—The Iraqi army used chemical weapons against the Iranian forces in
Operation Kheibar. The casualties are high. The Guards are trying to transfer
some of the casualties to European countries for medical help.
3—Mustard and sarin gas was used in the attack.
4—We placed the order with Computer Dynamics Unlimited.
5—We expect to receive the first shipment of the computer equipment
within four weeks.
Wally
That night, I received no message from Carol. She knew I was just
getting home and she might have assumed that I’d be too tired to check the
radio. However, a modicum of worry crept into my thoughts. The last time I saw
her was when we were preparing for her departure from my room in Dubai. What if
something had happened to her on the way back from the hotel?
A week passed, Somaya was still not talking to me, and I still
couldn’t think of anything to say to make things better. Somaya spent time with
her family and was involved in making funeral arrangements for Nima.
Fortunately, work kept me distracted, as I needed to visit two bases with Kazem
and Rahim, where the Guards were conducting missile tests.
Finally, on Thursday morning, Somaya opened the door to my study. I
was sleeping on the floor on a tiny blanket, squeezed between the wall and my
desk, which filled most of the room.
“I’m wondering if you would come with me to go shopping for Eid-e
Norouz,” she said softly, referring to the upcoming celebration of our New
Year. Unlike the last time she’d spoken to me, there was no sign of hostility
in her voice now. I told her I would be happy to take her shopping. She nodded
and then said nothing for several long seconds. Finally, she pointed to where I
was lying.
“You should have more blankets to sleep on. I put them all in the
storage downstairs.” Then she offered me a smile that went right to my soul.
“But you can sleep in the bedroom with us tonight.”
I wished that I could have found the words to bridge the gap between
us before she had to do it. And once more, I wished I could explain to her why
I’d created that gap in the first place.
I smiled back at her and said, “I’d like that.”
As glad as I was to return to our bed, the next day was a Friday,
and I’d need to get up for Carol’s messages. I would have to take extra care
that night to leave our room without Somaya’s even knowing I was gone. I
couldn’t let Somaya think that anything—especially something that we’d
mysteriously never spoken about—was more important to me than she was at this
point.
As always, my body awoke me with time to spare. I decided to use
this time to begin a letter to Carol. Rasool, the Guards member from the
Intelligence Unit whom I’d mentioned to her in Dubai, told me about arms sales
and Guards training provided by China and North Korea. Inadvertently, Rasool
had become one of my better sources because his travels brought him in contact
with dealings that I ordinarily wouldn’t hear about. Rasool liked to impress
his friends with who he was and with the importance of his job. It took only a
little encouragement to get him to start bragging about the extent of his
insider knowledge and to get him to offer details.
Rasool had joined the Intelligence Unit directly after graduating
from Amir Kabir University of Technology with a degree in electrical
engineering. His father and Rahim’s father belonged to the same mosque and had
been friends for many years. His job interview was perfunctory because his
credentials met all the criteria required to work in the IU, he was deeply
devoted to Islam, and he had a family connection to the Guards. The Guards
preferred people who came with strong recommendations and who they could background-check
easily. Rasool’s colleagues called him gondeh bak, the big guy, because
of his six-foot height and heavy build.
In the midst of my letter to Carol that included new information
from Rasool, the time came for me to listen to messages. I put on my headphones
and listened carefully.
Hello, Wally,
Urgent. Have you heard anything about a CIA operative in Beirut
named William Buckley? We believe he was kidnapped by Hezbollah. Any info
appreciated. Let us know if you hear anything.
Carol
This was the first time the CIA had asked me for specific
information on one of its operatives. To me, this suggested a new level of
trust in the details I’d been providing them. The fact that Carol didn’t
mention my last letter probably meant that she didn’t receive it yet, but I was
glad, after not hearing from her the week before, to know that she had arrived
back in England safely.
After the message, I completed my letter.
[Letter #—] [Date: ———]
Dear Carol,
1—The Guards last week successfully tested their first remote-
controlled drone. The test was done at a base outside of Tehran in the vicinity
of the city of Karaj.
2—The Guards also successfully conducted a surface-to-surface
missile test.
3—North Koreans are here in Iran helping the Guards in the
development of surface-to-surface missiles.
4—Revolutionary Guards are being trained in fighter pilot programs
in North Korea.
5—The Guards Intelligence Unit sent members for counterintelligence
training to North Korea.
6—Revolutionary Guards naval forces are being trained by the Chinese
at a naval base in China.
7—Guards have purchased Chinese Silkworm missiles and have received
the first delivery.
8—The Swedes are selling the Guards small attack boats equipped with
small missiles.
9—Have heard nothing about W.B., but will listen for any info.
Wally
At the time, I’d heard no mention of William Buckley on the news or
in my offices. Because of this, I knew it wouldn’t be wise to ask. My poking
around about an individual whose name should mean nothing to me would certainly
have generated suspicion. The implications of Carol’s message concerned me,
though. Kidnapping of Americans and other foreigners by the Guards and their
proxies to use as bargaining chips was becoming commonplace throughout the
Middle East. But kidnapping a CIA operative was not. In all probability, the
kidnappers would not release Buckley alive —and this meant that the CIA would
likely react disproportionately and that tensions would continue to ratchet up.
I kept my ears open for any mention of Buckley, but heard nothing about this for
the longest time.
Just before Norouz, the Persian New Year, I received a message from
Carol requesting some additional details regarding my previous letter.
[Letter #—] [Date: ———]
Dear Carol,
1—The Guards are looking into purchase of protective gear and equipment
for defending against chemical attacks.
2—I heard from Rahim that Mohsen Rezaei has given the Guards the
go-ahead for research and development of chemical weapons.
3—China is very active in the sales of military armaments to Iran.
They are providing long-range artillery guns along with ammunition. Kazem told
me that due to heavy usage of artillery guns at the front,
the barrels fail and blow up, but China is keeping a steady flow of
new guns into Iran.
4—The Swedish boats are 30–40 feet in length with missile launchers
on the side of the bow. The missiles I saw were 4 to 6 feet long. Each boat
carries two missile launchers along with a heavy machine gun.
5—The Guards plan to use drones both for reconnaissance and as means
of attack by arming them.
6—There are Guards commanders that routinely travel to North Korea
and there is a close relationship between the Revolutionary Guards and the
North Korean military.
Wally
With a few days off for Norouz, I had a chance to relax and pay
attention to my family, something I welcomed and relished. Moheb Khan and Zari
Khanoom, Somaya’s parents, arrived from England to help us celebrate and to
meet their new grandson, who was now crawling and displaying two bottom teeth.
Somaya was exuberant to have her parents be part of Omid’s life. She busied
herself with the preparations of the Norouz haft sin sofreh, the
traditional New Year table, and the scent of the purple and white hyacinth, the
centerpiece of that table, filled the room.
Earlier that day, I had gone to Agha Joon’s house to pick him up for
our dinner. He was too old to be able do things on his own now. In fact, he
would be moving into the house of my uncle (Haleh and Mina’s father) the next
week. Agha Joon could no longer host Norouz, though he’d done so for so many
years. As I drove over to get him, I realized that the torch had been passed
from his generation to mine to continue the family traditions.
Entering the front yard of his house and going down that familiar
path of geranium pots, I experienced a rush of fond memories. I closed my eyes
for a moment and let out a deep breath, savoring the simplicity those memories
evoked. I could hear Khanoom Bozorg calling me a lifetime ago: “Reza
jon, get inside and bring your friends. It is New Year and I want to give
you your eidis.” When we went to her, she handed Naser, Kazem, and me each
a brand-new thousand-rial bill (worth about fifteen U.S. dollars then), which
she had kept inside the Quran. Kazem kissed the Quran and thanked Grandma for
her generosity. Naser saluted the shah’s picture on the bill, put it in his
pocket with all of the other gift money he’d collected, and we all
went back to the yard to happily discuss how we were going to spend
all our eidi money.
It was in this same yard that we gathered with Naser and Davood and
where Naser fell in love with Haleh. It was in this same yard that we
celebrated every day of life without worrying about tomorrow.
As I stood there, I wished Davood was the one giving Agha Joon a
lift to our house and that Naser, Soheil, and Parvaneh would be joining them.
Norouz means “new day” and always begins
on the first day of spring. It represents two ancient symbolic concepts: End
and Rebirth, or, more specifically, the end of evil and rebirth of good. One of
our traditions involved an older family member, usually Agha Joon or Khanoom
Bozorg, telling stories about Norouz and the meaning of the New Year while we
waited for its arrival.
Khanoom Bozorg would tell us about the haft sin, or the seven
S’s. She would explain that the haft sin sofreh included seven
items that started with the letter S: sabzeh, sprouts, which symbolize
rebirth; samanu: a sweet pudding made from wheat germ, symbolizing
affluence; senjed: the dried fruit of the oleaster tree, symbolizing
love; siib: apple, which symbolizes beauty; somaq: sumac,
symbolizing sunrise; serkeh: vinegar, symbolizing age and patience; and sonbol:
hyacinth, to denote the coming of spring. When we were kids, we were more
excited about the gift money than learning about the traditions, but we
patiently sat through Khanoom Bozorg’s explanations.
For the remaining thirteen days of our New Year celebration, we
would gather and party incessantly. Relatives would come and visit the older
members of the family, and then in return, the elders would pay their respects
by visiting them back. All of this meant more gift money for the children. On
the last day, as was the tradition, we all went picnicking in the suburbs area,
dancing, singing, and playing outside until the night forced us back to our
homes.
Somaya’s table was as colorful and delightful as what I remembered
of my grandmother’s, and as is the custom, it included a mirror and lit candles
for enlightenment and happiness.
As the New Year approached, we gathered around the table—Somaya and
her parents, Agha Joon, my mother, and me holding Omid. My mother and I had not
resolved our differences, and I still saw scorn in her eyes whenever she looked
at me. But Omid’s birth had softened her, and she
visited us fairly regularly to see him. She loved her grandson very
much and she would endure my presence if necessary to spend time with him.
Moheb Khan started to read verses from the Quran. We all closed our
eyes and prayed in silence. Shortly after our prayer, the room suddenly got
dark—a power outage, a common occurrence during the war.
“I know they did this on purpose today,” my mother said, shaking her
head. “They don’t want us to have power for the New Year. They don’t want us to
celebrate the Norouz and have a happy life.”
Although the power outages happened nearly every day, I knew my
mother was making a point here: that the mullahs were trying as hard as they
could to ruin our culture. I suppose she was also reminding me how much she
disapproved of my association with the regime. As far as the mullahs’ aims were
concerned, she was right. They tried very hard to take away our Persian
heritage and force Arab/Islamic tradition down our throats. They had gone so
far as to try to ban the New Year celebration, calling it un-Islamic.
There was a pregnant silence in the room when the lights went out.
Then Agha Joon patted my mom’s back and said, “You are right. It is not going
to be the same as long as our country is being ruled by these long-bearded,
motherless donkeys. But, Fataneh jon, this is the only thing we have
left. Norouz is the only part of Persian heritage that has kept our identity
intact besides our family.” Agha Joon moved a candleholder closer to him.
“We’ve been celebrating Norouz for three thousand years and they can’t prevent
us from doing so now or ever.”
Then he got up with the help of his cane and kissed my mom’s
forehead. He took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Somaya. “Somaya jon,
this is Omid’s eidi. I hope to God that next year we have Shahanshah’s
son, back from exile in America. Then Norouz would be the same as it used to be
and happiness will be back to our homes.”
Agha Joon then walked around and kissed every one of us to mark the
coming of the New Year. It was usually the job of younger ones to get up and
kiss the elders to show their respect and love for the family. But that had
changed, too.
I looked over at my mother and whispered, “Happy New Year.” I wished
so much that I could tell her I was sorry, but, as always, I choked this back.
The candles on our table, which had been there to symbolize
happiness and enlightenment, now served as beacons through government-imposed
darkness. The mirror, which should have reflected the light for a
brighter future, instead reflected the disappointment in my mother’s eyes for
me.
THE RADICAL
During one of these times, the mullah conducting the sermon was
Hashemi Rafsanjani. He was then the speaker of the parliament and would
eventually become president and then a pivotal “moderate” figure in the uproar
surrounding the 2009 elections.
“The West and the Zionist media accuse us of torturing our prisoners
in Evin Prison,” he said to the gathered thousands. “They say we torture the
members of the opposition and force them into confession.” At this, he smirked.
I peeked at Kazem, who was listening enthusiastically and responding to
Rafsanjani’s every gesture. “The West does not understand that the prisoners
are introduced to Quran and the Islamic values by our committed Guards. It is
the power of Islam that helps these people to understand their mistakes. They
repent and ask God for forgiveness—and that’s how they confess.”
The crowd responded exuberantly, shouting, “Allaho Akbar. …
Khomeini Rahbar…. Death to America…. Death to Israel. …”
Rafsanjani continued to offer preposterous disinformation to the
masses —who applauded it feverishly—while I stewed. Radical rhetoric always
disturbed me, but what Rafsanjani was suggesting about Evin Prison
after what I knew happened to Naser, Soheil, Parvaneh, Roya, and so many others
inflamed me, though I couldn’t show any sign of this. I wondered how Kazem
could raise his fist in the air in support of these words with so little regard
for the memories of people he once loved. It shamed me to watch this blind
display of loyalty, this damning of the media of the West for telling the
truth. Though I pretended to participate in this mass hysteria, the experience
brought me to tears.
Kazem peeked at me and handed me his handkerchief to wipe my eyes.
He had once known me so well, but now his fanaticism had overwhelmed him so
completely that he had utterly misinterpreted my emotions. “We are so alone in
this world, Reza,” he said, touching me on the shoulder. “But God is on our
side. The West can lie all it wants about our revolution to the rest of the
world, but victory will be ours. It is all in Allah’s hands.”
I nodded at him earnestly. Though it was critical to my mission that
I maintain his trust, there were times when I just wanted to scream at him,
shake him, or smash him against a wall while telling him how stupid and blind
he was.
A few weeks after the Rafsanjani sermon, Kazem came to my office.
“Reza, get your bags packed,” he said. “We’re leaving in two days
for Bandar ‘Abbas. We have to set up the new computer system for our command
and control centers in the Persian Gulf area.”
Bandar ‘Abbas, a Persian Gulf port city on the southern coast of
Iran, is in the most strategic position on the Strait of Hormuz, through which
all shipping in the area must pass. Deployed at the mouth of the Gulf, the
Guards were in place to control or disrupt the flow of oil to the world. The
idea of going on this trip with Kazem excited me because it presented an
excellent opportunity to gather intelligence for the CIA.
Bandar ‘Abbas also served as the hub from which personnel and
military equipment were secretly transferred in large old fishing boats to the
Guards’ naval bases on the islands in the Strait of Hormuz. They also used other
old ships to transfer arms from international waters into Iran.
During the course of our stay there, we witnessed large-scale
training of the forces and talked to many commanders about the buildup. Guards
were training thousands of smaller units as divers and missile launchers along
with the regular forces, who were trained on smaller boats designed for
maneuverability in the Persian Gulf. As we moved from one base to another
along the coast, we saw that the Guards’ surveillance units kept an
eye on every ship from the time it entered the Gulf through the Strait of
Hormuz all the way up to the ports of Iraq.
We also witnessed the training of Guards naval forces. They attacked
dummy enemy ships with hundreds of smaller boats. It became clear to me that
the intention was to build an unconventional navy. The Guards knew their
current ships could be destroyed in a matter of hours in any conflict with the
U.S., but hundreds of smaller units armed with missiles could pose a serious
problem for any entity on the water.
After a tiring day-trip to the Qeshm and Abu Musa islands, Kazem and
I fell into our beds at the base. Kazem was on the top bunk bed and I was on
the bottom. Though I was exhausted, I had trouble sleeping because of the heat
and humidity. A soggy breeze wafted through the torn drapes of the barracks,
carrying the salty scent of the ocean and the soothing slapping of the waves.
The sounds and smells of nature at peace might have lulled me at another time
in my life, but this was not nearly enough now. Instead, this evidence of
nature’s purity reminded me how far from pure our ambitions were in my country.
I wondered if my reports to the CIA would change any of this, though I was less
than certain. I blew out a deep breath as I sank into my thoughts.
As I did, Kazem bent over my bed. “Reza, are you awake? Are you
okay?”
I hated that I couldn’t express despair in private when I was at
work— even in the middle of the night. “It is so hot, Kazem. I can’t sleep. How
can you sleep with this humidity?”
“I am not sleepy. I was just thinking and wondering about where life
is going to take us. You know, Reza, sometimes I wonder how we could defeat
America. I believe that our Imam Mahdi will reappear and bring justice to the
world and put an end to these sinful evildoers. But I wonder if I will be there
when it happens. Could I have the honor of serving under his leadership and
witnessing this victory?”
The belief in the eventual reappearance of the Shiite’s twelfth
Imam, Mahdi, brings much excitement to Shiites. I always thought we were meant
to interpret the promise of Mahdi’s reappearance as an allegory. However,
Kazem—and the many others who thought like him—believed that a human being,
even a holy one like the last Shiite Imam, could hide in a hole for hundreds of
years and then come back to lead Khomeini’s movement,
bring justice and fairness to the entire world, and provide hope for
divine change.
“Do you know this hadith about Imam Mahdi by the prophet Mohammad?”
Kazem asked. “It says: ‘During the last times, my people will be afflicted with
terrible and unprecedented calamities and misfortunes from their rulers, so
much so that this vast earth will appear small to them. Persecution and
injustice will engulf the earth. The believers will find no shelter to seek
refuge from these tortures and injustices. At such a time, God will raise from
my progeny a man who will establish peace and justice on this earth in the same
way as it had been filled with injustice and distress.’”
“Of course I know the hadith!” I lied. “You know, Kazem, I sometimes
wonder myself. But then I think about how you and I ended up being here,
sharing a belief, our commitment to Islam, and about how our destiny and faith
kept us so close together. We are achieving a lot under Imam Khomeini’s
guidance and leadership. I strongly believe we both will be honored to serve
under Imam Mahdi’s leadership, inshallah.”
I was thankful for the darkness because it was difficult to believe
that my expression wouldn’t have betrayed me as an impostor when those words
came from my mouth.
“Reza, you are an asset to this nation and you should know how much
respect I have for you. I’ve wanted to say something to you for a long time; I
wish that Naser had chosen another path. I wish he had been more like you. I
pray for him often, you know. I pray that God forgives his sins.”
I wondered why Kazem was bringing up Naser’s name now, since he
hadn’t said a word about him since he told me about our friend’s execution. It
made me cringe to think that Kazem wished Naser had been more like me. Did that
mean he wished that Naser were a liar and someone who needed to hide behind his
own shadow?
“We all suffer for our ignorance,” Kazem continued. “God is divine
and Islam is our guidance. If we ignore the truth, Jahanam is where we
end up. Now you better get to sleep. We’ve had a very long day today.”
There was Kazem’s philosophy in a nutshell: true believers like
radical Muslims who kill in God’s name go to heaven, and people who question
the authority of the mullahs and fight for their rights go to hell. If Kazem
thought I could sleep with that concept in my head, he was even more deluded
than I realized.
The night was long and sleep completely eluded me. A warm breeze
forced itself through the drapes, reminding me of the drapes in my room at
Grandma’s house. She used to push them away in the morning, asking me if I had
done my morning prayer. “Grandma, I will do it later,” I would say, to which
she would respond, “My dear, if you skip your prayers you go to Jahanam.
You don’t want to end up in the fire of hell with snakes and scorpions around
you. Do your namaz and be good and you will go to heaven.” The path to
heaven she described seemed as much of a fantasy as the one Kazem envisioned.
In either case, the question for me remained the same: Was there a place in
heaven for those who betrayed?
After two weeks in the Gulf, we returned home to a life that had the
veneer of normalcy even at a time of war. I felt the trip had been successful
for two reasons. First, I’d gathered a wealth of information. And second,
though I felt more like an impostor than ever, spending so much time with Kazem
had created the illusion of closeness. I’m sure in his clouded eyes he saw this
as a stretch that equaled the true brotherhood of our youth.
In my study, before listening for my next message from Carol, I
wrote another letter. Then I started to decode the latest signals.
Hello, Wally,
We need to change the mailing address for your letters.
No concern; just routine procedure.
From now on mail to:
51 X Street, Apt. 112
London
Be safe,
Carol
I could not understand why they needed to change this address. Had
there been a security breach or was this as routine as Carol suggested in her
message? If there had been a breach, would they hide it from me so I would
continue to work? Would they try to help me and my family get out if I’d been
exposed? My thoughts became frantic for several long minutes until I calmed
myself. I had to trust them or I would drive myself crazy and make unfixable
mistakes. There were good reasons for them to take the precautions they were
taking. Using one location for a long period made our correspondence easier to
discover. I had to believe this.
The next day, Rahim summoned me to his office. When I arrived, he
rushed in behind me, closed the door, and sat behind his desk.
“Beshin, Baradar,” he said, commanding
me to sit down.
I did as ordered. He opened a drawer, grabbed a folder, and slid it
toward me. Before I could read the bold words on it, he covered them with his
chubby hands and slid the folder back toward himself. He tapped his fingers on
the folder with his left hand while he reached into his breast pocket with the
other for his reading glasses.
“I have some documents here that I need you to translate for me.”
He pushed the folder toward me again. The bold letters, N-A-T-O, did
not register with me right away, but when I opened the folder and saw pictures
and descriptions of heavy military machinery, I realized the folder contained
secret documents. I could not believe that NATO members were offering various
types of military equipment to the Revolutionary Guards, turning their backs on
the U.S. arms embargo on Iran.
“Do you want me to translate the whole thing for you, Baradar
Rahim?” I asked.
“No, no. That has been taken care of. I am just interested in
certain equipment.”
Apparently, the Guards had already arranged for a sizeable purchase.
We went over details for an hour or so with Rahim growing increasingly excited
about the machinery we’d been able to acquire. Rahim took notes. I did as well,
in my head.
[Letter #—]
[Date: ———]
Dear Carol,
1—Got your message. Please confirm receipt. I hope I have the new
address right.
2—Today, in Rahim’s office, I was asked to translate documents from
a folder containing pictures and descriptions of heavy machinery to be used at
the front. “NATO” was written on top of the folder. Some of the machinery is
used to make bunkers and others are to carry heavy equipment and tanks.
3—Rahim said the Revolutionary Guards were going to place an order
and some of the equipment will originate from England and Germany.
4—Kazem told me that the Guards have set up R & D to produce
chemical weapons and are making progress on weaponizing mustard gas. This
effort has been cleared by the leadership to counter Saddam’s use of chemical
weapons.
5—I am to be sent back to the front in a few weeks. I will keep you
informed on the date.
Wally
I was nervous about the prospect of making another trip to the
front. So many people were dying there and I felt that the risks increased for
me every time I went. Little did I know that I would face an even greater risk
before then.
SUSPICIONS
Fortunately, I didn’t notice anyone. I spent an extra minute
surveying the area, then rushed inside our office building. A few pasdar
were waiting to catch the elevator in the hallway. I didn’t feel like engaging
anyone at that moment, so I kept my head down and hurried to the end of the
corridor to the stairs. I took two steps at a time up to my fourth-floor
office, and when I got there, I was short of breath. I shut the office door and
held my face in my hands, rubbing my eyes. The experience had unnerved me. The
fact that the man in khakis stopped by the mailbox was scary. If he found my
letter to Carol and knew how to decode it, he would find out that I’d written
it. The level of detail in that report would verify that I was Wally. I
realized that it had been ridiculous of me to continue the mail drop when I
knew I was being watched, and I beat myself up over this.
What was done was done, though. I tried to calm down and reassure
myself that I was being paranoid. No one would be able to decode my letter.
Only the CIA could do that.
I blew a deep breath and opened my eyes.
And the sight of Javad—sitting in my chair behind my desk—jolted me.
“Salam, Baradar,” he said, snickering
and getting up from my desk. “You look exhausted. Did you jog to work today?”
I tried to maintain my composure and stay grounded. “What are you
doing in my office?” I didn’t want to sound confrontational, so I softened my
tone. “Is everything okay, Baradar Javad?”
“Yes, everything is okay. But you seem upset,” he said
sarcastically.
He clearly had a purpose for being here, but he was not forthcoming
about it. Scanning the room, he selected a new chair while motioning me to sit.
He leaned forward, stared at me, and didn’t move.
I knew he was up to something; he usually was. His body language was
aggressive and his gaze was intimidating, even though he wasn’t doing anything
outwardly confrontational. Despite his sitting, he managed to use his size—more
chubby than imposing—to menace.
Akbar, a friend of his, a member of our department and someone who
was a good source of mine with a number of contacts in the Foreign Ministry,
had told me that Javad was meddling in everyone’s business and that he kept a
file on everyone, even though this was beyond his job assignment. I had already
experienced his intrusions several times and I had written Carol over my
concerns about him. Akbar told me that Javad used the information he gathered
to ingratiate himself with his superiors and to gain more power.
Javad was the youngest of three brothers. The oldest brother had
been martyred in the war fighting the Iraqis. The middle brother was paralyzed
from a childhood disease. Javad took care of his surviving brother and helped
his parents, who were still living in poverty. He’d been rising quickly through
the ranks in the Intelligence Unit, primarily because of his devotion to the
Islamic government and his willingness to sell out his family members and
neighbors. He’d recently arranged for the arrest of a man who lived in his
neighborhood whose only crime was whispering to a neighbor about the lack of
freedom for his daughters while waiting in a line at a grocery store to
exchange his food coupons for some sugar and rice.
“What brings you here, Baradar?” I asked again.
“I am planning on visiting an old friend, Abbass, at the
Intelligence Headquarters. He studied abroad, just like you. I think he also
lived in California for some time. I told him I would bring you along to meet
him. Maybe you know each other.”
“Today?”
“Yeah. I checked your schedule with Rahim and he said you are pretty
open.”
This caught me off guard and ratcheted up my sense of apprehension.
Javad was definitely up to something. Was the man I saw this morning somehow connected
to this? I did not know what to say or how to react.
“Is that a problem?” Javad’s voice had turned threatening. He still
hadn’t moved.
I scrambled for an explanation. “Omid, my son, is sick. My wife
wants me to go to the doctor with her.” I felt a little relief as I came up
with this story. “Do we need to go today?”
“Yes, we do,” he said tersely. “Abbass is a very busy man. This is
the only time he can see us. I hope your son feels better soon, inshallah.
I’ll be in my office. Meet me there in half an hour.”
Javad stood up slowly, uncoiling, looking as though he were
considering devouring me. I felt naked and vulnerable.
Without another word, he left.
I went immediately to Kazem’s office. As complicated as our
relationship had become, at least in my eyes, and as much as I felt he’d turned
into someone very different from the boy I grew up with, I still saw him as a
safe harbor. We had a long and deep history together, and that had to mean
something. I felt in desperate need of that safe harbor now, so I needed to
talk to him. I also wanted him to know that if I didn’t come back, I’d left the
grounds with Javad.
Kazem was on the phone, as usual. I didn’t hear what he was saying,
nor was it my intention to eavesdrop this time.
“What’s up, Reza?” he asked as soon as he hung up.
“Not much. I just came to say hi. I am going with Javad to the
Intelligence Headquarters. He wants me to meet somebody there.”
“He does? Who does he want you to meet?”
“I don’t know, some friend of his named Abbass, who apparently went
to school in California.”
“Hmm.”
Kazem’s expression showed that this was new information to him. I
realized quickly that I wasn’t going to accomplish much with this conversation.
Kazem couldn’t offer me any kind of security this time. By all indications, he
knew nothing of what was going on.
“I should be going,” I said. “He’s waiting for me. By the way,
Baradar Rahim said he would give you the details for our trip to jebheh.
Let me know when you have them.”
In the hallway, I ran into Rahim myself. “Salam, Baradar
Rahim.”
“Salam, Baradar Reza. Javad was looking for you this morning.
Did you talk to him?”
“Yes.”
“He checked to see how busy you were today, saying he wanted to take
you out for lunch or something. Could you come to my office when you get back?
I need your help with my computer. It’s acting up again.”
It appeared to me that whatever Javad’s plan was, it was not coming
from my department, as neither Rahim nor Kazem seemed aware of it. That offered
me no solace. Regardless of who knew what was going on, Javad could be ushering
me to my doom within the hour.
I needed to talk to Somaya. If Javad’s intentions were as sinister
as I suspected, I wanted to hear her voice one more time. As soon as I got back
to my office, I hesitantly dialed our home number, not sure how I could explain
a call like this. Realizing I was only going to make Somaya worried, I decided
to hang up. But before I could, Somaya answered.
“Somaya jon, it’s me,” I said as I tried to work my way
through a lie. “I just ran into my commander and he said there might be a need
for several of us to be sent to the fronts right away.”
Somaya gasped. “Is there going to be a major offensive or
something?” She sounded frightened and I felt horrible that I was doing that to
her. I didn’t intend to scare her, but I had to give her something to hold on
to in case the worst happened to me.
“Oh, no. Rahim just wants me and a few other guards to be ready for
… Hold on a moment. …” I felt somebody was lurking outside of my office. I
slowly put the handset on the desk and opened the door. But I did not see
anybody. I looked down the hallway, and when I was certain that nobody was
around, I shut the door and picked up the phone.
“I love you, Somaya,” I said, still not knowing what to tell her.
I’d called her so impulsively that I didn’t think things through.
“Reza, you are making me so worried. Is everything okay? You are
being very strange. You never call me in the middle of the day. What’s wrong?”
What if this were the last time I heard her voice? What if Javad and
the guy in the khaki pants I saw this morning were decoding my letter at this
moment? What if I never saw my son again? These thoughts consumed me and I
couldn’t speak.
“And I love you, too,” she said after a long pause from me.
In that moment, I realized that all of my strength came from her
love. Even as worried as I was now, having such a pure, innocent being in my
life brought me joy. “Would you promise me something?” I asked.
“If you insist,” she responded with a hint of irony in her voice.
I looked up at the door again and sharpened my ear to see if I could
hear anybody. Then I continued. “Should something happen to me, promise me
you’ll go to London with Omid and stay with your parents.” She did not say
anything, so I continued again. “As I said, I might go to the front today. If
you don’t hear from me in a few days, I want you to pack your bags and go to
London. Do you promise me?”
“Reza, you don’t need to remind me how dangerous your work is,” she
said with confusion in her voice. “But I don’t understand why they need a
computer guy at the front. I am just …” She did not finish and just stayed
quiet while I told her one more time how much I loved her.
Then, as much as I wanted to continue to hear her voice, I realized
that I needed to hang up. The Guards could have been listening to this call,
further fueling their suspicion about me.
I met Javad at his office and from there we headed toward his car. I
resolved to maintain my composure, trying to convince myself that Javad was
acting the way he was simply to test me. After all, according to Akbar, he’d
made a profession out of testing people. Meanwhile, my thoughts raced between
wondering if the Guards knew about Wally and persuading myself that they
couldn’t possibly know.
We’d barely started driving when Javad raised my anxieties to new
levels.
“Baradar Reza, we are going to Evin Prison instead of Abbass’s
office,” he said. “Abbass is at Evin today.”
The mere suggestion of Evin set my mind reeling. Images immediately
flashed of the last time I was there. The sounds of terror, torture, wailing,
and gunshots rang in my ears simultaneously. I thought of Parvaneh, Naser, and
Soheil. Unbidden, the thought came of myself as a prisoner there, and I came
very close to losing the façade of calm I’d managed to erect provisionally.
“I am looking forward to meeting this friend of yours,” I said as I
straightened my back in my seat. “It’s Baradar Abbass, right?”
“Yeah, Abbass. God bless him. This morning he told me they had just
arrested two pasdar who were working as spies for other countries. It’s
hard to believe those bastards thought they could infiltrate us, steal our
secrets,
and get away with their treacherous acts. We lose our brothers in
war, and these sons of dogs sell us out for money to America, Israel, or the
Mujahedin. They are going to pay and then pay again.”
He looked over at me, narrowing his eyes. I could feel the hatred in
his voice, the insane need to avenge his brother by bringing down anyone who
opposed the regime, and therefore the cause for which his brother had died.
His mention of the arrest of the Guards sent the pendulum of my
thoughts back to the belief that Javad was driving me toward my imprisonment.
For the first time since I became Wally, I felt I had reached the end. I was
caught. My mind raced to think of a way out. In this frantic condition, I
remembered a spy movie I watched with Naser when we were teenagers. In the
movie, a spy took cyanide just before he was captured to avoid certain torture.
If I had a cyanide capsule on me at that moment, I might have done the same.
But such a thing hadn’t come in the “spy kit” provided by the CIA. In this
moment, in this car that I believed was delivering me to a future of agony, I
felt very alone. I looked out the window, as if something there would provide
me with an option.
“They go to America, and instead of helping their country, they
betray us. One of these jasoosa gave away a secret plan about the war
and a lot of Basijis lost their lives.”
Javad’s resentment for me was very personal. If, in fact, he did
know that I was a spy, he was equating me with the death of our soldiers and,
by extension, the death of his brother.
I continued to play the role of the faithful Guard. “Baradar Javad,
we are fortunate that we have people like Abbass, whose knowledge is building a
strong coalition for our Islamic movement. His American education is an asset
for us. He knows the Americans better than they know us. He is not a betrayer.”
Javad glanced at me quickly before returning his eyes to the road.
He didn’t respond, and I stayed quiet as well, hoping that doing so would allow
my words to sink in with him. If Javad and his cohorts had evidence against me,
I knew I was already lost. But that didn’t prevent me from trying everything at
my disposal to convince them that they’d misjudged me.
A short while later, we entered through the main gate of Evin and
headed toward the prosecution wing, southwest of the main prison building.
Javad knew exactly where to go, probably because he’d spent a great deal of
time here. I followed behind him in the long hallway lined with doors on both
sides. He then made a left turn to another smaller hallway, stopped
on the right side, and knocked on a door. Before anybody could answer, he
opened the door.
Two Guards sat facing each other at desks piled with files and
stacks of paper. One Guard gestured for the other to leave the room. Then he
got up and approached Javad.
“Salam aleikom, Baradar Javad,” he said, giving Javad a hug
and kiss on each cheek. He reached his hand to me. “You must be Reza. I’m
Abbass.”
I nodded as I shook his hand.
Tall with broad shoulders, Abbass cut the image of a handsome pasdar
in his tailored uniform. Despite his full beard and trimmed mustache, he looked
neat and clean, unlike so many of his brethren who cared little for their
appearance.
Abbass’s manner could not have been more different from Javad’s. He
casually asked me about my life in Southern California and his manner was
affable and gracious. He opened the conversation by saying that he went to
school in Los Angeles around the same time I was there. I responded by telling
him of my association with Islamic students in LA.
“Oh, did you know Shahid Baradar Hassan?” he asked.
“No. I knew a lot of people in the association, but I mostly hung
around with Farzin and Mani, who were in charge of most of the meetings.
Perhaps you knew them?”
“Yes, I knew them,” he said, smiling. “They were a mainstay of the
association in those days. Did you know that both Mani and Hassan came back and
were martyred on the front? Two great shahid. But I never heard anything
more of Farzin. Do you know where he is?”
“No, I’ve lost contact with him. I’m sorry to hear about Mani and
Hassan. We’re fortunate to have such devoted baradaran.”
Abbass seemed to consider this for a moment. “Javad said you took a
trip back to America a few years ago. You didn’t see Farzin or contact him
then?”
I told him about the nature of my trip and that I had only a short
amount of time to spend with my aunt and help her transition to the
assisted-living facility. I mentioned that I’d met with my old roommates,
assuming he already knew that.
We talked about the student association for a while and I learned
that Abbass was a committee head of the association and attended some of the
meetings on the same days I was there. There was a surreal feeling
to this conversation. I’d entered the office believing that they were about to
ship me to hell, yet we spoke in a relaxed manner, like nothing more than two
people with common acquaintances.
Javad, however, had a point to press. “Some of those students joined
the Mujahedin, and the rest of them are working for Zionist America,” he said
sharply.
As he said that, I remembered that Johnny, my college roommate, had
mentioned something about someone named Farhad—I didn’t know anyone named
Farhad—who’d joined the Mujahedin with his sister. I now realized that Johnny
was talking about Farzin. Johnny told me that Farhad/Farzin had been arrested
and killed in Iran.
So that’s what this is all about. They’re trying to connect me to
Farzin with trick questions.
Javad continued, insisting that all Iranians who studied abroad were
criminals and had no decency.
Impatiently, Abbass turned and said, “Javad, we have many Guards who
have been educated all over the world and are serving our country well and with
pure belief.” He was obviously offended.
This exchange only increased the tension in the room from my
perspective. I still didn’t know what was going on. Had Javad brought me here
to set me up, hoping I’d say something out of nervousness that would indict me?
If so, had I already said something to compromise myself? Or did Abbass know
more than he was letting on, in which case his friendliness was just a sham
before they destroyed me.
Just as Abbass started to ask another question, a loud knock at the
door interrupted us and two tall and well-built pasdar entered the room.
Their machine guns were hanging on their backs, and they had small guns at
their waists. Their arrival immediately led me to believe that my time of
reckoning had come. I felt all my resolve leave me; I was suddenly ready to
surrender, to admit anything they wanted to know or confirm everything they
already believed.
Long moments passed with the gaze of these pasdar seemingly
boring a hole into me. Then Abbass approached them, handed over a folder, and
whispered something to one of them. I had never felt so vulnerable in my life.
I was certain that I had failed to meet Abbass’s scrutiny. I stared at the
floor, feeling numb; my ears, mouth, eyes—my whole body was senseless. I
couldn’t think of anything, not even my son. The image of Somaya’s
smile didn’t bring back my strength. Naser’s unjust death meant nothing at that
moment. I couldn’t think of any ifs—if I survived this, if I got to go home, if
I could just see my family one more time …
“Okay, then. Come on, we’re going now,” Javad said, tapping my
shoulder.
Resigned to my fate, I got up, thinking I was leaving with the two
Guards. That’s when I saw that they were no longer in the room. I had missed
their departure in my panicked reverie. Then Abbass got up and rearranged the
papers on his desk, grabbed a folder, put it under his arm, and shook my hand.
“I should be leaving as I have to be in my office soon,” he said. He
then patted Javad’s shoulder and told him that he would be in touch.
Still feeling numb, I said good-bye to Abbass, and Javad and I left.
Back in the car, my senses started to return. “Are we going back to
the base?” I asked, still wondering if Javad might be taking me elsewhere.
Javad threw me an arched eyebrow. “Where else do you want to go?”
“Nowhere,” I said quickly. “I promised Rahim that I’d fix his
computer sometime today. I just didn’t know if you needed to go somewhere
first.”
Javad scratched his mustache with his bottom teeth, rolled his eyes,
and kept driving. We returned to the base and I got on with the rest of my day.
As much as I tried, I couldn’t begin to understand what this
experience was all about.
That night at home I told Somaya that I would be staying in my study
to take care of some unfinished work and that I would not be coming to the
bedroom at all. I could see that she wasn’t sure what to make of this. I’d
rattled her with the phone call earlier in the day, and my explanation when I
got home about a delay in our mission to the front hardly seemed to mollify
her. But she simply nodded her understanding. I promised myself that I would
explain things to her better later, but I didn’t have the strength to do so
tonight.
Alone in my study, I pondered for hours. I’d made any number of
monumental decisions over the past few years and it was time for me to make
another one—maybe the toughest of my life. I chain-smoked an entire pack of
cigarettes, and when I lit my last one, I realized that I knew what I had to
do.
[Letter #—] [Date: ———]
Dear Carol,
You might be surprised to see that the format of this letter is
different— no numbering and no outlines. I was at Evin Prison today. I am not
certain as to what happened or what is about to happen.
I have told you about Javad, the guy who constantly asks me
questions. He has connections in the Intelligence Unit and he took me to Evin
Prison today. I thought that I would never come out again. He introduced me to
a guy named Abbass Karmani. I don’t know who he is or what his exact position
is, but he was a member of the Islamic Students’ Association in Los Angeles
while I was studying there. He works at the Intelligence Headquarters now.
While I was there, two other Guards came in to check me out. I am not sure
whether they think of me as a member of the Mujahedin or if they suspect me of
spying. But as much as I want to believe the whole thing is a game that Javad
is playing to shake me up, I have to be careful.
I am especially worried about my family. I am going to talk to my
wife and try to convince her to move to London. I will be transferring the
codebook out of my house, and will not be sending any mail or listening for any
messages. If things get worse, I will destroy the codes. Please remember that I
will need one favor and one favor only. Should anything happen to me, I beg of
you to look after my wife and son.
I will continue my daily life here, as I have no other choice. I am
being sent to the front again soon. You will hear from me if I verify this was
a one-time incident and I feel I am safe.
God bless, Wally
ANOTHER MARTYR
I remembered Steve’s warning at the outset of my engagement with the
CIA: “I want you to be completely aware of the consequences if things go wrong,
Wally. The United States government will deny any relationship with you. There
won’t be a navy fleet coming to your rescue.”
In other words, no one would save me from a horrific fate.
There was one thing—perhaps the only thing—I could do: commit
suicide. Sometimes defeat is not a man’s choice, but to die with pride and
dignity is. The only way I could protect my family in the event I was arrested
was to kill myself. The Guards wouldn’t torture Somaya and Omid to force a
confession out of me if I were already dead. So I drove to a local drugstore
and purchased rat poison. I filled four gel capsules with the powder and
carried them with me from then on.
Next I had to hide the codebooks. If the Guards were on to me or had
any suspicions about me, they would ransack my home looking for evidence. I
needed to get the books to a place where they’d be less likely to look, and I
decided that my mother’s condo was the most secure place available to me. I
asked Somaya to get Omid ready to visit my mother.
I spent the entire drive to my mother’s contemplating my life
decisions and the path on which I’d placed those I loved. Because of me, Omid’s
future was like a dangling leaf on a bare tree with a storm fast approaching.
As though to underscore the role I played in putting him in harm’s way, I
was using his diaper bag to transfer the codebooks, the very
vouchers of my betrayal.
My mind was racing, and I must have exhibited this outwardly,
because Somaya touched me on the arm and said, “Is something wrong, Reza? You
don’t seem to be yourself.”
“It’s nothing. I’m just concerned about going to the front again.
I’m not sure when I’m going and there’s so much to do before I leave. I’m a
little stressed trying to figure out how to get it all done. It’s nothing for
you to worry about.”
She gave me an understanding pat and let it go.
When we arrived, Somaya and Mom quickly started fussing over Omid. I
took the codebooks up to the closet in what had been my room before I got
married. I had other items stored there—school-books, letters, photos— things I
wanted to keep but didn’t have the room for at my place. Before I stored the
codebooks, I labeled the package “Ideas for Computer Programs” just in case my
mother should find it. Then I went back to my family and tried to enjoy the
simplicity of playing with a child.
In the following weeks, I took extra precautions. I made sure my
daily routine of getting to and from work remained the same. This included
dropping off letters to my aunt, though I was no longer using them to obscure
the letters I was sending to Carol. At work, I stayed focused on my
assignments. Not knowing what Javad was up to, I needed to appear to be the
model Guard. I had barely seen him since we returned from Evin, but I still
felt his presence.
During this silent period, many things happened that I’d been unable
to report to Carol. One was the formation of the Ministry of Intelligence and
Security (MOIS) in August 1984. The regime was consolidating most of their
intelligence work into the ministry, which was to become the center of all that
activity, though the Guards would continue to have an intelligence presence at
every base. With the formation of MOIS, Javad and Rasool, along with a few
others from our base, were transferred to the ministry. The fact that Javad was
now working in the Ministry of Intelligence gave me chills because it meant he
had more authority and autonomy. Kazem remained at our base as part of the
Guards’ Intelligence Unit.
Though it took longer than expected, Kazem informed me that Rahim
had finally issued the order for us to go to the front. There was no particular
reason why he chose us for this mission other than that he wanted all of the
Guards under his command to be in close contact with martyrdom
regularly. He felt that “getting close to heaven purifies the soul. Should you
be worthy enough, you will become a martyr and join our great prophet Mohammad,
Imam Ali, Imam Hussein, and all God’s martyrs in heaven. But only if you are
worthy enough.”
When Kazem told me that Javad had volunteered to join us on this
trip, it did not shock me, even though he was no longer in our unit. It simply
confirmed that he was still watching me, and that he would continue to do so
until he found something.
The night before I left, I was packing my bag. Somaya had put Omid
in his crib for the night and now she sat quietly on our bed, watching me. She
seemed terribly sad, her fingers playing with the end of her shirt, rolling it
up and down. I knew she wanted to say something, perhaps something she’d wanted
to say for a long time. I stopped packing and sat next to her. She bent her
head and looked at her hands, but she remained quiet. I wrapped my arm around
her and kissed her head. I couldn’t think of what to say and ended up saying
nothing. But I sat next to her for a long while. Finally, she broke the
silence.
“You come back home in one piece, Reza,” she whispered.
Her lower lip curled, her eyelids turned red, and a tear rolled down
her cheek. I wiped the tear away, leaned my head on her forehead, held on to
her hands, and then let her cry on my shoulder, too overwhelmed by a suite of
emotions to do anything other than embrace her.
I reported directly to Kazem’s office early the next morning. When I
arrived, his expression was unlike any I’d seen on his face in a long time. His
eyes were gleaming, and he seemed happy in a very different way from how he
appeared after the regime scored a great victory.
“What’s gotten into you?” I asked as I put down my bag.
Kazem got up from his chair. “My parents went khastegari for
me a couple of weeks ago. I did not tell you before because I was not sure if
they would be successful.”
The chance to talk to Kazem about something as human as marriage
warmed me. “Why would anybody reject a great man like you?” I said with a huge
smile. “Who is the lucky bride?”
“Her name is Zohreh,” he said excitedly. “She was introduced to my
mom at a Quran reading. Mom thinks she is a very devoted Muslim and
would make a great housewife. We are getting married after I come
back from jebheh.”
I reached out and gave him a hug, genuinely happy for him. When we
were kids, we’d talked many times about getting married. It felt so good to
bring those memories back now. He told me a little more about Zohreh, and we
were both still smiling as we put our baggage in the back of the Toyota SUV
supplied by the Guards. My good mood faded when Javad arrived, acknowledged me
with a stiff hello, and climbed into the backseat.
Throughout the long drive to Ahwaz, a city in the southwest of Iran
close to the border with Iraq, I worried about what Javad might bring up.
Though we were going to the front, Javad’s presence was the greatest source of
my anxiety. He was mysteriously quiet, though. Kazem, who drove, listened to
the news on the radio, and I pretended to be asleep most of the way, inventing
the excuse that Omid had been up all night crying.
We made a few stops along the way in Hamadan, Khorramabad, and
Dezful. The entire trip took more than twelve hours and darkness was upon us
when we arrived at a garrison in Ahwaz. From there, we headed to the base
behind the front lines. Our forces had no offensives planned the next day, so
there was no sermon that night. It was already late, so shortly after our group
namaz, we went to sleep. I was relieved that Javad had not challenged me
on the trip, but I was still wary of him. I had to find a way to show him that
I was devoted to my mission in jebheh and that I would fight for my
country just like any other Guard or Basiji. If I could win his confidence,
perhaps he would leave me alone.
The next morning, we drove on a narrow dirt road bookended by hills
on either side. Several times, ambulances rushing back with wounded forced us
to pull over, a stark reminder of what we were facing. The sound of artillery
guns firing behind us was deafening. A loud boom shook the ground with such
force it felt like an earthquake.
As we got closer, I could see the incoming artillery rounds from
enemy fire blasting the surrounding areas. We felt a thump followed by a loud
explosion as a round hit a small hill on our right, shaking our car and
showering us with dirt and stones. Another one roared over our car, whistling
as it went by. Kazem pressed harder on the gas. Javad ducked. Another shell
seemed targeted for the roof of our car, but it hit a couple of hundred feet
behind us. A hissing, screeching sound filled the air. It felt as if the sky
were falling.
Kazem sped behind a hill close to the command post and slammed on
the brakes. We got out, keeping our heads down as we made our way toward the
commanding officer.
Kazem presented him with our orders from Rahim, saying, “Baradar,
how can we be of assistance?” Transferring ammo, distributing food, or
helping with the injured had been our assignments on previous trips.
“For right now,” the commander responded, “it would be best if you
just take cover. The Iraqi forces are attacking our positions aggressively.
Many tanks are approaching, using artillery and aerial support.”
We took shelter in a shallow hole reinforced with sandbags. We could
see flashes of light all around as explosions shook the ground. This was the
closest we had come to war. We could hear the commander barking orders. Bullets
whizzed overhead. A shell burst about twenty yards away. Someone screamed for a
medic. It was chaos.
And then the fighting intensified.
The three of us squatted in that hole. Javad and Kazem seemed
nervous, both mumbling verses from the Quran. To my surprise, I was the least
flustered of the group. Even though I knew I might not escape this insanity
alive, I felt strangely calm. If I die here, I thought, Wally and the
attendant burdens will die with me. Maybe that would be the easiest way out.
Javad looked at me constantly. He tried to give the impression that
he was not afraid, but I could see that he was. Remembering that his brother
had died in the war, I felt a surge of compassion. Had he been thinking about
that since we embarked on this trip?
“Kazem, tell me more about your new bride,” I said to change the
mood. “By the way, I agree to be your best man, even though you have not asked
me.”
Kazem smiled nervously. “I think the timing of khastegari was
not right. It should have been done sooner.”
“Don’t worry, the wedding will go on as scheduled with or without
you.”
He chuckled, and just then a Guard approached our bunker, clearly in
distress.
“You have to leave now and get back to the base behind the front
lines. We are changing position and moving back. Get out now! Move!”
We ran toward our SUV. I was in front, with Kazem and Javad
following. The sound of explosions mingled with the screams of the injured and
shouts of “Allaho Akbar!” Billows of smoke surrounded us, making
breathing
difficult. As we neared the hill, I could hear the hissing sound of
incoming rounds. I was running as fast as I could, but I felt heavy and slow.
Then I heard a short whistling sound. A shell hit close to us with a
loud percussion followed by the buzzing noise of shrapnel splaying out into the
air. We scattered and took cover. I couldn’t hear anything but the ringing in
my ears. I felt something hit my leg. Lying on the ground, I turned my head and
saw some blood on my left ankle. I could still move the ankle and feel it,
though, and it didn’t hurt that much.
I looked around for Kazem and Javad, but they weren’t behind me
anymore.
“Kazem, Kazem!” I shouted. No answer.
“Javad, Javad.” My voice was lost in the sound of explosions.
Another Guard, who was running for cover, reached me. “Just keep
moving—run!” he said. But I could not. I had to find Kazem and Javad. I headed
back in the other direction, and amid the dust and the smoke, I saw two Guards
lying on the ground facedown, one covered with blood.
“Kazem, are you okay?” I called. No answer.
I broke into a run. Please, God, not Kazem.
As I got close, I saw that one of the two fallen Guards was trying
to get up. I could now clearly see that it was Kazem. He noticed me and said,
“I am okay, Reza. It’s just my arm. Go check on Javad.”
I blew out a deep breath and continued toward the second Guard. It
was indeed Javad, and he was bleeding heavily. He had been hit by a large piece
of shrapnel. It had torn into his back right under his left shoulder, taking
out a chunk of tissue. He was not moving or making any sound. I took off my
jacket and wrapped it around him, grabbed his upper body, put him over my
shoulder, and bent over from the weight, started running. Kazem followed us,
holding his arm. When we reached the car, I laid Javad in the backseat and
drove back to the base. He didn’t respond when we asked him questions, but his
eyes were wide open and he was moaning.
Once at the base, we got out and called for help. The medics rushed
Javad inside.
Kazem and I were both in shock. I have no idea how long we sat in
one place before Kazem looked at me and said, “Are you okay, Reza? There is
blood on your ankle.”
I had forgotten about that. I looked down and saw that my ankle had
been cut open by shrapnel. Medics soon came and closed the wound with seven
stitches. They dressed the wound on Kazem’s arm, assuring him he’d
taken only a small hit.
While waiting to hear about Javad’s condition, Kazem placed his
jacket on the ground, took his holy stone and prayer beads from his pocket, and
prayed. I walked back and forth gingerly on my repaired ankle, trying to
process what we’d been through. We stayed like this until a medic walked up to
us.
“Javad is now a martyr,” he said flatly. He rubbed his forehead with
the back of a blood-covered hand and went back in.
Kazem and I looked at each other in disbelief. I leaned against the
wall, slid down to the ground, and sat there trying to compose myself.
Kazem handed me a cup. “Here, Reza, drink some water. You look
pale.”
“I am all right, Kazem. I am all right.”
But I could not stop thinking about Javad. I felt responsible for
his death. Had he chosen to come to jebheh because of me?
That night, while the Guards and Basijis gathered inside the base,
thankful for the shelter and hot food, I walked outside and sat on a small hill
nearby. The curtain of stars on an infinite sky provided a backdrop for the
lights of Iraqi jets flying above, trying to find their targets. I stared at
this dreadful portrait drawn by two madmen—Saddam and Khomeini—for untold
minutes.
The sound of artillery rounds coming in and going out filled the
air. I thought about God looking down and watching mankind once again killing
one another for land, power, and other meaningless things. I maintained this
tortured meditation for some time and then at last went back inside.
The light was dim. There were more than a hundred combatants in the
room. Some were doing their prayers, some were lying down on blankets, and
others were engaged in conversation. Looking around, I spotted Kazem sitting
with a group of fighters. I joined them, listening to their war stories.
“… He was in charge of bringing back three Iraqi POWs,” one Guard
was saying, “but he shot them instead, taking revenge for his brother who was
captured and killed by the Iraqis. He said one of the Iraqis begged for his
life and took out a picture of his wife and children. But he pulled the trigger
anyway.”
Another Guard added, “One of our buddies survived an offensive that
turned against us. He told us that the Iraqis were going over to the injured
Guards and Basijis, shooting them in the head to finish them off. He and a
few others, who were also injured, played dead. At night, when no
one was around, they crept on their bellies to get back behind friendly lines.
In the morning, the Iraqi choppers swooped down, hunting for any Iranians they
could find. He was lucky he managed to make it back after a couple of days
without much food or water. He survived by chewing on grass and sipping the
early-morning frost. He said he saw a light that guided him in the right
direction.”
It amazed me how sometimes one’s faith brings extraordinary strength
to accomplish impossible tasks. I felt compelled to contribute something, so I
told them about Javad’s fate—how he had come here to be of help at the front
and became a martyr instead. They shook their heads, acknowledging his
sacrifice. That story was nothing new for them, just a daily reality of war.
Javad’s death left me with a strong sense of contradiction. I knew I
should have been relieved that he would no longer be pursuing me. The very real
fact was that his loss was my family’s gain. But at the same time, I couldn’t
stop feeling guilty. His pursuit of me was what killed him in the end, so if I
hadn’t made the decisions I’d made, he’d still be alive.
Since both Kazem and I were wounded, the Guards sent us back home
the next morning. Kazem spent a great deal of time talking about Javad on the
way back.
“He was only twenty-four, not even married yet,” he said as he
choked back tears. “He was not armed or fighting the enemy; he was just trying
to help. He dedicated his life to Islam, and took care of his poor family and
his disabled brother. God loves him and honored him with martyrdom. He will
receive his proper rewards now.” He attempted to say this last line with pride,
but I heard the resignation in his voice.
Upon our return, we headed straight to Rahim’s office to inform him
about Javad. The news saddened our commander and he pledged to arrange the
funeral and take care of Javad’s family. A martyr’s funeral was a special one,
and as Rahim promised, Javad’s was one worthy of a martyr. We held it the
following Friday at Javad’s house.
People throughout his neighborhood displayed pictures of him. They
placed black-and-green banners reading ya hussein and shahid-e-rah-e-hagh (the
martyr of God’s path) along the roadside. Hundreds of Guards members in uniform
gathered in the street. Several Guards, including Kazem and me, carried the
coffin on our shoulders for a few blocks around
the neighborhood while the rest followed us, some beating their
chests with the palms of their hands while singing sorrowful songs of
martyrdom. A ceremony of mourning then took place inside Javad’s house with a
mullah preaching and paying tribute to Javad and other martyrs.
After the ceremony, we headed to Behesht-e-Zahra cemetery for the
burial. Inside the burial ground was a vast area dedicated to all martyrs.
Thousands of young people who had given their lives were resting in peace in
that section. Rahim had chosen a special place for Javad next to his older
brother. On a stand on Javad’s grave was a huge picture of him covered with
flowers and flags. Javad’s mother wailed while his father, an old man, was
reading verses from the Quran. After the burial, we approached Javad’s father.
“Congratulations to you for your son’s martyrdom,” Rahim said as he
hugged the man. “Javad sacrificed his life for Islam. He is a great shahid and
is now in heaven with Prophet Mohammad, Imam Ali, and Imam Hussein. You are
very lucky to have given two sons to God.”
Javad’s father looked at us with tears in his eyes and said, “I wish
I had more sons to dedicate to Islam.”
The power this religion had on its most fundamentalist followers
continued to astound me. As much as I believed many of the tenets of Islam, I
didn’t think I could ever accept congratulations on a death rather than
condolences. Iranians have been practicing Islam for many centuries. For some,
it offers guidance, a light that illuminates the darkness on the path of life.
To others, it is a set of written rules from God through his Prophet Mohammad,
and no one should ever amend these under any circumstances. During the shah’s
regime, people had the freedom to follow their interpretation of their
religion. Not now, though. Now, not following it as the mullahs demanded you
follow it carried serious consequences. Therefore, as always, I kept my
thoughts to myself when in the presence of Kazem and others who thought as he
did.
Kazem believed that the Islamic Revolution would lead to worldwide
salvation. He talked about this as we drove back from the cemetery. He believed
that the war with Iraq was not only to defeat Saddam, but also to ultimately
defeat imperialism and Zionism.
“Can’t you see, Reza? Saddam attacked Iran with the encouragement of
America. They want to destroy our movement, as it is the first of its kind to
confront the West. America is only interested in Middle Eastern oil and not
the progress of its people. And other Islamic countries like Egypt
and Saudi Arabia are nothing more than servants of the West. We are not like
them. We are defending Islam and will fight with the last drop of our blood.”
Kazem did not see the crimes being committed by the mullahs as
unjust. He thought those who did not believe in Imam Khomeini and the clergy
were enemies of Islam. He believed Prophet Mohammad and his army fought and
killed thousands of nonbelievers to raise the flag of Islam. He thought that
now we would raise that flag at all corners of the world and that we would
defeat the greedy, corrupt West once and for all.
I could see that religion had stripped Kazem and others like him of
perspective, common sense, and independent thinking. They did not question what
the mullahs decreed because they believed the mullahs spoke the rules of God.
Not all of Kazem’s animosity toward the West lacked validity.
England once wielded enormous power in the Middle East. It went so far as to
divide countries, draw new borders, choose sheiks to run these oil-rich
nations, and coordinate coups (in Iran, among others). England chose to divide
and conquer, and its most divisive action was to enflame sectarian violence and
to promote division within ethnicities and religions such as the Shiites and
Sunnis.
America had its own culpability in sending mixed signals and
promoting a confusing foreign policy. For example, it supported dictators to
the detriment of the citizens of those nations—Suharto in Indonesia, Augusto
Pinochet in Chile, Manuel Noriega in Panama, Hosni Mubarak in Egypt, the shah
in Iran, Saddam Hussein in Iraq, and many others in Africa, Asia, and Latin
America. American policies were also to blame for helping the Mujahedin in
Afghanistan, which then led to the creation of the Taliban and Al Qaeda.
Thousands (probably hundreds of thousands) of people lost their lives because
of these policies.
However, many Iranians still saw America as a friend, a superpower
that respected and defended democracy, where people of different ethnicities
and different ideologies lived in peace together. They hoped that somehow, some
way, America would help rid Iran of the mullahs and end our long nightmare.
I was one of those Iranians.
TOO CLOSE TO HOME
Even though I knew I had to be ever vigilant and prepared to deal
with dangers even greater than any posed by Javad, I thought it was essential
that I start writing to Carol again. Since I’d completely cut off
communications, she might have assumed the worst about me and I needed to ease
her mind. Most important, though, I had a great deal of information to convey.
In a short letter, I told her what had happened to Javad and shared my belief
that the threat was over. I also let her know that I would resume filing my
reports. I promised not to let my guard down.
It was now important to focus on my family, whom I had neglected
since the chilling experience at Evin. I’d been so fearful of what might happen
to them if I were caught that I’d managed to push them away. I was physically
there, but I’d retreated into myself. What they saw was a tense man with little
ability to engage with them and share his soul with them. I needed now to show
them how lucky I felt to be alive and to have them in my life. Somaya seemed
happy to have my full attention again. How happy could we be if I were not
living two lives and if we weren’t under constant threat of having our world
turned upside down?
I sent another letter to Carol a few days after I reopened
communications, updating her about everything that had happened in the past
several weeks, including the formation of the MOIS, and the transfer of Rasool
and many other Guards to the ministry. I’d actually heard a rumor that Rasool
was going to be on the move yet again. Someone told me that he was leaving the
country to pursue his education, which surprised me a little. I bumped into him
one day leaving Rahim’s office, and I almost didn’t recognize him. He was
nicely groomed, he’d shaved his beard, and he was dressed in a business suit.
Something was going on.
“Salam, Baradar Reza,” he said brightly. “I’m glad I saw you.
I wanted to say good-bye to you.” He shook my hand and reached to give me a
hug, overwhelming me with his size.
I tried not to look too surprised by his new appearance. “Salam,
big guy. I heard you were going to England to continue your education. When are
you leaving?”
“Inshallah, this afternoon.”
Kazem validated my suspicion when he told me the same day that
Rasool had been prepped to become an agent in England. This would be valuable
news to pass on to Carol, and I needed to find a way to uncover more details
about Rasool’s mission. Getting Kazem to talk would not be difficult, but he
seemed very busy at the time. As it turned out, Rahim was also traveling to
England, which meant Kazem had extra work preparing to fill in, which he did
whenever the commander was away.
When I finally got Kazem alone in his office, he told me that
Rasool’s new assignment was to infiltrate the Iranian opposition groups in
England to learn about their activities. He also said that the reason for
Rahim’s travel was to meet with the Guards’ agents in London. The Guards had
gone abroad to confront the Mujahedin and others challenging the Iranian
government. The Mujahedin were active in Europe, conducting a campaign aimed at
toppling the Islamic regime. They were also busy helping to coordinate assassinations
of Islamic officials in Iran.
“Reza, we have the approval of several European governments to go
after the opposition,” Kazem told me.
“You mean we can take them out at will?”
“As long as we do not jeopardize the security of those countries or
their citizens, we can.”
This seemed incredible to me. I wondered how the West justified
helping fanatics who could just as easily turn on them. As I thought this, I
flashed on something Naser had said during the early days of the revolution:
“Why would the West—or even the East, for that matter—want Iran to progress
when they can take advantage of our oil while having stupid people rule the
country?” If his observation were true, it seemed that the West was being
incredibly shortsighted.
Kazem maintained that the Europeans raised no objection to Iranian
agents’ murdering the opposition—members of the Mujahedin as well as former
officers and monarchists—inside their countries. This would result
in the Guards’ killing hundreds in Europe and around the globe, with
bombs planted in their cars, by attacking them in their homes, by beheading
them, or by shooting them execution-style. Some they abducted, tortured, and
killed, dumping their bodies in remote areas. Among the many they assassinated
was General Gholam Oveissi, the former commander of the shah’s army, along with
his brother, on the streets of Paris. But there would be many, many more. The
most notable figure, assassinated some years later, was the last prime minister
under the shah, Shahpour Bakhtiar. He’d escaped the country after the
revolution and stayed active in Paris promoting opposition to the mullahs. The
Guards finally caught up to him, stabbing him thirteen times in the neck and shoulder,
and cutting his throat with a kitchen knife.
While we were talking, two Guards entered the room. Kazem got up
excitedly and welcomed them. They shook hands and then hugged.
“Reza, these brothers are from the Central Command,” Kazem said as
he introduced them to me. He then went on to brag about how my contributions
helped set up the computer infrastructure that facilitated the Guards’
activities throughout the country. At first I was worried that this might be
another trick, but when they continued with their unfiltered conversation, I
was relieved and felt they regarded me as one of them.
One of the Guards mentioned that Iraq was receiving military aid
from the West, especially France. This included new fighter jets to target
Iranian naval ships and oil tankers in the Persian Gulf. The Iraqis had also
purchased jets that could drop bombs from high altitude, therefore remaining
immune to antiaircraft guns. What he said next stunned me:
“Baradar Kazem, our intelligence has learned through arms dealers in
the black market that Saddam is desperately looking for the technology to build
an atomic bomb. We have verified this with our sources in Iraq.”
“An atomic bomb in the hands of a madman,” Kazem said, shaking his
head.
“We won’t let it go unanswered,” the Guard continued. “We already
have approval from the Supreme Leader, Imam Khomeini, to strengthen our
capabilities with such technology. Don’t worry, Baradar, Islam will
conquer the evil forces. Saddam and his boss, Amrika, will be defeated, inshallah.”
Later that night, I wrote Carol again. This was the third letter in
as many days, but with significant news I felt could not wait.
[Letter #—] [Date:———]
Dear Carol,
1—Rasool has been sent to London from MOIS as an agent to infiltrate
the opposition groups.
2—His duties are to identify group leaders, sympathizers, and
individuals connected to them who travel in and out of Iran. This information
is used by MOIS to arrest members and sympathizers upon their arrival in Iran
and to assassinate opposition leaders abroad.
3—Kazem told me that Rahim has also traveled to London to meet with
Guards’ agents. Rahim is becoming increasingly involved with the activities
abroad.
4—Kazem told me that there is an unwritten pact with the European
governments, especially France, England, and Germany, that allows Guards’
agents to assassinate opposition members without interference of those
governments’ security services.
5—While in Kazem’s office, two Guards from Central Command showed up
with news that Saddam is looking for nuclear technology and desperately wants
nuclear bombs. This has been confirmed by Guards’ agents in Iraq and Guards’
contacts with arms dealers in the black market. Consequently, the Guards have
also started their pursuit of the nuclear bomb with the approval of Imam
Khomeini.
God Bless,
Wally
My preoccupation with the flurry of vital information I’d been
receiving distracted me from Kazem’s upcoming wedding. As the day approached, I
realized that I’d have to prepare my grandfather for the celebration, as he was
quite old now and reluctant to go out. He was slightly stooped and needed a
cane to walk. His snow-white hair and wrinkles testified to a lifetime of
changes and experiences, from the invasion of Iran by the Allies in World War
II, to the shahs’ monarchies, to the mullahs he’d never respected now ruling
his country.
As I did regularly, I flashed back on the long-ago summertime
gatherings when Agha Joon and Davood would discuss their differences about the
shah, democracy in Iran, and their favorite subject, the influence of Arabs
and Islam in our society. As a kid, I didn’t appreciate the extent
of this influence and how it was changing the vision of our nation. This great
country—once ruled by Cyrus the Great and known for its rich culture and
literature—was regressing now because of religion.
Although a Muslim, like many other Iranians, Agha Joon did not feel
obligated to practice Islam the way my grandmother had. He didn’t go to the
mosque or pray five times daily, and he didn’t think he was going to go to hell
because of this. But he did live by the highest tenets of our religion: he
always helped the poor, he never lied, he never stole anything—and, above all,
he was not a betrayer. Agha Joon believed strongly in the separation of
religion and politics. He would say, “Religion is in the heart. It cannot be
forced upon the people. It is a private relationship between a man and his
creator. You find the love within God, and with that love, you cherish life.”
At first Agha Joon told me that he wasn’t going to go to Kazem’s
wedding. He was uncomfortable being where henchmen of the Islamic government
would be gathered. Unlike my mother, Agha Joon had never expressed his
disappointment in my joining the Guards. He always gave me a warm smile,
saying, “Pesaram, hopefully you’ll find a better place to work.” But he
did not hesitate to show his resentment against the Islamic regime and the
crimes it committed. When I told him that it would mean a lot to Kazem, and that
Kazem’s father had sent a special invitation for him, Agha Joon finally agreed
to accompany me.
The ceremony was at the bride’s house. When we arrived, a brand-new
black Mercedes pulled up in front of us. At this point in the revolution, the
regime had stopped the import of foreign cars for ordinary citizens. Only the
authorities and high-ranking clergy were able to special-order the latest
models and drive them. It did not surprise me when a chubby mullah exited the
car. He was wearing a long black chenille robe and holding on to his white
turban. He draped his prayer beads, shining on a gold string, in his hand. Two
Guards escorted him out of the car, one opening the door and the other holding
his hand to guide him out.
A small crowd, perhaps the bride’s family, immediately surrounded
the mullah. Agha Joon nudged me, winked, and with a wide grin said, “Look at
this son of a dog. He steals people’s money, drives a Mercedes, and I’ll bet he
has an honorary Ph.D. or a law degree, too.”
“Agha Joon, please, hush.” I was afraid someone who knew me would
overhear him.
Kazem’s father hustled toward the mullah. “Bah bah,
Hojatoleslam Yazdi, you honor us today by your coming.”
I looked at Agha Joon, who was now reaching into his pocket for his
glasses. He mumbled “Hojatoleslam!” derisively spitting the honorific
title representing authority in Islam. In those days, any mullah who had moved
up in rank by any means received it.
Agha Joon finally found his glasses, stared out, and then turned to
me in disbelief. “Reza jon, this is our own Mullah Aziz!”
Shocked, I looked closer and realized that he was right. It was
Mullah Aziz—upgraded from a donkey to a Mercedes and with his title changed
from Mullah to Hojatoleslam. I just shook my head.
Kazem came out to welcome the guests. He greeted us and took us over
to Mullah Aziz.
“Bah bah, Agha Joon,” the mullah said with great enthusiasm.
“It is so nice to see you again.”
“Salam, Mullah Aziz,” Agha Joon said, not caring that calling
this man “Mullah” rather than “Hojatoleslam” and using his first name was a
sign of disrespect.
Mullah Aziz reddened at being addressed that way in front of his
escorts. But I jumped in, trying to avoid any further embarrassment that would
jeopardize my position. I paid my respects and introduced myself, certain the
mullah would not recognize me.
“Bah, Reza jon!” Mullah Aziz said as he wrapped his
arms around me. “Kazem has told me all about you, a true pasdar, a great
Muslim.”
I looked at Agha Joon to see his reaction. He was shaking his head,
not happy with this reunion. I grabbed my grandfather’s arm and we all headed
inside the house, where the ceremony was to take place. But inside felt more
like a funeral than a wedding. One room was full of men sitting on the ground
with a couple of chairs in the corner, one especially cushioned for Mullah
Aziz. The women and the bride were in a separate room, where they could not be
seen or heard. Usually at a wedding, music played and people danced, but not
here, not when religious radicals were the hosts. Only the smile on Kazem’s
face indicated that this was a happy event.
I could see that all of this displeased Agha Joon. All his life, he
had been the center of attention, spoken his mind freely, and enjoyed the
respect of
everyone who knew him. Now he was being made to sit on the ground
next to people who had stolen the dignity of his beloved country and he had to
bow to a mullah who once performed a sermon at his house for a dollar or two.
“You know, Reza jon,” Agha Joon said on the way home, “there
are a lot of these besharaf mullahs out there. But do you know what this
perverted bastard did while you were in the States going to college? He sent a
messenger to your uncle’s house to announce that he wanted to go khastegari
for Haleh, your cousin. He had no shame. Haleh was half his age and this binamoos
didn’t know that my son would never have accepted him even as his daughter’s
butler.” He shook his head. “I am glad it was before the revolution, otherwise
God knows what he would have done to get them to accept. And thank God Haleh
got married shortly after and left for Sweden with her husband.”
He was right. During the wedding celebration, Kazem told me that
Mullah Aziz’s new position was as a judge in the Revolutionary Courts in charge
of the trials of opposition groups. If he were interested in Haleh and my uncle
refused, he could have accused my uncle of sedition, had him sent to prison, or
even had him killed.
That night at home, I once again thought of Naser. I took his
picture out, saw his bright smile shining back at me, and imagined that same
smile on his wedding day, if he had lived. Earlier in the day, Kazem had
described his wedding as the purest form of bliss. The revolution had stolen
that bliss from Naser and his siblings.
Early the next morning, I received a message from Carol:
Dear Wally,
It’s great to hear from you.
We are so happy you are well and back on the job.
We received all three letters.
The information provided was extremely important and valuable.
Please keep us posted on any further information regarding nukes.
We have located both Rasool and Rahim.
Stay safe,
Carol
By the spring of 1985, the war was becoming more intense. Imam
Khomeini and the ruling clerics were pushing for the removal of Saddam,
conquering Iraq, and unifying Muslims in a bigger, holier war
against Israel. Guards commanders said that Khomeini would go to his prayer
room alone to talk to God for his approval before any offensive. Following one
such talk with God in March of that year, he issued an order for a massive
movement toward the city of Basra in Iraq dubbed Operation Badr, sending tens
of thousands of soldiers to the front. The operation was successful, initially
capturing part of the Basra-Baghdad highway, but it soon turned horrific when
the Iraqi army again resorted to the use of chemical weapons. Saddam went even
further by bombarding civilian targets in Iran.
Because of this, I told Somaya that even though most of the attacks
came at night, she needed to take extra precautions when I was not there. She
should keep the radio on at all times, and if the siren signaling an imminent
aerial attack went off, she should take shelter in our cellar. She didn’t like
that idea, but for Omid’s sake, she agreed it would be safer.
Taking such shelter became routine for us. First the siren, then
antiaircraft guns, and then explosions, sometimes so close they would jolt our
building. Omid, now three, would cry, Somaya would shake, and I would wrap my
arms around them trying to protect them. Then there would be a quiet moment
before another siren announced an all clear and we could leave the shelter.
Calls to close family members and friends followed to make sure everyone was
still alive. We somehow managed to continue to conduct our lives under these
conditions, as did everyone who survived the raids.
That summer, a neighbor down the block invited Omid to a birthday
party. I didn’t want to let Omid out of our sight, especially because the party
was in the evening. Even with the Iraqi air raids, Iranians maintained their
custom of having parties, even birthday celebrations for the young ones at
dinnertime. Although I knew Somaya would be by his side, still I was hesitant.
That day, though, Omid woke up with a fever and Somaya decided not to take him.
We had a quiet day, and Somaya got Omid ready for bed early, since he still
wasn’t feeling well. As she did, the siren went off. Before we had a chance to
run to the cellar, a roaring explosion filled the air and the house shook
violently. I grabbed Omid and pulled Somaya to a corner of the room away from
the windows, covering them with my body. They were both screaming. For what
seemed like an endless stretch, all I could feel under my body was the frantic
beating of two innocent hearts desperate for survival. I prayed to God to let
this pass with no harm. The
growl of each antiaircraft missile shook Somaya’s back and made Omid
squeal. Windows and other glass shattered, and I kept praying.
I don’t know how long we were in that position before the guns
finally stopped firing. I left my family, still hysterical, in the corner. I
stepped on picture frames that had fallen off the walls, broken vases, and
other objects on my way to the far side of room, where I kept the emergency
flashlights on the nightstand. I then led them to the cellar.
As we crumpled into one another’s arms, the sky seemed quiet. But
the sound of ambulances, police cars, and fire trucks filled our neighborhood.
It was apparent that the explosion hit somewhere close to our house. When
Somaya and Omid finally calmed down, I stepped outside to see what had
happened.
Debris cluttered the neighborhood. Clouds of smoke and dust filled
the air and I had to cover my mouth against this as I walked down the block.
There, I saw that the top of a four-story building was missing, with bricks and
concrete blocks in a pile on the ground.
Several neighbors were outside helping the police, the firemen, and
the Guards pull bodies from the rubble. I saw several small bodies wrapped in
cloth lying on the ground. The bodies seemed about Omid’s size. Then it dawned
on me: Oh my God! This is where Omid would have been. These were the
kids at the birthday party.
I started digging furiously, helping pull out more bodies. Mostly
small kids. Some still in their mothers’ arms. Most dead. The kids and guests
at that party on the fourth floor were all dead. Only a few from the lower
stories of the building survived, suffering various injuries and burns.
A Guard was going around to the women’s dead bodies and covering
their hair as we pulled them to the side. They wouldn’t allow even the injured
and dead to be seen without cover.
The bombing and deaths of our neighbors terrified Somaya and me.
After this event, Somaya would not leave Omid’s side. She would hold him in her
arms, and when he was asleep, she would sit next to his bed and cry. In the
ensuing days, I pleaded for her to consider leaving, this time making sure not
to offend her as I had when I’d proposed the same during her pregnancy.
“Just until this war is over,” I pleaded. “And I promise to come and
visit as much as I can. Do it for Omid. He is constantly crying and screaming
through this madness.”
Somaya wiped her tears, and bent and kissed Omid’s hand as he slept
in his crib. “I love him so much and I feel so responsible for him,” she said,
bursting into tears. “What if we were at that party and something had happened
to him? What would I have done without him?”
I hugged her shivering shoulders, not mentioning that if they had
been at the party I would have lost her as well. “I know. And we should thank
God that Omid had a fever. That’s why I am asking you to go to your parents. I
know how much he means to you and you know how much you both mean to me. Your
safety and happiness are all I am pleading for.”
She pressed her body into mine. “Let’s all go there and forget about
this place. Reza, what are you doing here? What is so important about your job?
I have wanted to go to London for a long time. The moment the war started, I
did not feel safe. But I didn’t want to leave you behind. I stayed for you. Now
you should come with us—for me.”
I kissed her head and wished that I could explain everything to her.
“I will ask Kazem for permission to accompany you.”
“But you will come back here after you take us.” She let go of me
and covered her face with her palms. “I have to do this for Omid now. But I
don’t know what to do with you, Reza. I am just so exhausted. If that’s what
you want, I cannot force you to love your family and to be with them.” She
walked to our bedroom and opened the closet. “I will start packing. You take
care of the rest.”
Kazem knew about the bombing in my neighborhood and about how close
it had come to my home, so he understood when I told him that I wanted Somaya
and Omid to go to England to live with her parents for a while. Fortunately,
the restrictions limiting travel had been lifted and the airports were open to
all who wished to travel outside. I told Kazem that I wanted to make sure my
wife and son got there safely and asked if he could help arrange time off for
me so I could escort them. Once again, he was instrumental in arranging this,
but he told me that the following day Mohsen Rezaei, the chief commander of the
Guards, would be making an important announcement. He asked me to accompany
him.
We headed to the Guards’ base southeast of Tehran, where Rezaei was
holding the meeting. A flood of cars and bikes streamed down the street and
poured into the base, filling the air with dust. Hundreds of Guards gathered in
the compound, most being members of the Intelligence Unit. There was a host of
regional commanders also in attendance.
The number of intelligence men in the crowd made me anxious. Some of
them were longtime friends, but I couldn’t look at them the same way I did
before I became involved in the CIA. Every glance from one of them seemed to
carry suspicion. I was churning on the inside, but I had no choice but to act
normal.
I stayed close to Kazem while he shook hands with others. During
this process, I met a Guard named Taghi. “You must be Baradar Reza,” he said to
me. “It’s nice to see you here. Our great martyr Javad told me a lot of good
things about you.”
Mention of Javad’s name caused my nerves to spike. This Guard had a
higher ranking than Javad. If Javad spoke to Taghi about me, taking his
concerns up the ladder, there was a good chance that the danger Javad caused me
did not die with him.
“It’s nice meeting you, Baradar Taghi,” I said as I shook his hand.
“We all miss Javad. He is indeed a great martyr. May God bless his soul.”
Taghi said nothing else to me, leaving me to wonder what he knew and
what he was thinking. I followed Kazem and the others into the meeting hall.
Folding chairs were arranged in rows; pictures of Imam Khomeini decorated the
walls. Kazem and I took our seats close to the front row.
Moments later, Mohsen Rezaei and his entourage entered the room and
marched toward the podium. Everyone in the room arose and started shouting, “Allaho
Akbar, Khomeini Rahbar.” Rezaei eventually raised his hands and brought the
gathering to order.
I focused on the speech, knowing that Carol and her team would want
as much detail as possible and that I would have to rely on my memory to repeat
it all. Rezaei began by commending the Guards for their bravery on the war
fronts and reminding us of the importance of our duty to protect the Islamic
Republic of Iran against our enemies. He emphasized that the U.S. and Israel
were, at all times, planning to hurt Iran and suppress the Islamic movement.
Our vigilance was essential in this regard. The irony that I was sitting only a
few feet from him, committing every one of his words to memory, was not lost on
me.
Then Rezaei moved on to matters of business and made his most
important announcement: with Imam Khomeini’s personal authorization, the
Revolutionary Guards’ air, ground, and naval units were to be greatly expanded
with sophisticated weapons. The plan was to turn the Guards’ forces into a
conventional army but with a martyrdom mentality. He talked
about the formation of thousands of smaller units to provide air,
ground, and naval support, and emphasized that while we might never match the
air and naval power of countries such as America, these new ancillary units,
with the proper weaponry, could overwhelm any enemy. He promised missiles,
fighter jets, submarines, and the expansion of weapons production inside the
country with the goal of reaching self-sufficiency. This was enormous news,
something I could only begin to appreciate on that day. As it turned out, this
moment was when the Guards truly began to seize control of Iran, exerting
enormous power both inside and outside of the country.
“We will build a force that will demolish the enemies of Islam,
continue the path of our great Prophet Mohammad, and raise the flag of Islam in
all corners of the world,” Rezaei said enthusiastically.
The chants of “Allaho Akbar” and “Khomeini Rahbar”
filled the room again as the excited crowd roared its approval.
The plan to take Somaya and Omid to England now served another
purpose. I needed to see Carol, to relay the important information that I had
learned and discuss my fear that Taghi would be keeping an eye on my
activities. I purchased our tickets to travel to London. Not wanting to take
any unnecessary risks before taking my family out of the country, I did not
write to Carol informing her about my travel plans.
But I knew that I would see her as soon as we got to England.
FAR FROM HOME
At the dinner table that night, everybody enjoyed the peace and
quiet. We shared love and laughter, which reminded me of something that was all
too easy to forget in postrevolutionary Iran: that it was our right to lead a
free and normal life. This is an opportunity, I thought. I can stay
here with my loved ones and move on, like the thousands before me who have left
the country to seek peace and tranquility for their families. This is your
chance, Reza! But I was still not certain. I still felt I had a mission to
accomplish.
“Reza jon,” Somaya’s mom said, interrupting my conflicted
train of thought. “We are so happy that you finally decided to leave Iran.”
“Yes,” Moheb Khan added. “We prayed every night that all of you
would leave. That country is no longer safe. I am so glad you are here in one
piece. My house is small, but you should know that you are my children and we
would love to have you stay with us.”
“But, Dad …” Somaya interrupted.
“Somaya jon, we have enough room for all of you,” her mother
said, misinterpreting her daughter’s interjection. “The house is not that
small! And don’t say no, Reza jon. At least stay with us for the first
year and then find a place. I cannot get enough of you and especially my Omid jon.”
She squeezed another kiss onto Omid’s cheek.
“But, Mom, Dad … Reza is not staying. He is going back.”
“Chi?” Zari Khanoom looked at me in
disbelief. “Why would you want to go back? It is not safe, Reza.”
“Mom, we are still talking about this. He is going back in a couple
of weeks, but he is considering coming back and leaving the Guards for good.”
She gave me an affirmative gesture that left me wordless.
Early the next morning, I put on my sneakers and told Somaya I was
going for a walk. From the bed, she smiled and told me that we’d be so much
happier if I’d stay with them and never go back to Iran. I winked at her and
told her that I would be back from my walk soon. After jogging a few blocks, I
looked around to make sure I did not see anything suspicious. Then I hopped
into a phone kiosk and dialed the number for the station.
“Hello, this is Wally. I need to talk to Carol.”
“Wally?” the man at the other end asked in shock.
“Yes, Wally. I am in London.”
The man said something to someone, and I heard a few clicks before
Carol’s surprised voice came on.
“Wally? Is everything okay? Where are you?”
“I am here in London with my family and everything is fine. I just
wanted to know if we could meet.”
Carol was surprised that I had not informed her of my travel plans.
I assured her that I wasn’t here to escape and that I didn’t think I was in
trouble, but that I had brought my family to England to protect them from the
war. She asked me to call her back the next day at the same time so she could
arrange our meeting. I knew she had to check with the agency and discuss the
situation with them as a precaution.
Somaya just nodded when I told her that I had to take care of some
business for Kazem the day I was to meet with Carol at the Dorchester Hotel in
Hyde Park. Once again, as I did most of my spy life, I carefully minimized my
chances of being followed. I walked a few blocks, caught a cab for a couple of
miles, hung around in a shopping mall, hopped on a bus, and then walked to the
hotel.
It was nice to see Carol again. After all, she was the only person
in the world I could talk to freely about my true feelings. She greeted me with
a warm smile when I entered the room, but I could see the confusion in her eyes
as she directed me to two big lounge chairs.
“I should have told you in my letter that I was coming to London.
Since I was bringing my family here, though, I didn’t want to do anything that
would jeopardize their chances of leaving the country.”
She was shocked when I told her about the bombing and how I helped
to recover bodies from the fateful birthday party, explaining why I felt such
urgency to get Somaya and Omid to London and out of the terror.
“Somaya has pleaded with me to stay here with them and not go back.”
Carol, who had been reaching in her briefcase to get her notebook
and a pen, stopped and looked up. She cleared her throat to say something, but
instead she put her hand against her lips and paused for a moment. Then she
went on.
“I understand, and I am sure that the agency thinks the same way as
I do, Wally. As I said before, your safety and the safety of your loved ones is
our priority. If you wish to stop now, we fully support you.”
I don’t know why it was that every time any of my contacts told me
that he or she would support me should I decide to leave the agency, I felt how
much they needed me. Were they playing a game with me because they knew I would
react this way? Or was I simply realizing how much was still unfinished?
“You know, Carol, to be honest with you, I have thought about it
many times. Given what happened at Evin and the possibility that I could have
been killed at the front, I probably should consider leaving. And now that I am
here in one piece with my family, knowing you would support me, it’d be the
best time.”
“But?” Carol asked. “There is a but, I presume.”
I paused for a long moment before speaking again. “Carol, I love my
family very much and I am glad they are safe here. But I cannot stop now. If
you were in Iran, you would understand why people are sick and tired of being
ruled by these Islamic radicals. Iranians need help. They need someone to speak
for them, and I feel that I am that voice. Sometimes I think I am the only one
they have.”
Carol moved in her chair and uncrossed her legs as she listened to
what I had to say.
“Do you mind if I smoke?” I asked.
“No, Wally, please go ahead.”
I lit up a cigarette, took a long puff, and blew out the smoke. “So
many injustices happen every day. Just last week, a teenager was talking on a
public phone when the Komiteh forces approached her. At first they objected to
her outfit. Then they realized she was talking to her boyfriend on the phone.
They shot her right there.
“I was going to work one day during the month of Ramadan when I saw
an old man being arrested for eating in public and not respecting the mandatory
fasting. He must have been eighty years old, and Islamic thugs the age of his
grandsons beat him mercilessly.”
Carol listened quietly, her eyes downcast.
“A neighbor of my mother’s, a Jewish man who converted to Islam out
of fear, had his passport confiscated after returning home from a business
trip. A few days later, they arrested him and took him to Evin Prison. He was
beaten every night and taken in front of an execution squad, being told each
time he was going to be shot. While blindfolded, he heard the sound of the
gunshots and expected to die, but they didn’t shoot him. That was how they
tortured him. Then they would ask him to put others who had been shot in body
bags. They wanted him to confess to spying for Israel. He never did, and he was
released five months later after paying millions of rials in bail money.”
“What do people do?” Carol asked, the incredulity and frustration
evident in her voice. “How do they put up with all this?”
“People have not lost hope yet. In spite of all the arrests and
executions, students, teachers, and workers still demonstrate for their rights.
Women still do not adhere completely to the Islamic hejab even though
they get arrested and whipped for that. But they need help.” I sighed. “The
West needs to do something.”
I put out my cigarette in the ashtray. Carol sank farther into her
seat. I could see that my stories touched her. She had tears in her eyes. Carol
had lived in Iran and she loved the people and the country, so I knew she had
more than professional interest in what I was saying.
“Wally, I hope the day will come when freedom returns to the
Iranians. But it’s most important to pressure the mullahs into accepting peace
with Iraq and stopping this lunacy that is taking so many lives.”
I knew that she didn’t have the power to change anything herself,
but what she said was enough to make me believe that America intended to make
an effort. Now we had to get back to work. Carol asked me about the Evin
incident and the death of Javad. She wanted to make sure that my safety was not
at risk and that my position had not been compromised.
“I was convinced that Javad’s death ended the suspicion about me. I
even felt that Abbass, the guard at the prison, did not suspect anything. He
just met with me because Javad asked him to do so. But there was this guy,
Taghi, who also works out of MOIS and was present at Rezaei’s
meeting. Taghi implied that Javad had told him about me. That scared me,
knowing that Javad might have left his unfinished business in the hands of
somebody else.”
Carol’s brows knit. “What do you suspect he knows about you?”
“It’s possible that Javad told him something that might incriminate
me. I don’t know, I might be too sensitive about this issue at this point,
seeing monsters around every corner. All I know is that I have to take extra
precautions. I have no idea what was going on in Javad’s mind, but I learned
from other Guards that Javad was into everybody’s business and that he did
things on his own.”
“Perhaps that’s the case,” Carol said evenly. “However, don’t you
think that if there were any suspicion about you Kazem would have known, and
consequently not have divulged secretive information or taken you to important
meetings?”
That was something I hadn’t considered, and it made sense. “You
know, Carol, sometimes I don’t know what to think and how to feel. This double
life is far more complicated than I ever imagined. But I am living it and
praying to God that what I’m doing will help free my country.”
I didn’t want to continue down this path with her. We had too much
business to do and this conversation wasn’t helping with that. I made an abrupt
switch in topic.
“The Guards have obtained authorization from Khomeini to formally
turn their forces into a conventional army. They are now going to expand their
ground forces and have a formal navy and air force. Rezaei promised
surface-to-surface missiles with longer range and larger impact, fighter jets
for the air force, submarines for the navy, and the expansion of weapons
production in the country.”
I also clarified that the Guards’ power base and influence were
going to expand greatly both inside and outside of Iran. The Guards’ elite
forces had infiltrated countries in the Persian Gulf, Asia, Africa, Europe, and
even Latin America, setting up safe houses, recruiting volunteers, and training
martyrs. I explained that the Guards had now mastered the production of
chemical weapons, and were pursuing a nuclear bomb to counteract Saddam and to
prepare for future aggression. I told her of Rezaei’s plan to form thousands of
small, lethal units to overwhelm the defense of any army, including America’s.
“Carol, it’s very important to understand this mentality of
martyrdom and radical conviction. They truly believe that one day Islam will
conquer the world. If we allow the Guards to go unchecked, the consequences
could be devastating for the region—and the world.”
Carol continued to write furiously. Then she stopped and looked up
at me. “Wally, you should know that we consider you one of our best. The
information you’ve provided has been very helpful in our understanding the
situation in Iran and giving us insight as to the best way of dealing with it.
I want you to be very careful, though. Don’t put yourself in harm’s way trying
to learn about what the Guards are doing. Keep it limited to being eyes and
ears. It’s working great so far.”
She reached for her purse, fished out an envelope, and handed it to
me. “This is a bonus for your hard work.”
I looked at her with a smile and said, “I should come to see you
more often!”
We both shared a laugh. Since the bank they had originally set for
my salary deposits was in London and I wanted to leave some of the money with
Somaya, I accepted the cash with no hesitation. I peeked inside the envelope
and guesstimated about five thousand dollars. I suppose I was learning that
after all, I was an employee of the CIA no matter how I looked at it.
We spoke a while longer and then got up to leave. Carol hugged me
warmly before we departed and reminded me again that I could stop doing this
work anytime if I felt it was too dangerous for me to continue.
“Just promise me that you will take care of my family should
anything happen to me,” I said before leaving.
During the rest of my stay in London, I spent as much time as I
could with Somaya and Omid. It was our best two weeks since Wally had come into
our lives. Omid, who was now uttering full sentences, had learned how to take
my breath away. The night before my flight, Somaya’s parents left us alone at
home. They said they had to be somewhere, but I suspected that they wanted to
give us some space. The three of us sat on the floor in the living room, where
Omid had his coloring books and crayons spread all over. While he drew, I held
Somaya’s hand.
“I will come back and visit,” I promised her.
She shook her head in disappointment. Right up to that moment, I
think she believed that I would decide to leave the Guards and stay with her.
Omid held a piece of paper aloft to show us the crooked red heart
he’d drawn. “Baba kheily asheghetam,” he said. “I love you very much,
Daddy.” The innocence and purity of his words ripped at my soul. Then he
dropped the paper and wrapped his little arms around my neck, kissing my
cheeks.
I swallowed a lump in my throat and kissed him back. “Manam
kheili asheghetam.”
I looked at Somaya after I said this and said, “Oh, honey, I love you,
too.”
She got up and laughed. “You think everything is a joke.”
I pulled her arm and had her sit next to us. “As soon as I have an
opportunity, I will wrap things up. I’ll come back here and we’ll start a new
life.”
The next evening, I left. I had to say good-bye to my family on
another foggy, hazy London night.
This time, the sad mood of England’s never-starry sky was a perfect
representation of my emotions.
GOD’S HOUSE
The driver counted the money carefully, turned toward me with a
toothy smile, and said he knew a shortcut we could take to avoid traffic. I
nodded agreement as I settled in my seat. Seeing Tehran’s familiar landmarks
out the cab’s window reminded me that my wife and son were no longer with me. I
felt both relieved and melancholy. I already missed them, but I was glad they
were no longer in harm’s way and that I would be free to pursue my commitment
to being Wally without worrying about the consequences for them.
As though to reinforce that I’d made the right decision, we passed
construction cranes with the corpses of three recently executed young men
dangling like bait at the end of a fishing pole. A crowd stared blankly at the
bodies silhouetted against the distant hills. People had become numb to the
executions. At least most people had. Beneath one of the dead men, a black-
veiled woman, likely the mother of one of them, wailed her heart out.
That afternoon, after my nap, I headed to work and went straight to
Kazem’s office with the souvenirs I bought in London for him and his new bride.
Sitting behind Kazem’s desk was a Guard I knew but whose name I could not
remember.
“Salam, Baradar Reza, come in,” he said when he saw me. “Are
you here to see Kazem?”
“Salam, Baradar,” I replied,
telegraphing some confusion. “Yes, I am looking for Kazem. Is he coming back?”
“Oh, no. Baradar Kazem has moved to the commander’s office. He has
replaced Baradar Rahim.” He smirked. “I guess you were gone too long!”
I felt stupid not knowing what had happened in the two weeks I had
been away. “Then where did Baradar Rahim go?”
“Baradar Rahim has moved to another base,” he said as he pulled out
a drawer and grabbed some papers, pretending to be busy.
I thanked him and rushed back to my building, where Kazem’s new
office was also located. I went to his office and Kazem jumped out of his chair
as soon as I entered the room, happy to see me. He’d never greeted me at the
office this way before. Maybe being in the commander’s seat boosted his
spirits.
“What did you do to Rahim?” I said brightly. “I’m only gone for a
couple of weeks and you organized a coup and took over the base without me?”
Kazem burst into laughter and gave me a huge hug.
“After he came back from England, Rahim moved on to the MOIS. He is
now involved with the organization and movements of our agents in Europe. Like
it or not, I am your new commander.”
“I guess I’ll be okay with that,” I said with a smile. “Oh, before I
forget, these are for you and your wife—a small souvenir from Somaya and me.”
I handed him a bag. Somaya had helped me pick up a sweater for
Zohreh and a rain jacket for Kazem. Kazem thanked me for the presents and
extended an invitation to stay at his house should I ever get especially lonely
while my wife was away. It was a simple exchange between friends —the kind of
thing that came naturally to people who’d known each other and had been as
close to each other for as long as the two of us had been. I realized, though,
that we would never be having this exchange if Kazem knew about Wally. This led
me to wonder how, knowing me for as long as he did, he didn’t know about
Wally. How could he possibly have missed all my acts of deception?
The reality was that Kazem was not the shrewd, cunning person that
so many Guards and clerics were. He was just a closed-minded one. My
relationship with him was easily the most complicated in my life. I absolutely
rejected everything he believed in, yet at the same time, I felt a deep
attachment to him for everything we’d shared over the years. When I brought him
presents, I was doing so from a source of genuine affection. At the same time,
though, I never lost sight of how I could use my access to him to provide Carol
with vital information, something that certainly fell outside of the scope of
genuine friendship.
Shortly after my return to Tehran, I heard about William Buckley,
the CIA operative Carol had asked me about who’d been taken hostage a year and
a half ago in 1984. The evening news mentioned that the Islamic Jihad
had announced the execution of Buckley in Beirut. Islamic Jihad was
a front name for the Revolutionary Guards stationed in Lebanon, another example
of their expanding power. They chose to create this front to generate confusion
among American and Israeli intelligence. By doing so, they ensured that the
enemy couldn’t trace their terrorist acts back to Iran, instead believing that
this was a homegrown movement in Lebanon. I knew the news of Buckley’s
execution had already reached Carol and that there was no point in reporting it
to her.
By this time, Ali Khamenei had gained a second term as president in
an election that saw stunningly few Iranians participate because they believed
that the democratic process was a sham. They had every reason to feel this way,
as the Guardian Council decided which candidates could run for office and the
Council consisted of six members chosen directly by the Supreme Leader, Imam
Khomeini, and six more approved by him after their nomination by the chief
justice, who was also handpicked by the Supreme Leader, and their election by
the parliament. This meant that no one could attain power if they posed even
the slightest risk to the status quo.
The regime anticipated that voting would be light and worked hard to
maintain the illusion for the West that the people still backed the mullahs.
They ordered all Guards and Basijis to show up to vote dressed as ordinary
citizens and they bused people who had been relocated from cities affected by
the war to polling stations, offering them food and shelter—and threatening to
withhold such necessities from anyone who didn’t go along with their plan.
(Khamenei’s prime minister at the time was Mir Hossein Mousavi, the
man whose defeat in the 2009 presidential elections led to such violent outrage
on the streets of Iran. The remaining moderates left in the parliament—a
holdover from the pre-Khamenei days—still had enough votes to force Mousavi on
Khamenei when he became president in 1981, foreshadowing the clashes between
this group and the radical right that would explode on the world stage nearly
three decades later. Mousavi lost his position in 1989, when constitutional
changes eliminated the role of prime minister.)
Meanwhile, in Tehran and other major cities, the Iraqi jets
continued dropping bombs on the rooftops of Iranian homes nightly. At the same
time, Guards and young Basijis continued their battle against the Iraqis at the
front. Saddam’s weapons—including his vicious chemical ones—killed or
severely injured many thousands of these brave men. The Mujahedin
were also attacking our forces from their bases in Iraq after they moved their
headquarters from France. This move brought more resentment and hatred toward
the Mujahedin, not only from the Guards and Iran’s military fighters but also
from most Iranians who saw their alignment with Saddam as a despicable act. And
as all of this went on, Islamic rules in Iran became even more stringent. I
felt under siege at every turn, and I know that many of my fellow citizens felt
the same way.
I had told Somaya that I would visit them for our New Year in the
spring of 1986, but with the ever-tightening grip of the regime, I realized
that it wasn’t safe to do so and that I had to disappoint her. Taking another
trip to England at this point would have drawn more attention to me than I was
comfortable with. As much as I missed my wife and son, and as much as I wanted
to be an active part of their lives, I had to stay away from them until I knew
I could be with them permanently.
My house felt empty and I was terribly lonely, though I was trying
my best to adjust. Somaya and I spoke a couple of times a week, but it was
hardly a substitute for a life with my family. A few months after our New Year,
Kazem invited me to his house for dinner and I was delighted to have the
company. His wife had gone to Mecca in Saudi Arabia for the umrah, a lesser
version of the hajj, where Muslims submit themselves to Allah.
Kazem and I rarely socialized away from work now that we were both
married, and I had not been to the home he shared with his wife. He and Zohreh
had decorated it simply, with a few old Persian rugs on the floor, just a few
pieces of furniture, and a couple of pictures of Imam Khomeini on the walls in
the living room. They had short-napped, coarse carpet cushions on the floor and
a few low tables here and there. While Kazem had moved up in the world, unlike
so many who ruled the country, he hadn’t adopted the practice of decorating his
home with goods stolen from those imprisoned or killed. This was yet another
reminder that Kazem was a simple, righteous man. Sadly, he’d chosen the wrong
ideology.
“When are you planning to go to Mecca and become a hajji?” I asked
as we walked through the house.
“Maybe I will be lucky enough to have my name called soon,” he
answered. “I would be honored to do my hajj.”
I was tempted to say something ironic—I tended to do this when faced
with a concept I couldn’t comprehend—but I knew this was neither the time
nor the place to do so. “Inshallah, you’ll be called soon”
was all I said.
Kazem guided me to the kitchen, where the dinner he had prepared sat
on a small table, waiting for us. He handed me a plate with rice and a ground
beef kebab skewer. “It is nothing like your grandpa’s kebab, but I tried. Yadesh
bekheir,” he said with his eyes fixed on the distance. It surprised me to
hear him refer to our childhood days as “good old times.” It was indeed,
I thought. I hadn’t spoken with him much about the past, believing that it
would hurt too much to talk to him of the spirited times he, Naser, and I had
shared. Now that he’d mentioned it, though, I found that I welcomed even a
brief reminiscence.
But before I could take this further, Kazem said, “Did you know your
friends were here recently?”
Confused by what he meant, I swallowed a big chunk of kebab, which
stuck in my throat.
“Do you want extra butter on your rice?”
I gulped some water. “No more butter, thanks.” I cleared my throat.
“What friends?”
He put two whole grilled tomatoes on my plate and said, “The
Americans. They were here in Tehran.”
I didn’t really understand what he was saying, but still puzzled, I
pretended not to be curious. “This stuff is good, Kazem. I haven’t had a good
hot meal since Somaya left.”
“I’m glad you like it.” He paused to take a bite and then said,
“Reagan sent his men here to negotiate.”
I crushed the tomatoes with my spoon over the rice. “He did? What
were they negotiating? And why would we ever want to negotiate with them?”
“They met with Haj Agha Rafsanjani and his associates at Hotel
Esteghlal. Listen to this: they brought a Bible, a cake, and a gun with them.”
He shook his head. “As a sign of friendship.” He put his spoon down, cut
a piece of lavash, and pinched his kebab with it to eat it. “The dumb cowboys
think we will help release their hostages in Lebanon and try to improve our
relationship with them. They are giving us arms—lots of arms—and they think in
return we will agree to be their puppets.” He took another piece of bread and
dipped it in the bowl of yogurt. “But Haj Agha Rafsanjani knows how to play
with these bastards and how to milk them.” He winked at me and put another
piece of kebab on my plate. He laughed. “Dumb cowboys.”
That night, back at my house, I wrote a letter to Carol about what
Kazem said. At the time I didn’t realize the importance of this new information
and the potential impact it could have on my life. But when Carol didn’t show
any interest in these details and didn’t ask any follow-up questions, I
realized how foolish I had been. I had been risking my life to rid my country
of the criminals running it and the Americans were negotiating with them. The
CIA knew that the Guards were responsible for the barracks bombing in Lebanon
that took the lives of 241 American servicemen. They knew that their own
people, like William Buckley, were being kidnapped, tortured, and killed. Yet
they were offering appeasement to these two-faced donkey-riding mullahs.
The notion of negotiations between America and the regime also
chilled me for another reason. I began to consider the possibility that part of
the deal-making process might involve exposing agents. Not long after my dinner
with Kazem, three Iranians in the Foreign Ministry were arrested as spies
working for America. Government papers disclosed the discovery of documents in
these agents’ homes very similar to the documents I had, including codebooks. I
wondered if America would turn me in as part of a grand bargain.
In November of 1986, radicals leaked the news of the
arms-for-hostages deals to Hezbollah in Lebanon, which in turn published this
information in Al-Shiraa, a Lebanese magazine. This triggered the
Iran–Contra scandal. I learned later that the U.S. meetings were not limited to
those held with Hashemi Rafsanjani and his contacts in Tehran. They also met
with the Guards in Geneva, Brussels, Frankfurt, and Mainz. The CIA assigned the
Guards’ negotiators the code names The Engine and The Relative, and they even facilitated
a trip for The Relative to Washington, D.C., where he received a tour of the
White House.
I was glad to see the embarrassment this revelation caused the
Reagan administration. They’d sidestepped their principles to negotiate with
people who committed heinous acts as a matter of policy. If these negotiations
had gone further, any hopes I ever had for a free Iran would have evaporated.
With the news of the affair out and President Reagan putting an end
to these Iran initiatives, I tried to stay focused. I continued my reports to
Carol, hoping that the American government had seen the error of negotiating
with Iran’s rulers and would take a more aggressive stance in the future.
They’d managed only to secure the release of a few hostages. In
exchange, they’d provided the Guards with a stockpile of American
weapons, some of which ended up in the hands of Hezbollah and the Islamic
Jihad. Meanwhile, the Guards continued to take hostages and make greater
demands.
Early in the summer of 1987, Kazem came to my office and informed me
that his name for the hajj had been called. He was honored to visit Mecca, but
he was intensely excited about this for another reason. Imam Khomeini had
issued an order for an uprising to take place during that year’s pilgrimage and
Kazem believed he might play a role in this insurrection. I didn’t doubt it.
Kazem’s being called to the hajj was no coincidence; I was sure Khomeini wanted
him and other Guards from our unit there for precisely this purpose. The regime
had tried in the past to cause turmoil in the Saudi kingdom. They’d been
largely unsuccessful, but this wouldn’t stop them from planning further
criminal acts at the place many knew as “God’s House.”
“Everything is in place and the Saudi monarch is going down,” Kazem
said contemptuously. “These Arabs are the servants of America, and they will
pay big this time.” He then offered me specific details, which I memorized for
my next report.
[Letter #—] [Date:———]
Dear Carol,
1—Kazem today revealed the Guards’ plan for an uprising against the
Saudi kingdom during the hajj.
2—Thousands of Guards have been sent as pilgrims and flown by Iran
Air.
3—Knifes, machetes, and other arms have been transferred to Saudi
Arabia by the Guards.
4—Imam Khomeini gave the order for this uprising.
5—The plan is to incite the Muslims for a demonstration condemning
American and Israeli policies.
6—They intend to escalate the demonstration to an uprising against
the Saudi kingdom.
7—The Iran Air flights are departing daily, carrying Guard members
and transferring arms.
Wally
About a week after my letter reached Carol, I heard that the Saudis
were checking all the Iran Air flights and sending back many Iranian pilgrims
who they found in possession of arms. I felt I’d played a direct role in this,
believing that my information was put to use. Finally, I thought, some good was
coming out of what I had been doing.
Still, in spite of my efforts and the Saudis’ precautions, the
Guards succeeded in causing a massive and violent demonstration. Thousands of
pilgrims joined the fight with Saudi police, shouting “Death to America” and
“Death to Israel,” and demanding the overthrow of the Saudi kingdom. The riot
led to a death toll of hundreds of Iranians, other pilgrims, and Saudi police.
The Saudis ultimately quelled the revolt, but this led Khomeini to order a
number of bombing attacks on Saudi agencies around the world and the
assassination of several of their diplomats.
Tensions throughout the region were incredibly high. And in the
midst of this, Carol sent me a chilling message:
Hello, Wally,
We have learned that Iraq has received shipments of long-range
missiles from the Soviet Union. They will use them against civilians to force
the regime to accept peace. We don’t know what the timing is, but should you
want to leave, we would understand.
Things are going to get ugly, but there will be peace in the end.
Please take care,
Carol
BROTHER, MY BROTHER
“I am here to see Fataneh Kahlili,” I said desperately. “She is my
mother and they just admitted her in here. She had a heart attack. Please tell
me where she is and how she is doing.”
The nurse looked up at me and narrowed her eyes. “We just told you.
She is in the CCU. She is not doing well. How many times do you have to ask?”
Earlier that day, one of Mom’s neighbors called to tell me that an
ambulance had taken her to the hospital. The day before, I had pleaded with her
to let me take her out of town, where she could be safe from the most vicious
round of attacks civilians had experienced during the war. She refused. She
even refused to stay with me. Of course she did. Why would she even consider
that? Her only son was part of a ruinous regime and she couldn’t forgive him
for this. The birth of her grandson had brought us together physically, but
this turned out to be a temporary rapprochement. After Somaya and Omid left,
she returned to seeing me only as a member of the Guards. When I entreated her
on the phone to allow me to help her get to a safer place, she told me that she
would leave with her friends in a few days if things did not get better. But
her voice was shaky, and I knew she was frightened.
This latest nightmare began when I was at home, having just hung up
from a conversation with Somaya. A roaring blast jolted the building, the
ground shook, and I thought the house would crumble. It was far worse than when
Iraqi jets dropped bombs. I looked out the window to see which building had
collapsed and found neighbors running and screaming outside. I couldn’t see any
sign of destruction within our neighborhood; just confused and rattled people.
I turned on the radio, but before I could get any information, there was
another jolt.
A few months earlier, Carol had warned me that there would be
missile attacks. At the time, I could appreciate her message only in the
abstract.
The reality was so much more terrifying. BBC radio confirmed that
Iraq was firing long-range missiles on Tehran and other Iranian cities. The BBC
also said that there was a strong possibility that this was the first of many
such attacks.
It was then that I called Mom, offering to take her away from this
madness. Now, a day later, after more than a dozen missiles had hit Tehran, Mom
lay in the cardiac care unit. I was devastated and I felt responsible for what
had happened to her. I should have insisted on staying with her in such a
situation, despite her protests and refusals, but I allowed the distance that
had come between us to prevent me from doing the right thing.
While I was waiting to hear about her condition, an explosion jolted
the hospital violently. Another missile had hit somewhere close by. Screams and
howls filled the hallway. Nurses rushed from one room to another. People in
waiting rooms hurried to leave. I just sat there on the floor and covered my
face with my palms.
What has happened to us? Is this the kind of life we deserve? What
is going to happen to Mom? I broke her heart and now she’s suffered a heart
attack. What if she does not make it? God, please save her and I’ll do
anything!
“Is somebody here for Fataneh Kahlili?”
I turned my head toward the deep, husky voice. I wiped my face with
the end of my sleeve and raised my hand, still too choked up to talk. A man in
light blue hospital garb approached. I felt his hand on my shoulder as I tried
to get up.
“Please stay seated. Are you Mrs. Kahlili’s son?”
I nodded.
“You know, pesaram, since last night we have had several
patients with heart attacks. These missiles don’t just destroy where they hit;
you have to have a strong heart to survive the effect of their impact.” He
pushed his cap away from his forehead. “I am sorry to say that your mother did
not make it.”
Carol had also told me in her message that things would get ugly but
that there would be peace in the end. Was this the kind of peace she was
talking about? Would she consider my mother “at peace” now? I couldn’t continue
to live like this. By the time I buried Mom on a cold winter day in 1988, while
Tehran was still under attack by Saddam Hussein, I had made the decision that
would alter the course of my life.
The international phone lines had been jammed since the attacks
started. Since we couldn’t reach each other by phone, Somaya sent a telegram:
Reza, we are so worried. We are not able
to call. Please let us know how you are. Please, Reza, call us ASAP.
I rushed to send a telegram back to her. I wished I could let her
know about what I’d decided in the telegram, but I had to be sure I could
follow through on this decision before I said anything. I did not even mention
what happened to Mom and how devastated I was, how I was racked with guilt over
her death and how much I regretted not telling Mom that I was not who she
thought I was.
Somaya jon, I am safe and sound. Please
do not worry so much. It is not as bad as it sounds in the news. I will be
sending a telegram every other day until the phone lines become available
again. I love you so much and I miss you. Please kiss my Omid for me and take
care of yourself. Love, Reza.
“Are you sure you want to put in all these words?” the dispatcher at
the phone company said. “You can delete ‘I miss you’ or ‘I love you so much’ to
cut the cost.”
“That’s okay, I will pay for those.”
“How about ‘kiss my Omid’? Do you know how expensive every word is?”
“Don’t worry about those. I will pay more to make sure they know I
love them.”
The dispatcher rolled his eyes and took the paper.
The always bustling Tehran had turned into a ghost town. Hundreds of
thousands fled as soon as the first few missiles struck. Many took shelter in
cities to the north by the Caspian Sea, as these places were too far away for
the missiles to reach from Iraq. A three-hour drive had become an eighteen- to
twenty-hour crawl because of the number of cars fleeing the capital. Others who
could not afford to travel camped out in the outskirts of Tehran, feeling that
this was somehow safer. Many people died in car accidents or from snakebite
while camping in remote areas. Business in Tehran came to a halt.
I needed to talk to Kazem, but the timing wasn’t right for a
personal discussion. The base was chaotic. I had never seen Kazem so angry and
rattled. Not long after the attacks started, I encountered him in the hallway
and he asked me to follow him to his office. He slammed the door behind him and
hurled himself into his chair. He mumbled some words and picked up the phone,
but instead of dialing, he banged the handset back to its base.
“We’ll teach this bastard Saddam a good lesson. These filthy
Americans think they can force us to surrender by giving him missiles and a
green light to attack us. The Iraqis claim the missiles are their own. They
think we are donkeys.”
“What is the plan, Kazem?” I asked. “We cannot just sit here and let
this motherless plunderer destroy us like this.”
“The U.S. has planned this. Imam just ordered us to expand the
mining of the Persian Gulf to put pressure on American forces and oil
shipments. And we are going to fire missiles at Iraq’s major cities in return.
They can take their dreams to their grave if they think they are going to
demolish our Islamic movement.”
It took several minutes for Kazem’s fury to recede long enough for
him to tell me how sorry he was to hear of my mother’s death. This was an
opening for me to discuss my decision, but remembering his tirade just moments
before, I let it pass.
Later that night I wrote a letter to Carol:
[Letter #—] [Date:———] Dear Carol,
1—The Iraqi missile attacks have caused chaos. Innocent people are
being slaughtered.
2—People are leaving the capital for safer ground.
3—Kazem told me that Imam has ordered a swift response to Iraq and
to the American forces in the Persian Gulf.
4—The Guards will expand the mining of the Gulf in retaliation for
Saddam’s attacks.
5—The Guards don’t know how Saddam has acquired these powerful
missiles but they doubt they were built by the Iraqi army. They blame the U.S.
for giving Saddam the green light for this action.
6—I will try to stay in touch, but the situation is very volatile.
Wish me luck, Wally
Almost two months after the first strike by Iraqi missiles and while
most of Tehran still looked desolate, the missile strikes stopped. But the war
continued. After Imam Khomeini ordered the mining of the Gulf, a guided-
missile frigate, the USS Samuel B. Robertson, struck an Iranian mine on
April 14, 1988. The mine blew a fifteen-foot hole in the hull and flooded the
engine room, injuring ten sailors. I knew that America would not take this
lightly, and I prayed that the retaliation would not hurt innocent civilians.
Four days later, the U.S. Navy attacked two Iranian oil platforms. The ensuing
battle caused at least six Iranian speedboats and two navy ships to be
destroyed or damaged.
The tension in the Gulf was later responsible for an ill-fated
incident that ended the life of nearly three hundred innocent people. On July
3, 1988, while I was in the cafeteria at our base with Kazem and some other
Guards, news came out that a U.S. Navy cruiser had shot down an Iran Air
jetliner. Apparently, the USS Vincennes mistook the civilian jet for an
attacking F- 14 fighter. The news repeatedly showed footage of bodies of men,
women, and children floating in the Persian Gulf.
The uproar among the Guards was immediate. “Death to America,” the
Guards chanted in the cafeteria. As always, this mob denied any culpability in
the tragedy.
Later that month, Khomeini accepted peace with Iraq. But he did so
with searing words that revealed the true hatred he had for his enemy.
“Making this decision was more deadly than taking poison. I
submitted myself to God’s will and drank from this cup of poison for his
satisfaction. To me, it would have been more bearable to accept death and
martyrdom, but I made this decision in the interest of the Islamic Republic.”
After eight years of suffering, more than half a million people
dead, injured, or wounded, and a great cost in economic damage, our Imam still
held to the belief that he was sacrificing for the sake of the Islamic
Republic. I could not feel more shame for what I once believed.
Now that the war was over and conditions on the base were less
chaotic, I thought this would be a good time to talk to Kazem. I went to his
office on a Wednesday afternoon. It was Somaya’s birthday. I had called her
earlier that day and she was in tears.
“Reza, it’s been three years. Omid has started first grade. I cannot
pretend everything is okay, because it’s not. He needs you. I need you, too. I
understand your love for your … whatever you love about that country, but I am
sick and tired of this. You belong with your family.”
She did not give me a chance to wish her happy birthday, but I told
her that I would call her back later that night when she’d calmed down. I was
hoping that I’d have things straightened out with Kazem by then and that I
could offer her the birthday present she truly wanted.
I was surprised to find Rahim in Kazem’s office because I hadn’t
seen him for some time. He hugged me when he saw me, saying, “Salam aleikom,
Baradar Reza. It is so nice to see you again.”
“Salam, Baradar Rahim. It’s nice to see you, too.”
I hoped Rahim would leave soon so I could talk to Kazem. Apparently,
they were in the middle of a discussion about Khomeini’s acceptance of peace.
Kazem, who had earlier stated that the only acceptable end to this war was the
destruction of Saddam and his allies, now acknowledged Khomeini’s decision. But
he was still furious with America.
“I wish that we had taught America a lesson and responded to its
bullying,” Kazem said.
“Rest assured, Baradar Kazem, that time will come,” Rahim said. “But
the Americans had sent a strong message that if we didn’t accept peace with
Iraq, they would use all their power, including nuclear bombs. Hajj Agha
Rafsanjani has promised to retaliate for their downing of our civilian jetliner
and much more. I know from many high commanders that if we had the atomic bomb,
we would have used it against them. But there is a time to step back, get
stronger, and then confront the evil powers of imperialism and Zionism. Inshallah,
we will destroy them both.”
Kazem looked at me and nodded. I could see he was satisfied with
Rahim’s response.
“I believe our Imam’s decision was spiritually inspired,” I said,
playing the role I always played in the office. “As Imam said himself, we have
to submit ourselves to God’s will and Allah will empower us to defeat evil.”
At some point, Rahim asked about my wife and son living outside the
country away from me for such a long time. I remember telling him that they
were with my in-laws in London.
“They are fine. My father-in-law, Moheb Khan, has a big apartment in
the Mayfair district, and I am happy that my wife and son are safe and living
with her family.”
“Moheb Khan? I know this name. Is his last name Hadidi?” Rahim
asked. I nodded, shocked that he knew my in-laws.
“Moheb Khan is a great Muslim and his contribution to the London
mosque is well regarded. I was not aware you were related to him.”
I did not know how to feel about having this connection. Would I
earn more respect and credibility or be watched more closely? I knew Moheb Khan
had a good reputation among Muslims in London, as he was a righteous man and a
trustworthy businessman. But Moheb Khan was also openly against the crimes and
unjust rule of the Iranian government. Would this put my family and me under
more suspicion?
Rahim glanced at his watch and told Kazem that they should be going.
“If you are not busy, Baradar Reza, you should come with us, too,”
Rahim said. “You should witness justice in action.”
Before I could ask where they wanted me to go, somebody knocked and
opened the door to Kazem’s office.
“Baradar Rahim, can I talk to you for a second?” the Guard asked.
Rahim got up and stood by the halfway-opened door, holding on to the
handle with his arm twisted behind him. The two men whispered something. All I
could hear was Rahim saying, “Sure, sure, I’ll be there.”
Rahim came back into the room and said that he had to go somewhere
else immediately, as something had come up. He said that Kazem and I should go
without him. I felt relieved, as going on a trip with Kazem alone would give me
the opportunity to talk to him about my plan.
However, when Kazem told me where we were heading, I felt nauseous.
He was taking me to a stoning.
“It is only a forty-minute drive from here.” Kazem looked at his
watch. “We can probably get there in time if we leave now.”
I felt a surge of anger and directed all of it toward Kazem. How
could he be so indifferent, so cold-blooded, to talk about this as though it
were another appointment on his calendar? How could I possibly consider someone
like this a friend? I was so livid that I couldn’t speak to him about anything,
let alone my plans, on the way there.
We arrived at the end of an unpaved, dusty road in a deserted spot
in the shadow of the surrounding hills. A small crowd had gathered. Several
Guards’ and Komitehs’ Land Cruisers were parked along the roadside. A short
distance from the crowd, a couple of motorcyclists leaned against
their bikes watching the event. Among the crowd were a few women in
black chadors. In front of them were piles of fist-sized stones.
A young woman, wrapped in a white shroud and held on both sides by
two policemen, stood in front of a hole dug especially for her. Behind them,
five pasdar with machine guns watched the crowd.
A black-robed mullah announced the crime.
“Asieh Najmali, thirty-two-year-old mother of two, has been
convicted of adultery.”
The crowd sighed.
“Today we are here to bring justice. This is God’s verdict. Asieh
Najmali has committed a sin that can only be punished by the rule of Allah. She
has brought shame and disgrace to Islam and her family. …”
“Let’s go up farther so we can get a better view,” Kazem whispered.
“You go ahead; I can already see.”
Kazem frowned at me and forced himself into the crowd. I hid behind
a row of men at the end of the circle they had made around Asieh. From what I
could tell, her sin was trying to feed her two children by the only means
available to a woman stricken with poverty because of the policies of the
Islamic government: selling herself to a man for a few thousand rials. Now she
was to face the punishment decreed by fanatical mullahs in Allah’s name. I
spied Kazem watching the proceedings avidly and wondered how my God could be so
different from his.
“Kill this adulterer!” a man in the crowd shouted.
This set off a volley of epithets. From every corner you could hear
people yelling, “Binamoos … zenakar … kesafat,” calling Asieh shameful,
unchaste, and an adulterer. “Kill her, kill her!” they chanted.
I tried to think about what Somaya might be doing for her birthday
in an effort to distract myself. I closed my eyes, but when I did, I saw Somaya
in the hole. This set my nerves on fire. Driven by some force I barely
understood, I pushed myself through the crowd. Suddenly, I felt that I needed
to witness this moment with my eyes wide open. A young woman was being
slaughtered, and I had to stop hiding behind my own shadow. I had to know her
pain.
Asieh was now standing in the hole. They’d covered her body from the
waist down with dirt. I saw no sign of surrender in her eyes. I could tell that
she knew she was not guilty. She had submitted herself to the God she
believed in, the God who would look after her two innocent kids, the
God who had already forgiven her.
The Guards started shoveling more dirt in the hole until they buried
Asieh up to her shoulders.
The crowd hushed.
A Guards commander reached into the pile of stones. He picked up a
rock and aimed it at Asieh. I bit my lip and said to myself, God, please,
please put a stop to this. How can you let these savages contaminate the love
you put into your creation. How can you watch and not be enraged.
The rock hit Asieh’s forehead and blood ran down her pale face. She
didn’t plead and she didn’t scream. Her God had given her strength and his love
and protection.
The crowd attacked the pile of rocks. With all of the hatred they
felt in them, they threw rocks at Asieh. Soon Asieh’s face was veiled in blood
and her head tilted to one side. She was gone. But the crowd continued to
assault her.
“Die, you filthy, sinful woman. Die.”
Eventually, the mullah stepped in. “Justice has been carried out.
She is dead now, and God’s will is satisfied.”
The crowd started to scatter. Kazem was chatting with some Guards,
but I could not take my eyes off Asieh. A pickup truck pulled close to the
hole. A man stepped out and removed a shovel and a blanket from the bed of his
truck. Then he opened the passenger door for an old woman, presumably Asieh’s
mother. The woman sat on the ground while the man dug out Asieh’s body. She did
not wail. She did not mourn. She just stared at the man digging out the
bloodied body of her daughter. A mother watched her daughter stoned to death, a
part of her being ripped apart, and could say nothing. She was not even able to
shed a tear.
The man wrapped Asieh’s body in the blanket, laid it in the bed of
his truck, and drove away. Kazem and the Guards were still talking. I walked
back to the car. I did not want to be a part of their conversation. I did not
even care if my walking away from them insulted them. I was ready to spit on
them and tell them how ashamed I was of them. Knowing that I was likely to say
anything if provoked, I tapped the shirt pocket where I kept the rat poison
capsules. I wanted to be sure they were with me.
The angry roar of the two cycles revving their engines in the
distance caught my attention. Why in the world weren’t they leaving? They’d
seen
what they wanted to see.
I turned around to find Kazem coming to the car. The other Guards
were headed to their cars as well. Kazem put some papers in the trunk and waved
good-bye as the last two Land Cruisers took off, leaving a cloud of dust behind
them.
Kazem arranged some stuff in the backseat and hopped in behind the
wheel. “What’s the matter with you?” he asked as he turned the key in the
ignition. I was convinced that he truly had no idea.
“I am leaving the Guards,” I said in a voice filled with contempt.
Kazem scowled at me. “What?”
He had never looked at me with such derision. At another time in my
life, I might have shrunk from this or tried to appease his anger, but it meant
nothing to me now. I was ready to tell him how disgusted I was with him, his
Islam, and his God. How for all those years I’d just pretended to be his
friend. How I’d used him to get revenge for Naser and my lost country.
“Did the stoning bother you? You think a sinner like her didn’t
deserve that punishment? She was a disgrace to our society. Women like her are
filthy. They should …”
“Kazem, stop it!” I shouted.
I thought in that moment that Somaya would never see me again. There
was no way I could hold back the torrent of my feelings now. I had planned to
discuss this with Kazem calmly, telling him that I wanted to leave the Guards
for a while to stay with my family. I was confident he would accommodate that.
But my outrage stripped me of any discretion.
“Kazem, it is not just the stoning.” I shook my head. “No—not just
that! It’s all you do to these innocent people. All the injustices this Islamic
Revolution heaps on this country. You are blind, Kazem. I’ve wanted to tell you
this for a long time. This is not the real Islam. It is not God’s will to kill
and kill more.”
Kazem floored the gas pedal. He maneuvered around cars and said
nothing. He kept biting his lower lip and looking at the rearview mirror. I
held on to my seat. People were honking at us, probably thinking that the
driver had lost his mind.
I thought Kazem was doing this because he hated me for what I was
saying to him. But then he adjusted his rearview mirror and said, “I think we
have company.”
“What?” I checked my side mirror and saw two motorcycles approaching
us. “I saw these riders at the stoning.”
“Are they friends of yours, Reza?” he remarked sarcastically. “You
know what Javad once said to me? He told me you were not to be trusted, that
you were either part of the Mujahedin or a spy for America.” He shifted
manically to another lane. “I slapped him in the face and told him, ‘You get
off Reza’s back or I’ll send you where you belong.’”
Another loud, long honk split the air as Kazem cut in front of an
eighteen-wheeler.
“You know what else I told Javad? I told him that I’d give my eyes
for you. ‘If anybody, anybody among us is a pure believer and committed to this
movement, it is Reza,’ I said. And I would still like to believe that.”
He turned his head to check the side mirror. The bikes were still
behind us. He started to roll up his window and told me to do the same.
“Kazem, do you see what is happening here? Is this what you believe
in? Is this the religion of love and forgiveness? Is this the same loving God
you worshiped as the kid I knew? Or is this the one they want you to worship?”
A loud blast overwhelmed my words.
“Duck! Duck!” Kazem yelled as he pushed my head down and held it
with his hand. We were under attack. The two bikers were shooting at the car.
Kazem was zigzagging, trying to maneuver the car between lanes, and honking the
horn. Then another blast shattered the back window, blowing shards of glass
inside. I moved as far under the dashboard as I could and Kazem reached over to
push me farther down. The car hit some bumps but we kept barreling forward.
Then came more gunshots and another window broke. We hit a heavy
bump. I closed my eyes. The car lurched up and came down hard. When we landed,
I realized that I could no longer feel Kazem’s hand on my head. The car was
still moving uncontrollably. Suddenly, we came to a violent stop as we hit
something. My head crashed into the glove compartment and pieces of glass
showered over me.
After that, all was quiet, except for the howl of air rushing
through the broken windows. I uncrossed my arms from around my head and
carefully moved the glass away. I rose up and saw Kazem’s head leaning to one
side.
“Kazem?” I gave him a gentle push. “Kazem?”
I moved his head and saw the blood running down his neck where the
assailants had shot him.
“Oh my God! Kazem!”
Smoke rose from under the smashed hood. I tried to open the door to
get us out, but it was jammed. I removed my jacket and took off my shirt to
wrap it around Kazem’s neck.
Hesitantly, I reached for his pulse. There was none. I pressed on
his wrist harder looking for a beat, moving my finger around. Nothing. I
checked the pulse on his neck, but found nothing there, either.
I crumpled. How many atrocities do I have to witness? I
screamed to the God in my head. How many friends and family members do I
have to bury? God, I am so tired of this! I am so tired.
I submit myself to you, as I no longer have the strength.
I barely remember what happened in the ensuing days. Our base
announced that Kazem fell victim to a Mujahedin attack. Rahim moved back to our
base, telling me to take a few days off.
“Baradar Reza, you did what you could to save your brother. We all
know you and Kazem were close. It must be very hard on you, as it is on all of
us. We lost a great pasdar. He was a true Muslim and now he’s a martyr.”
But what Rahim did not know was that Kazem had saved my life and
that I had not attempted to reciprocate. In the moments before the attack, I
learned that he’d also protected me all those years. With the faith he had in
me, he made it possible for a group of hard-core radicals to believe that Reza
was like them, and perhaps even more dedicated than they were. He’d erased the
damage Javad had caused. He’d secured for me the respect of Rahim, a shrewd
commander of one of the most dangerous divisions of the Islamic Republic
government. He’d saved my life more than once.
I stayed home for a few days, unsure what to feel. My relationship
with Kazem had stopped being simple a long time ago. But as it turned out, he
had never stopped acting as a friend. It would take me a very long time to
process this and mourn it properly.
One thing was certain, though. With Kazem gone, I had no more
security. If I were going to leave now, I would need Rahim’s approval, and I
assumed that this would be exponentially harder to attain than it would have
been from Kazem. I decided that the only approach I could take was to have the
evenhanded conversation I’d intended to have with Kazem before my fury
overwhelmed me.
“Baradar Rahim, I know it’s a very tense time with Kazem not being
here, but I hope you understand that my family needs me in London, if I can
have your permission. My wife is going back to school and my son has
not seen me for a few years. They need me. …”
Rahim stopped me. “Baradar Reza, I know it has been hard for you to
lose Kazem. I understand. You look so miserable. I think it is a good idea that
you go there for a while. Be with your family.”
I couldn’t believe it had gone that easily.
“Leave your phone number and address with me and I’ll be in touch,”
Rahim continued. “I know Moheb Khan and where he lives, but if I have your
number, I can call should something come up. And perhaps while staying there,
I’ll connect you with some good brothers and you can remain active with the
Guards.”
Rahim’s words sent me plummeting back to earth. How was I going to
navigate my way through this? I decided that I couldn’t worry about it at that
moment. I had his permission to leave and I’d make the most of that. I made
plans to leave the country in a few weeks, though I still didn’t call Somaya to
tell her so. I felt that I couldn’t let her know what I was doing until after
my plane landed in London because until that very moment things could go
horribly wrong. I had Rahim’s permission, my ticket, and the voucher of my
freedom, but I had learned that none of this was a guarantee in Iran anymore. I
just couldn’t bear the devastation it would cause her if I got her hopes up and
then someone with power over me squashed those hopes.
I was so anxiety-riddled in the time leading up to my departure that
I could barely sleep. And when sleep did come, soul-ripping nightmares awoke
me, leaving me stunned in bed. About a week before my flight, I woke up soaked
to the bone in the middle of the night. I held my chest tightly because it felt
as though my heart were about to burst out of it. I ran the sheet across my
face to wipe off the sweat and sat up in bed, remembering the dream I had.
I am in a desert. There is nothing around me. I am stuck in a hole
from the waist down. I feel something hit my head from the back and I feel
intense pain. Then something hits me in the forehead. I see blood. Then
something else hits me in the back of my head.
I turn and sigh. Kazem is standing behind me in his soccer jersey.
He is ten or eleven years old. He has a soccer ball in one hand and is throwing
rocks at me with his other. Another rock hits me in the forehead. This comes
from Naser, who is standing in front of me. He looks skinny and old.
He is behind bars and throwing rocks at me from a distance.
I scream, “I don’t want to be the goalie anymore!”
Khanoom Bozorg approaches me. “Reza jon,
you should have done your namaz before getting in that hole.”
Agha Joon walks up and grabs Khanoom Bozorg’s hand. “Khanoom, leave
him alone. He is an adult and he knows what’s right and what’s wrong. He is in
this hole just to be a goalkeeper.”
Then Somaya comes toward me carrying a birthday cake. I try to blow
out the candles from the hole, but no matter how strong I blow, I cannot do it.
The fire is still there. The candles are burning and burning!
“I don’t want to be the goalie anymore!” I scream again.
LEAVING HOME
Once on the plane, I closed my eyes and thought of Somaya and Omid’s
surprise at seeing me—how we would start the rest of our lives together and how
different things were going to be. I was preoccupied with these pleasant
thoughts when the plane hit air turbulence. The fasten seat belt sign beeped
and lit up. A commotion arose as the plane started to shake.
The woman next to me started to murmur prayers. “Ey Khoda, Khodet
hefzemoon kon,” she said. Oh God, please save us! She held on to the
arms of her seat and mine. The older man next to her on the aisle seat had his
eyes closed as he rocked back and forth, a line of sweat traveling along the
side of his pale face.
The plane dropped suddenly, causing several people to cry out in
alarm. The sound of babies wailing and adults shouting for salvation was all
too familiar to me. But a few seconds later, the shaking subsided. With another
beep, the seat belt light went off.
“Thank God,” the woman next to me said as she took a deep breath.
She turned her head toward my seat to look out the window and I saw tears in
her eyes. “Even to leave this ruined place does not come easy.”
All I could do was nod and force a smile.
She shook her head. “Thank God, I am not going back. Never!”
Before I left, I went to see Agha Joon to say good-bye. By this
point he was battling Alzheimer’s, but he remembered me. He asked when I was
planning to return, and I just told him I’d be doing so soon. I wished I could
tell him that I might not be back for a long time and that when I did return,
he might not even be around, but I couldn’t be that candid.
Thinking about my grandfather, thinking about how he’d helped form
me and how much he meant to me, I realized that I didn’t truly want to bury my
past. I needed to look forward, but I should never look away from
what made me who I was.
The Iran Air Boeing 747 landed smoothly at Heathrow. After the
sometimes rocky ride, the passengers applauded the pilot’s gentle touchdown. I
saw this as a metaphor for my future and the freedom I was about to enjoy.
I called Somaya once I got off the plane. All flight, I’d been
thinking about how to explain my arrival. Ultimately, I just decided to make it
as clear as possible. “Somaya jon, salam. Please forgive me. I know I
should have called before, but I am in London.”
I paused for her reaction. All she said was “What?”
My voice was shaky. “I am catching a cab and will be there in less
than an hour.”
Somaya and Omid greeted me at the door. I held Omid in my arms, and
all I could do was cry. Somaya looked at me in disbelief. Her expression said,
“Only you would show up this way.” Somaya’s parents were happy to see me and we
all celebrated my appearance. I knew things would be different later, when I
was alone with my wife. She had every right to be angry with me for being away
from her for so long and then for not telling her that I was coming to England.
In some ways, I dreaded that conversation. But Somaya never failed
to come through for me. When I told her about my mom’s and Kazem’s deaths, she
held me in her arms and let me weep till the last drop of my tears dried on her
shoulder. Though I knew she could have criticized me for the way I’d handled
things since she moved to England, she didn’t do anything of the sort.
When I was cried out, I said to her with shaking voice, “I promise,
I will never, ever leave your side again and …”
She put a finger on my lips. “Don’t, Reza. Please, I don’t want you
to promise anything anymore. You are here, and that means the world to Omid.
For a long time, I’ve wanted the three of us to have a happy life. I am sure
that’s what you want, too. I waited for you all these years. Let’s not let your
promises ruin it, at least for Omid’s sake.”
“Do you still love me?” I said apprehensively.
She looked in my eyes and tried not to smile. “You know, Reza, I
sometimes ask myself the same question.” Then her eyes brightened and she said,
“Yes, I still love you.” Hearing this from her made me feel
incredibly strong—and incredibly lucky that I’d managed to find a
woman who would support me the way she did.
For the next several days, while I enjoyed the life I had missed for
years, Somaya and I talked about our future. She agreed right away when I
proposed that we move to America.
“Oh, California! I’d love to go to Los Angeles. The weather … Malibu
Beach … Hollywood. And, oh my God, we can take Omid to Disneyland every day!”
She closed her eyes and smiled like a child.
I laughed. “You’ve been watching a lot of American movies, haven’t
you?”
She patted my arm and said playfully, “You are so mean.” Then she
added, “It is not all about that. I could finish school there.” Somaya had
started going to college in London part-time. She was not sure of what she
wanted to study, as she had several majors in mind. “I can decide what I want
to do in America.”
“You’ll be good at anything you put your mind to.”
Next, I had to call Carol to advise her of my decision to leave the
agency, and to ask her help in arranging our trip to America. She had told me
several times previously that when I was ready to go to the U.S. she would have
our paperwork processed to attain our residency status.
Carol was shocked when I called and told her I was in London. She
said she hoped I had a better excuse this time for not telling her about my
trip. She asked me to meet her at the same hotel where we had met the last
time. This seemed unusual, but it didn’t matter to me anymore.
Seeing Carol, of course, meant that I had to lie to Somaya again
about what I was doing, something I could barely reconcile any longer. I made
up a story about contacting an immigration lawyer and planning a meeting to see
what our options were.
“I’d like it if we could do these things together from now on,”
Somaya stated flatly.
“We will. This time is just a consultation. If the lawyer is any
good, we’ll go together next time.” As the words left my mouth, I pleaded with
God to make it possible for me to end my double life as soon as possible.
Carol gave me a warm hug as I entered the hotel room. “What brings
you here this time? Visiting your family?” She didn’t seem at all worried about
why I’d asked to see her, perhaps because I was projecting the strength and
serenity that several days with Somaya and Omid had provided.
“Yes, I am visiting. But there is more.” I hesitated for a moment.
“I need you to help me and my family move to the States.”
Now concern crossed her face. “Is everything all right?”
“I lost my mother during the missile attacks. And a few weeks ago,
before I came here, Kazem was killed. …”
“Oh my God! I am so sorry, Wally.”
I didn’t want to hear the name Wally now. For the past few days, I
hadn’t been thinking like Wally at all.
“What happened to Kazem?” she asked in disbelief.
I related all of it to her, explaining that the stoning and Kazem’s
assassination were the final straws for me. I told her that I was convinced
that it was impossible for me—emotionally and physically—to remain in Iran.
“I am sorry,” she said, rubbing her eyes and shaking her head.
“I talked to Somaya and we think it is better for us and for our son
to live in the States instead of England.”
Carol nodded thoughtfully. “Is this your final decision, Wally?”
I didn’t hesitate in my response. “I am afraid it is,” I said,
surprised at how good it felt to get out those words.
“Then I will do my best to get everything ready,” Carol said with a
warm smile. “Give me a week and I’ll have your papers prepared. But call me in
a few days so we can set up another meeting.”
When I heard her say this, I realized that I was truly committing to
ending my double life. I’d wanted to do this for a long time, but I wasn’t
prepared for the ambivalence that struck me now. What about the madness still
going on in my country? Was I truly prepared to leave so many good Iranians
behind?
At the same time, though, I had to wonder if my efforts as Wally had
really helped anyone. Did my reports accomplish what I hoped they would? I’d
told the CIA about Iraq’s use of chemical weapons, but this led to nothing more
than the U.S. government’s condemnation of the practice while they continued to
provide Saddam with military intelligence and training, along with billions of
dollars in economic aid. I reported China’s secret military cooperation with
the Guards, and again, this led only to a condemnation. I reported the ruthless
torture and killing of men and women opposing the mullahs and how some European
countries even allowed such practices within their own borders, and yet the
West continued to sidestep
its principles of supporting democracy and defending human rights
because of the lure of Iranian oil.
You did all you could do, I told myself.
You did as much as one man can do. For many years I had been
certain that I was working for the freedom of my country. But now I realized
that I was just another employee of the CIA.
Carol held up an envelope. “This is for you.”
I stared at the envelope, wondering why she was giving me money
after what I’d told her.
“It’s for your hard work,” she said, as though reading my mind.
I slipped the envelope inside my breast pocket. “Thanks.”
“Wally, I’m not trying to change your mind, but if you decide to go
back to Iran, even for a short while, and continue the work, the agency will
provide you with a new car, a house, and a guaranteed job with a good salary at
the headquarters when you return to the States.”
I felt somewhat insulted that she would suggest this after what I
told her I’d been through, but I decided to let it lie. “That is a very
generous offer, Carol, but I have to pass at this moment.” My voice was a
little husky. “For the sake of my family.”
The next time I saw Carol to go over our papers, I had Omid with me.
Somaya was at school and I had told my in-laws I was going for a walk with my
son. Carol was surprised when she saw the boy. It didn’t dawn on me until that
moment how stupid it was to bring Omid along. He was six years old and he was
likely to tell Somaya how we had spent our day.
“This is my son, Omid, Ms. Lawyer,” I said, trying to spin this on
the spot. “Omid jon, please shake hands with our lawyer. She is working
on our case so we can go to America.”
Omid shook Carol’s hand. My six-year-old son was shaking
hands with a CIA agent in a covert meeting. The moment bordered on surreal.
The hotel room arrangement was a little different this time,
thankfully. We were in a suite, the bedroom closed off by a double door. In the
living area with us was a couch, a coffee table, and a huge working desk piled
with Carol’s paperwork, her briefcase, and a portable computer, perhaps one of
the very first laptops ever available to the CIA’s agents. It did not look like
a lawyer’s office, but I hoped it was convincing enough for a six-year- old to
think it was.
“Hi, Omid. Nice to meet you,” Carol said as she gave him a
delightful smile. She looked up at me. “Your son is very handsome.”
Though having Omid there was a little awkward, we were able to get
through some of the paperwork. Carol said she would start the procedure with
this and that she would let me know what else we needed to do.
“I think it is important to bring my wife along so she can be part
of this process without …”—I looked at Omid, who was on the couch looking at a
magazine. I lowered my voice—“… without being suspicious.”
“I’ll plan something to make it look real and official,” she
whispered. “Call me tomorrow and we’ll talk.”
I felt embarrassed having to put Carol in that position. She
obviously had more important things to do than prepare an elaborate ruse for my
benefit— especially now that I was walking away from my role. Still, I needed
the kind of help that only she could provide if I were going to maintain the
secret that the CIA needed me to maintain.
After the meeting, I took Omid to Hamleys, a toy store, buying him a
remote-control police car and a two-hundred-piece Lego fire station to keep him
busy for the night so I could explain that day’s meeting to Somaya without his
comments.
As promised, Carol set up a meeting to which I could bring Somaya.
The two of us entered a three-story building on Regent Street where the “law
office of Harriet Johnson” was located on the second floor. There were two
offices across from each other in a narrow hallway and I wasn’t sure which was
Carol’s.
“Weren’t you here before?” Somaya asked.
“Not here, no,” I said, coming up quickly with yet another
fabrication. “I thought I mentioned that Harriet just split from her old law
partner. She moved here only a few days ago. Oh, there it is.”
I knocked and entered the room. Carol was sitting behind a desk
piled with files, books, and papers, taking notes on a pad. Behind her desk,
there was a bookshelf across the back wall filled with hardcover books. She was
in a blue suit, her hair up, and her bifocals down on the tip of her nose. It
was the first time I’d seen her with glasses and it surprised me that these
made her look much older.
“Please have a seat,” she said without looking up at us. “I’ll be
with you in a minute.”
I was nervous and shifted in my chair, not ready for this, not sure
if I could act my part. I’d been “performing” through most of my life as a CIA
agent, but this scenario was different. I’d never been asked to deceive my
wife in front of my employer. Somaya looked at me with a frown on
her face. She noticed my discomfort. I bent my head toward her ear and
whispered in Farsi, “Ageh nashe chi? What if she says we can’t go?”
“Sorry for the delay, Mr. Kahlili,” Carol said a few minutes later.
She reached a hand out to Somaya. “This must be your wife. My name is Harriet
Johnson, and it is a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Kahlili.”
“Please call me Somaya. Nice meeting you, too.”
Carol and Somaya proceeded to discuss the process with each other
without involving me at all. As odd as that seemed to me under the
circumstances, I was fine with it because I didn’t want to be any more of a
part of this game of pretend with my wife than I needed to be.
“Then you think that political asylum is our only option to obtain
our residency in the U.S.?” Somaya asked.
“It is indeed. Since Mr. Kahlili worked for the Iranian government,
this way you can have amnesty. As I’ve already told your husband, the other
options are an H-1 visa, a business visa, or a work permit. None of those fit
your situation.”
“But this way we cannot go back to Iran? Ever?”
“That’s right. At least not under the current government.”
Somaya looked at me sadly. “Are you okay with that, Reza? I know I
have no interest in going back as long as the mullahs are in power, but how
about you?”
Carol left the room to give us some time to discuss this, though we
had only one option. I already knew this because I’d already discussed it with
Carol. I let Somaya make the final decision. With little hesitation, she gave
permission to “Ms. Johnson” to start our petition for political asylum.
“It might take six months to a year,” Carol said. “I will be in
touch.”
While the wait sounded long, Somaya seemed perfectly relaxed about
it. She would happily be patient about getting to America as long as we were a
family again and we could live together away from all that had separated us
these past years. I knew she was especially happy that I’d agreed to an
arrangement that would keep me out of Iran permanently, or at least until the
current regime was gone.
On the way back home, we held hands and talked more about the
future. We decided to rent our own place in London while we waited for the
final paperwork. We also thought it would be a good idea to not tell anybody,
even Somaya’s parents, about how we were getting to America. We
would simply let them know that we were planning to move there soon.
At the dinner table that night, while Somaya was happily announcing
our plans, the phone rang. Zari Khanoom answered in the kitchen and let me know
that the call was for me.
I picked up the phone and my blood chilled. After I finished the
conversation, I stared at the wall.
I should have known. He did tell me he would be in touch. He did say
he would not just leave me alone. How in the world did I think I could get away
from him and my contorted past?
Rahim was in London. And he wanted to see me.
BACK INTO THE COLD
I needed to call Carol and inform her that I was to meet Rahim the
next morning. This required some finesse, as I had to do this without drawing
the attention of Somaya or my in-laws. After I helped clean up the dinner
table, I told Somaya that I was going out to get a pack of cigarettes.
“I thought you just bought a pack this afternoon,” she said with a
puzzled expression. “You need to quit this soon.”
I kissed her forehead and told her that I would.
When I called Carol, she assured me that even on such short notice,
she would provide me with as much protection as she could. “If you don’t come
out by the time they shut down the place, we will take action. Our people will
be there.”
The taxi driver dropped me off at the corner of Ennismore Mews and
Princes Gardens. I walked west, checking for lookouts. On the left side of
Exhibition Road, a man in a black corduroy jacket was reading a magazine. I
presumed he was one of the lookouts. On the other side, at the corner of Prince
Consort Road, a man in a beige trench coat was carrying a map. Carol had said
that I should look for the men with big overcoats holding newspapers or
magazines. Because she was putting this together so quickly, she couldn’t give
me any more detail than this.
Before I got to Princes Gate, at the first entrance to Montrose
Court, I saw a familiar-looking woman in a red suit waiting for a cab. I held
my head down and tried to compose myself. I never imagined Carol herself would
be there. I felt more secure knowing that the CIA was watching out for me, but
I also knew I could never be fully secure as long as I was in the orbit of the
Revolutionary Guards.
Around the corner, Rahim caught my eyes. He was standing next to the
iron fence that surrounded the embassy, smoking a cigarette. He was
wearing a buttoned-up white dress shirt under his army jacket and
his black pants were creased in several spots. I turned my head to see if I
could still locate any of my lookouts, regretting this instantly, as I realized
that I was acting suspiciously and that Rahim might notice.
Rahim greeted me with a hug and a pat on the back. “Salam,
Baradar Reza. It is so nice to see you.” He kissed either side of my face.
“Let’s go in. Baradar Amiri is waiting for us.” He crushed his cigarette butt
under his shoes.
We went to the second floor, where we were to meet Amiri in his
office. Amiri, a short, skinny man with a unibrow and a full black beard, got
up and hugged Rahim when we arrived. He looked to be in his early forties.
Amiri seemed to know a great deal about me, mentioning my service in the
Guards, my relationship to Moheb Khan, and the Mujahedin attack that killed
Kazem.
We sat down and Rahim immediately went off on an extended monologue
about how every devoted Muslim needed to pay his dues to our revolution and
about how we had enemies in every corner of the world. “It’s our duty to look
out for our country no matter where we are. And, Baradar Reza, you are a
devotee and you owe it to your country to start being active soon. You are
still a member of the Guards, and you have had enough time to recover from the
terrible experience you had in Tehran. I think you should start working forran
right away. Your stay here will be questioned by the Sepah back home. As
your commander, I have to make sure you continue to serve your country.”
As shocked and terrified as I was by the gravity of Rahim’s tone, I
gave him an affirmative smile. “Of course, Baradar Rahim.” I cleared my throat.
“I am and will be at your service, and will do anything you ask me to do.”
Rahim turned to Amiri. “Baradar Reza will be in your hands now. The
work we need from him will be quite different from what he did at home, but he
is a smart guy and a fast learner.” He laughed.
He then looked back in my direction and regarded me ominously. “By
the way, how long did you plan to stay here?”
“My wife is still in school for a while,” I said nervously, “but it
shouldn’t be too much longer.”
“I am sure you will do as great a job here as you did back home. We
will then see what’s best for you and what you need to do.”
Rahim then told me about the vicious bloodbaths that had taken place
in the couple of months that I’d been away from home. “Baradar Reza, God took
revenge for the unjust killing of Shahid Kazem and all the other crimes.
Imam Khomeini issued a fatwa.”
When Khomeini had announced the campaign, he said, “If the person at
any stage or at any time maintains his [or her] support for the Munafeqin
[Mujahedin], the sentence is execution. Annihilate the enemies of Islam
immediately.” He also ordered the deaths of leftists because they were
apostate. The fatwa led to the execution of thousands of innocent men and women
of all ages in a very short period. Among them were girls as young as Parvaneh
and Roya, raped before their bodies swayed on the hook of the cranes. Innocent
young men like Naser and his brother, Soheil, were lined up for several hours
before they were hanged. This massacre was one of the most heinous acts of
Khomeini’s rule, yet the rest of the world paid little attention to it. This
was the first I’d heard of this barbarism, and I learned that the British media
had barely reported it.
To legitimize this act, a Death Commission carried out mock trials
behind closed doors. They interrogated prisoners about their associations,
affiliations, and allegiances with a series of questions designed to elicit an
answer that assured the death sentence: Are you willing to denounce the
Munafeqin on television? Are you willing to name and identify other active
members? Are you willing to help us arrest these people? Are you willing to die
for Islam? A negative answer led to immediate condemnation. But answering
positively eventually led to the same, as the questions had been designed to
generate only one result. The prisoners had no idea why they were being
questioned, and many of them had been arrested for minor infractions and were
coming to the ends of their original sentences.
Amiri shook his head as Rahim described this, adding, “Yes, God took
revenge. And hopefully we will soon arrest and execute the rest of them.”
“Inshallah!” Rahim said.
“Inshallah,” I replied, feeling shame,
remorse, and repulsion.
Amiri and Rahim continued to talk about how important it was to
identify those who opposed us outside the country and punish them in the same
way. I felt an ache in my heart. These criminals were running rampant while the
superpowers turned a blind eye. How could there ever be peace in this world as
long as this was the case?
When this insane discourse was over, Rahim rose and shook Amiri’s
hand. “Okay, then. You let Baradar Reza know what you need, and he will be at
your service. I’ll leave you two to work out the details.” He turned back
toward me. “Reza, I have your phone number and will be in touch before I
leave.”
I watched Rahim exit, feeling disoriented by my sudden and quite
involuntary conscription back into service. Amiri got down to business
immediately, suggesting that if I did not have a car, I should rent one.
“Two of our brothers are here in London to purchase some material,
and I’d like you to take them where they need to go. They are staying with
Baradar Sadri.” He handed me a piece of paper. “Here is his address and phone
number. Tell him Amiri asked you to call him. We will reimburse you for any
costs you incur.”
I nodded as Amiri directed me, but as he spoke, I kept wondering why
they were giving me such an assignment. What I did for them in Iran had nothing
to do with driving dirty bearded criminals around town. Why did they think I
was the right person for this? I had to assume it was because Rahim trusted me.
And this was because of Kazem. I wish Kazem were here, I thought as
Amiri continued with his instructions. He’d always been my safe harbor with the
Guards. Now I needed to navigate these waters by myself and I wasn’t at all
sure I could handle it.
Later that day, I called Carol to arrange another meeting right
away. I felt as though she was my only source of support at this point. I
needed some additional reassurance that the CIA had my back. I also felt an
obligation to inform her about the underground activity going on in England.
Carol set our rendezvous at a safe house. When I got there, another agent was
waiting with her. Eric seemed affable and easygoing, and I quickly learned that
he would be my new contact. While I’d had a number of contacts in my tenure in
the CIA, I’d been with Carol for all of my active spying days. Given how uneasy
I was feeling at this point, I didn’t need this kind of switch now. I had felt
very close to Carol and I worried that a new handler wouldn’t have the same commitment
to me. But like the rest of the events happening in my life at that time, I
knew I needed to put myself in the hands of destiny.
I told Carol and Eric about the meeting at the embassy and about how
Rahim had put conditions on my stay in London by insisting on my cooperation
with the Guards.
“Wally, I think it just makes sense that you do what they want,”
Carol said. “It’s going to take some time to prepare the papers for your move
to America, so meanwhile you could continue your work here with us.”
“I don’t know, Carol. I promised Somaya that we were starting a new
life. To endanger my family again by getting involved with the Guards here … I
am just not sure.”
Carol gave me a warm smile. “It’s your decision, Wally. But remember
that you are out of Iran now and that we will protect you and your family. I
don’t think you want the Guards to become too suspicious about your stay in
London.”
“Wally, you have nothing to fear,” Eric added. “We will take care of
you. You have done a great job so far and your commitment to your country and
your cooperation with us is much appreciated.”
In spite of their assurances, I felt like a vulnerable child seeking
shelter and security. I’d hoped Carol would have better ideas about what to do
in my situation, but her only solution was for me to dive back into the world I
longed to leave. Again, I felt I had no choice but to comply. I was leading two
lives, but neither of them was my own.
Before I left, Carol stood and gave me a hug.
“I wish you luck and hope to see you back in the States,” she said
warmly. That would be the last time I ever saw her.
Explaining my decision to Somaya that night was another task. On my
way home, I tried out various stories, but all of them seemed artificial and
transparent. I so hated lying to my wife, especially because my lies once again
had the potential for dire consequences for both her and Omid.
I finally decided to avoid preparing anything in advance. Instead, I
would come up with something on the spot. When I saw Somaya, I told her that
Rahim was in town and needed my help. At first she said nothing in response.
Then her expression darkened.
“Why didn’t you tell him no?” she said with barely controlled anger.
I tried to hold her hands, but she pulled away.
“You know that I did not quit the Guards when I came here,” I said.
“I just asked for a few months off because that was safer.”
“So what? You are here and don’t want to go back. In fact, you cannot
go back now. You said you were through with them! They are not even paying you
anymore.”
I reached for her hands again, beseeching her to sit next to me on
the bed.
“It’s not that easy with the Guards. Rahim said … You know I am
still officially part of the organization.”
She turned her head away from me. “I can’t believe you, Reza. I
don’t know what is in your empty head. I wish you did not even come here.”
“I’m just going to do this until our paperwork is ready. I told
Rahim that as soon as my wife is finished with school I am done with the
Guards, and he agreed.” The pain of that lie gnawed at me.
Somaya glanced in my direction, narrowed her green eyes, and shook
her head. Without another word, she got into the bed, covered her head with the
blanket, and turned her back to me. Once again, guilt overwhelmed me.
That sleepless night, I thought once more about the complicated
journey I’d chosen to take. There was no way I could say no to Rahim without
raising dangerous suspicions. There was also no way I could witness the Guards’
activities in England and not let the CIA know about it. If only I could
explain it all to Somaya, I knew she would understand. But this wasn’t an
available option, and none of the explanations I created instead of the truth
satisfied her in any way. She was sticking with me because she loved me, but I
was giving her every reason to question her continued loyalty.
The next morning, I stood in front of Sadri’s small apartment
building off Queen’s Road by Richmond Park. A tall, skinny man in striped blue
pajamas opened the door. I had called Sadri the night before and he was
expecting me. He threw down his cigarette butt, gave me a quick hug, and guided
me inside. “Come in, Reza jon,” he said, the first time any Guards
member had ever addressed me with this term of endearment rather than the usual
“Baradar.” Something about Sadri made me even more uncomfortable than I already
was. My instincts told me that I shouldn’t trust him, and I’d learned to pay
close attention to my instincts.
The two Guards I’d been assigned to drive around were inside,
sitting at a small square dining table having tea and English muffins. Even
though Sadri knew Amiri had sent me, he started questioning why I was in
England and where I was staying, and asking details about my family. I answered
calmly, offering enough information to placate him and nothing more. I suppose
I passed some sort of test, because after this he gave me the directions to a
chemical factory in Billingham, a city about two hundred miles northeast of
London.
“The meeting has been arranged with a sales manager named Charles
Winston,” Sadri said. “If you just take them there, they will deal with the
salesperson themselves.”
Sadri told me that the two men were in agriculture and that they had
come to England to purchase a chemical to protect and preserve the soil of
their farmlands. I pretended to believe this story and went about my job. I
drove them to Billingham and waited several hours outside the factory for them
to return.
On the way back, I sharpened my ears to listen to their whispered
conversation, trying to read their lips via the rearview mirror as well.
“Sadri was right,” the man sitting directly behind me said. “This
Winston guy seemed easier to deal with than the one in Manchester.”
“They are all stupid,” the other man said with a smirk. “This white
powder will turn all of them into fertilizer.”
I peeked at the man behind me again, and this time our eyes met.
This startled me, so I quickly shot my eyes to the rearview mirror, elaborately
surveying the road behind us. “That stupid car!” I said agitatedly. “Did you
see that?” They both turned their heads to check the road. “The British think
they are the best drivers in the world, but he was about to hit the car next to
him.” I shook my head and hoped this ruse stifled any suspicion.
Later, when I met Eric at a safe house outside London, I told him
what I overheard on the trip back from Billingham about the chemical they
sought to purchase. Eric recognized the compound right away, as well as its
more nefarious function.
“The white powder—ammonium nitrate—is a dual compound chemical. It’s
mainly used in agriculture as a fertilizer, but it is also used as an explosive
agent. Having an agricultural use gives it certain legitimacy and makes it
easier to acquire. Smart people!”
In our next meeting, Eric told me that Sadri was a fake name and
that the apartment at Queen’s Road was a safe house. I never saw Sadri again
and I never learned his real name.
Rahim left London a few days after I drove the two agents to
Billingham without my seeing him. He just called to say good-bye, telling me
that I should take care of Amiri.
Amiri was in touch with me constantly, and I met with him nearly
every week. I joined him in meetings held in the back rooms of mosques, in safe
houses, and at the embassy. The Guards were infiltrating the opposition
groups, especially the Mujahedin. They tracked the supporters of the
Iranian monarchy who had made London a hub for their operations. They were also
recruiting radical Muslims from the Pakistani and Afghan communities in England
for their aid in transferring arms and explosives, assassinating Iranian
opposition members, and plotting terrorist acts.
I’d come to London to initiate my escape from the Guards. Instead, I
was becoming enmeshed in their dealings at a higher level. Meanwhile, I was
reporting their activities to the CIA with increased fervor. I was once again
fully ensconced in my double life.
EYE FOR AN EYE
in december 1988, Somaya found a small,
furnished flat close to her parents in the Mayfair district. The one-bedroom
apartment had a tiny den that barely accommodated Omid’s bed. The kitchenette
and the living/dining area were all in one room. Still, it was good to have our
own place again— even though it gave Somaya the chance to complain freely about
my continued work with the Guards.
“I hate this, Reza! You don’t need to work with them anymore. Look
at you—you still look like a pasdar with your unshaven face. Ugh!
You promised that they would be out of our lives.”
I explained to her that they had started paying me a good salary
again for the little work I did in England, and that this money would help
toward our start in America. I’d been making up many stories about money to
explain why we had much more than we should. The income and bonuses I had been
receiving from the CIA were in the bank almost untouched for several years, and
the agency was now paying my expenses in London. I told Somaya that my mother
left me an inheritance when she passed away. I told this same lie to Amiri.
Then, when he offered me a few hundred British pounds in addition to the
reimbursement costs for the rental car, I refused to take it, believing that
this showed modesty and commitment to the revolution.
Around this time, Moheb Khan introduced me to a man named Fallah,
and we established a good relationship right away. Fallah was a close friend of
Somaya’s family and he loved my son, which predisposed me to him quickly. He
was an influential businessman in London, a broker for industrial supplies
manufactured throughout England and most of Europe.
Amiri, who knew of this acquaintance, urged me to arrange a meeting
with Fallah and a few newly arrived agents in town looking for industrial
parts. The three newcomers were different from the other agents I’d met in
London. They dressed in finely cut expensive suits, acted in a businesslike
manner, and even drank alcohol at restaurants and ordered pork.
I rented a car and took them to Fallah’s warehouse in the Stratford
area of east London. Fallah greeted us and took us to his office, which was
located
at the end of a dark cold storage area lined with stacked boxes and
large cartons on both sides. Some boxes were labeled with handwritten markings
and some had diagrams of industrial materials and products. For the size of the
warehouse, it was sparsely populated.
“Please have a seat,” Fallah said as he pulled an extra chair from
the corner of the room. “Sorry for the mess. I am getting orders on a daily
basis and I am here by myself.” He laughed. “My two colleagues are both making
deliveries.”
Hushang, one of the agents, handed Fallah a list of the tools they
needed for high-precision machinery. He did not mention the use he planned for
this machinery, but stressed that it was essential for the new company he and
the others were running in Esfahan, a city in the heart of Iran. Fallah noted
the considerable size of the order and promised to make the necessary calls to
fill it.
“Fallah Khan, don’t forget to give us your special discount,”
Hushang said as we were leaving the warehouse. “Reza is a good friend of ours.”
Hushang invited me to have lunch at their hotel when I dropped them
off. The other two men excused themselves and went to their rooms. I agreed,
though I found Hushang a little intimidating. He was well mannered and
polished, but his eyes carried an intensity that made me uncomfortable. At the
same time, if Amiri had not introduced me to him, I never would have suspected
that he worked for the Islamic government. Amiri had told me that Hushang had
strong ties with Imam Khomeini’s office. Since the English Secret Service kept
an eye on people coming in, especially from Iran, it was imperative that he
blend in.
In broken English, Hushang greeted the doorman, clerks, and bellhops
as we entered the hotel. He grabbed a newspaper and led me to the restaurant
off the lobby.
“They have good burgers here and the potatoes are delicious,”
Hushang said as he unfolded the Guardian. I reviewed the menu and
decided to have the burger on his recommendation, realizing that the potatoes
he referred to were fries, or what the British called chips. After the waitress
took our order, he passed me the first few pages of the paper. I scanned the
headlines.
“Were you here when this happened?” He folded the bottom half of the
page, put it on the table over my setting, and pointed to an article. It was
about the bombing of Pan Am Flight 103—the Lockerbie air disaster. I had
learned about it at Moheb Khan’s house when we were packing our
belongings to move into our new home. A Boeing 747 jet had exploded
over Scotland, killing everyone on board and several others on the ground.
“Do you know what they say in their Bible?” Hushang said, narrowing
his eyes. “‘And if any mischief follow, then thou shalt give life for life, eye
for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burning for burning,
wound for wound, stripe for stripe.’”
A shiver ran along my spine as he uttered this passage in perfect
English, though his diction had been tortured earlier. Who is he? I
wondered, taking a gulp of my drink.
“What do you mean?” I said, knowing it was a stupid question.
The waitress came with our food. I was thankful for this, as I
needed the distraction to gather myself.
Hushang picked up his burger and took a big bite. “Rahim told me you
were a smart guy, Reza.” He wiped the ketchup on his chin with his finger and
then leaned toward me. “Do you think we would let these bastards get away with
their deadly attack on our civilian airliner? Do you think that was an
accident?”
I remembered watching the news with Kazem less than a year ago in
the cafeteria at our base about the Iran Air jetliner shot down by the U.S.
Navy, killing three hundred civilians. Rahim had told Kazem and me that
Rafsanjani promised retaliation.
“Kazem also said that it wasn’t an accident. He thought the
Americans did this in an effort to destroy our movement.” I sipped my drink.
“God bless his soul.”
“Yes, Kazem was a great pasdar,” Hushang said with sadness in
his voice. Then his tone grew stronger. “Well, they got their punishment, Reza.
Eye for an eye.”
“They deserved that,” I said, feeling the now familiar self-reproach
associated with playing along.
Hushang looked around. Since we were there later than lunch hour, we
were the only diners in the restaurant. “We have Hajj Agha Rafsanjani to thank.
He delivered on his promise for retaliation. We also must thank our Palestinian
brothers who helped us with this. The German police are even investigating the
contacts of one of the Palestinians over the radio transmitter that carried the
bomb.”
I couldn’t believe he was telling me this much. “Hajj Agha
Rafsanjani is an asset to our Islamic Revolution. He is a smart man,” I said. I
took a bite
of my meal and swallowed hard. “You were right, the burgers are good
here.”
“I’m surprised that you eat haraam.”
This stopped me cold. I couldn’t believe I’d made this mistake in
front of him. Muslims were not supposed to eat unlawful meat—only the meat from
animals killed by Muslims according to Islamic laws.
“It’s hard to live outside and do all your duties, isn’t it?”
Hushang said as he folded his napkin and put it on his plate.
“I usually eat halal meat,” I said quickly. “But today, just
because you suggested the food …” I let my voice trail off. I knew that I had
made a rookie mistake and I beat myself up for it. My job was to act and behave
like a devout Muslim so that everyone associated with the Guards would trust
me. In my mind, I heard Steve, my first CIA contact, saying, “Never let your
guard down. You’ll stay alive longer.”
“Hushang! Hushang!”
We turned our heads to the voice. It was one of the other brothers.
“Come on upstairs,” the man said. “You missed some phone calls and
they will be calling back shortly.”
Hushang looked at me, and I told him that I would take care of the
bill.
“Next time on me, then,” he said, pressing my shoulder with his hand
before he left with the other man.
I sat in the restaurant for a short while after they left, trying to
clear my thoughts. I was frightened. Frightened of Hushang and what he said
about the Pan Am flight—the “eye for an eye” comment; how he emphasized
“burning for burning” with such menace in his voice. Frightened of how he
stared into my eyes and the surprise he expressed at my eating haraam meat.
Once again, I felt that no matter how much the CIA covered me while I was in
London, I had to be even more cautious. I was not just among fanatic Islamists;
I was among ruthless criminals.
I left a generous tip for the waitress and decided to call Eric to
let the CIA know what I had learned about the Pan Am incident. As I was about
to open the double glass door of the hotel to go out, I saw the shadow of a
heavily built man behind the door. I moved to the side to let him in before I
exited.
“Reza?”
I raised my head and saw Rasool.
“Rasool? Salam, big guy! What are you doing here?”
Rasool hugged me and lifted me off the ground. “It is nice to see
you, Reza.”
I had not heard from him since the last time I saw him at our base
when he was ready to go to England to “pursue his education.” He was still well
groomed in a nice gray suit with a long black wool coat over it.
We stepped outside the hotel and chatted a little bit. Rasool knew
about Kazem’s death and spoke mournfully about it. He told me that he was going
to meet with Hushang and the other men. He said he would be in touch and
suggested that we get together.
“I have to go now, but don’t hide yourself,” he said, handing me a
business card. “Call me.”
The card read russell consulting services. It had no address. Only a
phone number and the name Russell rather than Rasool.
I arranged a meeting with Eric for the next day. Feeling especially
apprehensive about getting to the safe house, I transferred several times in
the Tube, walked a number of blocks, caught a cab, and went to a bookstore,
where I bought a few books.
When I got to the safe house, Eric was not alone. After many years
with little change in my interactions with the CIA and building a bond with
Carol, the agency had started rotating my contacts. I’d quickly built a good
working relationship with Eric, but now he introduced me to my new contact,
Andrew. Unlike Carol and Eric, to whom I’d taken an immediate liking, Andrew
seemed chilly and opinionated. I wasn’t happy with this sudden shift,
especially now. Regardless, though, I had a job to do. I passed along the
information about the Pan Am flight, as well as the names and descriptions of
Hushang and the other agents, and both Eric and Andrew expressed shock at the
possibility of Iran’s involvement in the bombing. As I did this, though, I grew
increasingly uneasy with how things were unfolding for me in England. Things
were becoming too tense with the Guards, and now I had a CIA contact who made
me uncomfortable.
I wanted out of all this.
DOUBLE AGENT
“Consider Rafsanjani the new king of Iran,” Andrew said casually in
a meeting we had a couple of months after Khomeini’s death. As was the case
with so much of what he said to me, this rubbed me the wrong way. I had just
finished telling him that America needed to do more to free the people of Iran
from the tyrannical rule of the mullahs, but Andrew believed that George H.W.
Bush’s plan to encourage better communications with Rafsanjani was the best
approach toward improving relations between the two countries.
Rafsanjani became the president of Iran after Khomeini died, and Ali
Khamenei, who had been president, became Khomeini’s successor as Supreme
Leader. Khamenei was not even an ayatollah. Yet he was enough of a radical to
ensure that the regime retained the power for which it lusted. Before the
revolution, Ali Khamenei was a mullah performing Rowzeh Khooni in the city of
Mashhad. Just like Mullah Aziz, he had charged a few dollars for the sermons he
performed and owned a donkey. Now he was the spiritual leader of a once great
country.
Andrew further incensed me by suggesting that Rafsanjani was a
reformer who could make life better for Iranians. “Negotiation is our best
policy,” he said.
“Rafsanjani is no different from the rest of them,” I responded
angrily. “You can’t trust him. Have you forgotten his involvement in the Marine
barracks attack in Lebanon along with the radicals ruling Iran? Or
his involvement in the Lockerbie bombing? He encourages terrorism.”
Andrew did not respond, other than looking at me disdainfully.
Without saying so explicitly, he was making it clear that my opinion wasn’t
welcome.
President Bush, who was the vice president during the Iran–Contra
affair, was aware of the negotiations back then. Now, as the leader of the free
world, he was hoping that Rafsanjani would deliver on the promise he had once
made to Robert McFarlane, President Reagan’s national security adviser, to
normalize relations between the two countries once Khomeini was dead. This
amazed me. Hadn’t the Americans learned their lesson from the deceitful promise
Rafsanjani made them to aid in the release of American hostages held in
Lebanon? After the Iranians received the many shipments of weaponry offered as
an overture, they not only didn’t develop a healthier relationship with America
but, in fact, assisted Hezbollah in taking more hostages. Believing that
Rafsanjani would bring positive change to Iran was dangerous not only for my
country, but for America as well. One hundred and eighty Americans had died on
Pan Am flight 103. This seemed like an especially foolhardy form of political
maneuvering. After all, the CIA was aware that the information Hushang provided
me during lunch was neither publicly available nor confirmed by the
investigators of the Pan Am crash at the time. (Interestingly, this maneuvering
continues to this day. In August 2009, Scottish authorities freed Abdelbaset
al-Megrahi, the Libyan convicted for downing the plane, just when his legal
team was ready to present U.S. Defense Intelligence Agency documents
implicating Iran.)
My relationship with Andrew continued to get frostier. Then, one
day, on my way to the embassy to meet up with Amiri, I called Andrew to set up
another meeting.
“It’s good that you called, Wally,” Andrew said. “We have to meet as
soon as possible. It has to be by tonight.”
His tone concerned me, and I wanted to meet him in the safe house
immediately to find out what was so urgent. But I could not be late for my
meeting with Amiri. Apprehensively, I made my way to the embassy. Amiri had
someone else in his office when I got there and I needed to wait about fifteen
minutes before he summoned me.
“Reza, I have a very important assignment for you,” he said when he
called me in. He handed me a piece of paper. “There’s a certain individual who
we suspect is involved in antirevolutionary activities. You’ll find the details
on that paper. We need to know who else he’s involved with and what they’re up
to. Rasool is to be your partner, so call him and get started on this right
away.”
This alarmed me. Why would Amiri pair me up with Rasool?
As I left the embassy, chimes from the nearby Patriarchal Cathedral
announced that it was four o’clock in the afternoon. My meeting with Andrew was
not until seven. That left plenty of time to hang around town and make sure I
was not being watched or followed. But instead of going through my usual
routine, I simply decided to walk along the Thames to gather my thoughts about
the latest complications in my twin life.
“Come on in, Wally,” Andrew said officiously as I entered the safe
house. My dislike for him had grown to the point where even hearing his voice
set me on edge.
Andrew was not alone. A well-built man in his midthirties with a
buzz haircut was sitting in the living room and looked up at me with
anticipation. He rose and introduced himself as Gary. I learned quickly that he
would be my new contact. Andrew was leaving because his father had passed away
in the States.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said to Andrew, hiding the fact that
while I was indeed sorry his father had died, I was glad our association was
ending. While I’d never gotten along with Andrew, I got the immediate sense
that I would have a good relationship with Gary. His firm handshake and his
clear enthusiasm for what I was doing encouraged me.
I told Gary about Amiri’s assignment and about my growing, though
somewhat confusing relationship with Rasool. As I got to know Rasool more, I
realized he was not like the other Guards. He cared about Iran and expressed
outrage at the assassinations of the opposition inside and outside the country.
And while he was a devout Muslim, he did not seem happy with the Guards’
activities in England. I related conversations to Gary where Rasool revealed
this, and I told him that I thought Rasool seemed sincere. But as was always
the case with anyone associated with the Guards, he could have been trying to
trap me.
Gary made a note and promised to find out about Rasool and what he
was up to. I did not know how Gary was going to find out if the big guy was a
committed Muslim or whether he cared about Iran, but I trusted that
he knew what he was doing. I got up to leave and he patted me on the back,
calling me a great man.
“There are only a few men who can make a difference, Wally. And you
are one of them.”
After my difficult association with Andrew, I found these words
welcome and inspiring.
Amiri had instructed me to shave my beard for the mission and dress
in a nice suit. The experience had a surreal quality to it. I was shaving now
to participate in an undercover activity for the Guards. For so long, the very
beard I was shaving had protected me as an undercover agent for the CIA. Once
again, I felt my identity shifting in ways that left me feeling unsteady.
Rasool picked me up a few blocks from my house. Our instructions
were to set up surveillance in a Muslim neighborhood in the Tower Hamlets area
in the shadow of the Tower of London. A prominent Iranian professor who had
been teaching for some time in London was the target. Rasool knew where to go
and what to do. We drove for a few miles and parked in an alley off Artillery
Lane; we would walk the rest of the way. The entire exercise made me intensely
nervous, but Rasool seemed extremely calm, talking casually about aristocrats
who had been beheaded at the Tower prison and pointing out different buildings
and restaurants.
We walked for several blocks. The entire time, I tried to keep up
with Rasool’s big strides. As we got closer to the Tower Hamlets district, we
made the transition from a thriving business area to a working-class
neighborhood.
“This way!” Rasool said, pointing to a three-story commercial
building with a Bangladeshi restaurant on the first floor. I followed him into
the restaurant, not knowing what we were to do in there. He walked into the
kitchen as if he had been there before, waving at the men by the stove, and
then to a door at the end of the kitchen. Despite an employees only sign,
Rasool opened it. The door led to a stairway and we went up two flights, then
down a narrow hall to an empty warehouse.
It dawned on me that all of this could have been a setup to
eliminate me. If the Guards had somehow found out about Wally and wanted to
assassinate me, this would have been a perfect location. For all I knew,
Russell Consulting Services regularly provided this kind of “consulting” for
the regime.
“Walk toward that window,” Rasool said as we stood in the bare room.
He pointed to the left corner as he bent toward his shoes. He is getting his
gun out, I thought. But he’d only been bending to tie his shoelaces. I
allowed myself one deep breath.
“Take a look out the window,” he said.
I moved to do so when I saw Rasool take a small black item from
inside his jacket. How stupid for me to think he’d hid a gun in his socks when
he could carry it in his pocket. That’s when I knew he was going to shoot me in
the back while I looked out the window. My chest tightened.
Palming the black item, he stuck out his arm.
I backed up and tripped, landing hard on the floor.
“Cheteh, Reza? What the hell is wrong with you?”
He was pointing a pair of black binoculars at me.
I said nothing for a few moments, and then blurted, “I thought you
had a gun.”
He frowned and shook his head. “What? I wanted you to take a look at
the apartment building across the street.”
I tried to think quickly. “Oh. I thought you wanted me to shoot
somebody.”
He sat down next to me, dropping the binoculars on the floor and
wiping his face with his palm.
“If the time comes, I definitely would not recommend you.” He
offered a bittersweet smile. “But pray to God that time never comes.”
He slid backward on the floor and found the wall to lean on. I
followed his move.
“Reza, I don’t understand why you want to be part of all this. You
seem like a nice guy. You don’t even look like any of them. You should pack
your bags and leave. Go back to America. I know you were there once. I wish I
could get on with my life, too, but I am too deeply involved.”
This confession struck me mute. Was he trying to get me to say
something incriminating?
He closed his eyes and blew a deep breath. “I wish I could go away,
far away, perhaps to America. Reza, you don’t want to be part of this.
Assassinating innocent people …” He loosened his necktie. “They killed a father
and his son in their apartment here in London. They were monarchists,
supporters of the shah. Did you know that our government had our agents contact
Ghassemlou, the Kurdistan Democratic Party leader, in
Vienna for a meeting to offer peace? Then our agents killed him and
his aides. Did you know that Ahmad Talebi, a fighter pilot who had sought
refuge in Switzerland, was shot dead in the streets of Geneva? He was married.
He had children.”
A few weeks earlier, Rasool had talked about how he resented the
killings and how unjust the ruling Islamic government was. I felt at the time
that he was just testing me. But now, sitting there next to me with his hands
wrapped around his head, I knew he trusted me. Did I dare trust him back?
Rasool bent to grab the binoculars and slowly got up to look through
the window. “Here is the professor in his library,” he said, adjusting the
lens. “Do you see it in yourself to kill this man? And after him another one
and then another?”
“I would never kill anybody,” I said under my breath, mostly to
myself.
He sat back on the floor. “They’ll make you, Reza.”
I shivered. I forced my shoulders against the wall and sat up
straight. Had he already killed someone? Many people? He grabbed a pack of
cigarettes from his jacket and offered me one. I still had not said anything,
still wondering if I could safely express my feelings to Rasool. I decided that
I couldn’t risk it.
“We will tell Amiri that this guy is not involved in anything,”
Rasool said to break the silence. “We’ll wait a week before telling him,
though.”
“We’ll do whatever you suggest. Amiri said I should take your lead.”
When Rasool looked at me, I saw confusion on his face. Was he
expecting me to engage him?
I couldn’t take the chance of finding out. We left the warehouse and
he suggested that we go in different directions. He headed to his car and I
took the Tube back home. I stopped at a phone kiosk on my way to the Tube and
called Gary, telling him what happened at the warehouse. I must have sounded
upset, because he made an effort to comfort me and said that he had some news
on Rasool. We set up a meeting for the next day.
When I got home, I found Somaya sitting on the couch crying. She
lifted her head as I entered, wiped the tears away, and looked at me in shock.
“You shaved,” she said, choking back tears.
I touched my face. “Yes, I did.” I sat down next to her. “Is
everything okay? Is Omid all right?”
“Oh, yes. But … but I just had a call from your uncle.” Her
shoulders shook. “It’s Agha Joon … he has passed away.” She sobbed. “I am
sorry,
Reza.” She held on to my hand as I got up to leave the room. While I
knew Somaya wanted to offer me comfort, I needed to be alone. I couldn’t talk
about my grandfather with anyone right then. Instead, I allowed guilt to
overwhelm me. It seemed so foolish now that I hadn’t tried harder to stay in
touch with him since I left Iran. Ridiculously, I’d left that to Somaya. I was
too busy. Too busy with things I should have never allowed get between me and a
man who was like a father to me—or even more. How could I have had no time to
maintain my bond with the man who shaped me, the man who I spent most of my
childhood with, the man who taught me to love life?
I went back outside, sat on the steps in front of our building, and
looked at the sky peeking through the clouds. Like my own life, the sky of
London was in conflict. There were no stars shining, no rain clearing the air,
and for a long time, no sun to brighten up life—just an ominous wind blowing in
uncertain directions.
My grandfather was gone. He was all I had left of my past. Every
time I thought of Naser, Agha Joon was there. Every time I thought of Kazem,
Agha Joon was there. Every time I thought of the mess I was in, I thought of
Agha Joon and his faith in me. While I feared that I might never see him again
when I left Iran, the reality hit me so much harder than I expected. I wanted
so badly to go back to Iran. Being present at his funeral was the least I could
do. But that wasn’t even remotely possible. I held my head in my hands and
choked the scream inside me as I begged God to free me from the constraints
that kept me from grieving as any normal person might. I allowed the rage and
frustration to build within me.
And then I had no choice but to let it go. Agha Joon was gone, Reza
had to share his life with Wally—and Wally had a job to do. I had to persevere
through the pain. I had to conduct the role fate had presented me.
My next meeting with Gary was at a small hotel downtown instead of
the safe house. It was a few miles away from my flat. I was tired, as I had
spent the entire sleepless night mourning for Agha Joon, but I decided to walk
anyway. I checked the map, memorized the route, and continued to think of Agha
Joon and the past. Naser and me splashing in the creek behind my
grandfather’s house that led all the way to Kazem’s neighborhood …
I saw my turn, left on Victoria Street.
… Naser whistling and playing with the toad in his pocket.
“Let the poor thing go, Naser. …”
The sound of a car horn—unusual in England—shook me from my reverie.
I realized I was crossing the street against the red light. Embarrassed, I
quickened my step, noticing a man in an oversized green jacket walking on the
other side of the road and going in the opposite direction.
… Kazem joined us, and the three of us walked back to Agha Joon’s.
We talked about our soccer matches. We’d won for a third week in a row. …
I thought I saw the man in the green jacket again at the corner of
Marshman Street. How could that be possible? He had been going the opposite
way.
… “What are you going to be, Reza, when you grow up?” Kazem asked.
“Not a mullah, for sure!” Naser said, laughing loudly. I laughed
with him. Kazem frowned at us….
I was sure I saw the man again before I turned to Kensington. Yes! I
remembered his jacket. But now he was waiting at a bus station there. I hadn’t
planned for a detour because I was following the route I memorized from the
map. I chastised myself for my laxity. But when I looked at the bus station
again, the man was no longer there.
To my right was a small alley leading to another street. I walked
through the alley with plans to go to the next main street, walk a few blocks,
and then come back to where I was. I took one more careful look around, not
seeing anything suspicious. Perhaps I was worried for no reason.
… The double door to Grandpa’s house was halfway open and Khanoom
Bozorg was there talking to her guests. Naser told us to untie the reins of the
donkey….
Having walked several blocks, I backtracked before I got lost. I
eventually found the same alley and went back through. I checked around me
again before continuing.
… The trembling voice of Khanoom Bozorg calling my name … “Reza …
Reza …”
She was biting her lips. I looked for Agha Joon. I needed him to
protect me. I needed to hide behind his robe….
With a thump, I ran directly into a pedestrian. I looked up. I was
face-to- face with the man in the green jacket. My heart stopped beating and I
started to sweat.
A strong English accent rang in my ears. “Oh, dear, I am so sorry. I
did not see you.”
He seemed as shocked as I was. I knew he was up to something, but he
continued to walk in the other direction. My heart started pounding now. How
had I let my guard down? Who was he?
For the next half hour, I walked back and forth on the same street,
pretending to window-shop but using reflections to check around me. I sat at an
outdoor café, acting as though I was casually people watching when I was
specifically looking for one person. I didn’t see the man in the green jacket
again.
“British Intelligence—MI6,” Gary said when I met up with him. “They
must be on to you.”
What in the world is he talking about?
“Maybe it’s time to let them know,” he said.
As unnerved as I was, Gary calmed me down, explaining that British
intelligence might know about my activities with the Guards. He told me that he
would let them know that I was with the CIA, and that he would arrange for us
to meet with them. He assured me that MI6 would not create problems for me from
that point on.
I wasn’t sure that I could handle a meeting with yet another
intelligence agency. But what was causing me the most stress at that point was
Rasool’s suggestion that the Guards might want me to kill somebody. Gary told
me that he learned that Rasool had been under agency surveillance—based on my
report to Carol—since he moved to England in 1984. Gary said there was a strong
possibility that Rasool was not entirely devoted to the Islamic government. He
had secretly dated an English woman for a few years, and they even spotted him
with her on a beach in Istanbul.
“Rasool told me he was too involved to get away,” I said. “What if
they make me get more involved? I might never be able to leave.”
“You have us, Wally!” He smiled. “As soon as your papers are
ready, you are on your way to freedom.”
I told Gary that Rasool told me he wished he could go to America.
This caught Gary’s attention, and he didn’t say anything for a few moments. He
crossed and uncrossed his legs and finally said, “How about you introduce him
to us, Wally?”
I could feel my eyes popping out of my head as I tried to understand
what he was implying.
“Not like that, Wally! You can bring up the idea of going to America
and tell him that you know an immigration lawyer or something. Once you
introduce us, I’ll take it from there.”
I knew what he was thinking. He wasn’t suggesting that he could help
Rasool get a visa. He wanted to recruit him as an agent. I told Gary that I
needed some time to think about it.
There was a British intelligence officer present at our next
meeting, a stiff, very proper man named Ted Smith. Smith was eager to get as
much information as he could from me. He had a list of names and photos of
suspected Iranian agents. Among them I was shocked to see pictures of Moheb
Khan, Somaya’s father, and his friend Fallah, the owner of the industrial
machinery warehouse where I took Hushang and the two other agents. I identified
as many faces and names as possible, specifying those I knew to be working for
the Guards and feeling an even stronger commitment to weed out the innocents,
like Moheb Khan. Apparently, Fallah was involved more than I knew. Smith told
me that his company was a front.
Connecting Rasool with the CIA was a huge risk. It could jeopardize
my chance of getting my family to America and even put my life at risk. But
taking risks had become a matter of course with me. One day, when Somaya and
Omid were out, I invited Rasool to my apartment. To my surprise, the subject
came up naturally. Rasool commented on a picture of Somaya holding Omid and I
told him that my wife had a dream of finishing her education in America.
“She wants to be a pediatrician and she’s thinking about Harvard or
Stanford,” I said, inventing this on the spot. In reality Somaya was still
unsure what she wanted her major to be. “But if she gets accepted to UCLA, that
would be ideal. I used to live in LA and UCLA has one of the better programs
for medicine in the country.”
Rasool stared at the distance. “I’d like to go to America.” Then he
made eye contact with me. “I told you that before. It is my dream, Reza.”
“Why don’t you go, then?”
“You are joking, Reza! I need a visa.”
I shrugged. “Why don’t you just apply for one?”
“If it was that easy to get a visa, Reza, half of the population in
the world would have gone there by now.”
“If you are serious about it, I am sure there is a way. People
travel to the U.S. every day. You should be able to get some kind of visa …
wait!” I walked toward the dining table, which was piled with newspapers and
magazines, leafing through them. “Somaya showed me something the
other day. Let me see if I can find that ad. It was in one of these papers.” My
hands started shaking as I continued my “search.” I knew exactly where the ad
was.
“Here it is,” I said at last, holding up an Iranian newspaper. Gary
had perfectly doctored one page to include an ad for me to show to Rasool.
“‘Immigration Lawyer for Iranians,’” I read. “‘If you need a visa to travel to
America, we can help. Contact Gary Sullivan …’”
Rasool came over to look at the ad. “Between you and me, I wouldn’t
mind trying him.”
“Maybe he could get your visa,” I said nonchalantly.
“How about you? Do you think you’ll go to this guy for one as well?”
I’d prepared for such a question. “We will if Somaya gets accepted
to a university in the U.S. She definitely wants to continue her education. But
I need to ask Rahim. He is still my commander. He is expecting me to go back
home after I am done here. If he wants me back, I will arrange for Somaya to go
to America by herself.”
Rasool nodded. “You won’t be asking Rahim.”
“What do you mean?”
“Rahim is no longer at our base. He had a heart attack. He resigned
and moved to Kerman with his family.”
I sighed. Rahim was not very old, but he was overweight and smoked
heavily. Rasool told me that Rahim had had heart problems for a long time.
“You should come to this lawyer with me,” Rasool said. “Call him and
arrange a meeting. We’ll go together.”
I hadn’t prepared for that. And even as I agreed to do as Rasool
suggested, I wondered if he was playing me after all. Though my conversation
with Rasool had gone extraordinarily well, connecting him with Gary could still
turn out to be a grievous error.
FREE AT LAST?
My anxiety increased as we got closer to the meeting day. I called
Gary to see if we could meet one more time before we got together with Rasool.
It was not that I needed to rehearse things or go over the plan; that part was
quite clear. I needed to clarify my situation with the agency. The fact that
this latest undertaking could possibly be the riskiest made me uneasy
regardless of how many times I played it out in my head. I could have told Gary
that I didn’t want to help him recruit Rasool—there was already enough tension
in my life. But the same thing that made me take this dangerous journey in the
first place was forcing me to put everything in jeopardy again. I believed that
Rasool would serve as my replacement. He’d watch over the Guards’ activities
from that point on, delivering information to the CIA that would eventually
lead to Iran’s freedom. And his reward down the road would be a visa to his
dreamland.
Gary understood my concerns and agreed to see me that afternoon at
the safe house.
“I know that our papers might not be ready yet,” I said when we sat
down, “but it is very important for us to agree that should you and Rasool
reach an understanding, I cannot be involved with the agency anymore. Two
reasons …” I paused. “First, it’s possible Rasool could turn on you and tell
Amiri or the Guards that the connection with you was through me. Second, I
would not—could not under any circumstance—continue my acquaintance or contact
with him if he joins the agency. That would be too stressful and alarming for
both of us, being in the Guards. Is there any way you could put our papers on
the fast track?”
“Actually,” Gary said, “before I left my office today, I got a call
from the American consulate. Your papers are ready, Wally. You are good to go.
Isn’t that exciting?”
It could indeed have been. But I couldn’t help feeling that this
“coincidence” was a form of betrayal on the part of the CIA. Could it be that
my papers had been ready long before this and that they did not tell me because
they wanted me to reel in Rasool?
“You don’t seem happy about it, Wally. Is everything okay?”
“Oh, sure. I’m just worried about tomorrow.”
Gary patted my shoulder. “We have taken care of all of the details.
Just do what you have been doing all these years. You’ve done a great job,
Wally, and if things go wrong, we have you covered.”
After I left the safe house, before getting to the Tube, I walked
along the Thames. The colorful lights from the barges, ships, and ferries
populated the river and cast a dancing sparkle on the water, reflecting a
memorable picture of a lively night in London. I leaned against a wall, lit a
cigarette, and looked out at the river. I thought about how close I was to
freedom. So close that I could feel it, just like the breeze from the Thames
moistening my face. Somaya is going to be so happy when I tell her that it
is all over, I thought. This made me feel better than I’d felt in a very
long time.
“And it is over,” I said to the water. “It is all over.”
The next morning, I got up early. Before Somaya and Omid left for
school, I told my wife that I would check with Harriet Johnson, our immigration
lawyer, to see if she had any news for us.
“I might even go to her office today,” I said.
“You should. Why is it taking so long? She said six months to a
year. It is way more than a year now. Tell her we need an answer soon.”
“I told her that the last time I called her. She said it was just a
matter of time now. Hopefully, she has something for us today.”
When Somaya left with our son, I got ready for what could be the
most momentous day of my life—if I made it through. Even though the CIA had me
covered, considerable danger existed. Maybe this was a trap and Rasool was
planning to assassinate Gary and me at the restaurant. Anything was possible.
When I put my suit on, I felt a twinge in my back. I was only
thirty-four, but the burdens of my life bowed me like an old man. “What have
you done, Reza?” I asked my reflection in the mirror, thinking about how
freedom and life itself could still be snatched from me in the final
hour. I felt a ball wadded in my throat and tears coming to my eyes. Why
couldn’t this have been simpler? Why did I need to suffer through every step of
this experience?
Seeking reinforcement, I turned to the closet where I kept some of
my old books and papers and scrambled through the pages of a book to find
Naser’s picture hidden inside Roya’s letter. The picture was fading. Roya’s
letter was torn at the creases, not readable anymore. But I knew every word of
it. I could see Naser under the peeling layers of the picture still looking at
me.
For many years, those two pieces of paper had motivated me to go on.
I was not sure that strength was still there. Like Roya’s torn letter and
Naser’s faded picture, my conviction was vanishing.
Still, I grabbed my coat and left the house.
The signals were all cleared, the lookouts at their posts.
Apparently, no one had followed Rasool and me. We entered the restaurant, and I
spotted Gary already seated at a table.
“Shoot! I should have asked him what he looked like, or what he
would be wearing.” I shook my head, realizing that Gary and I had forgotten to
discuss how we should show acquaintance at the restaurant—not so smart for a
CIA operative and a spy.
Gary glanced at us and looked down at a piece of paper on the table.
I turned my head away.
“Could that be him?” Rasool said, pointing at Gary. “He has a bunch
of stuff with him.”
“Where?” I asked. Rasool pointed again. It was a small restaurant,
but busy enough for me to be able to pretend. “Oh, that man? Maybe. Should we
go and ask him?”
Rasool stopped a passing waitress. “Excuse me, but we are here to
meet somebody. I think that’s him. Could you ask that man over there if he is
expecting anyone?”
The waitress went to do as Rasool asked. Meanwhile, Rasool continued
to study Gary. “That man looks more like a military man than a lawyer, if
that’s him,” he said.
Indeed, Gary was ex-military, and his broad shoulders, physique,
and, of course, the buzz haircut testified to that.
“But, big guy, you can take him down in a second if he tries to mess
with us,” I joked.
At that moment, Gary got up and came toward us. “Thank you so much
for agreeing to meet with me here.” He offered his hand. “I am Gary Sullivan,
and you are …?”
I reached his hand first. “I am Reza Kahlili.”
“Glad to meet you, Reza. And you must be …? Sorry, I did not get
your name.”
“I am Rasool. You can call me Russell.”
After we settled at our table, Gary sensed my nervousness and
knocked over a glass of water as he bent to grab his briefcase. The time
required to clean up the spill allowed me to compose myself.
Then Gary moved on to the reason for the meeting. “A tourist visa is
possible if you have somebody in the States offering an invitation and an
affidavit of support. We can try that if you just want to go for a short time.
If a company in the States sponsors you, perhaps an H1 visa would be another
option. A student visa, if you apply at a university, is one way … or a
business visa …” Gary continued with the other possibilities. I was afraid he’d
mention political asylum. That would be a red flag for all of us. But he was
smarter than that.
“Why would I need a lawyer if I had a family member who could send
me an invitation?” Rasool said casually. “If I got accepted in a school, or
sponsored by a company, I could apply on my own.”
“You are right, but if it were that easy, there would not be a line
at the consulate door and a disappointed rejected crowd leaving it. Even for
those who have the invitation or sponsorship, it is unlikely to get permission
to enter the States. And not everybody is lucky enough to have a relative there
to prepare the ground for them. That’s where I come in.”
“But how likely is a visa for somebody like me who has nobody in the
States?” Rasool asked.
“I have done this a lot, Russell. Ten out of ten get their visas.”
Gary paused. “Of course, there is money involved.”
“How much are we talking about?”
“What I would like to do is …” Gary looked at his watch. “I have
another appointment soon on the other side of London, but what I’d like to do
is to set up another meeting with you to go over everything. I need to get some
information from you and examine your options.” Then he looked at
me. “Reza, are you also interested in moving to America?”
“My wife is. She is in school now, but she thinks finishing her
education in America would be ideal. Unfortunately, all of her family members
live in Europe. It will be hard for her to be away from them. We have discussed
this briefly, but I will talk to her again and see if she really wants to live
in America. I’ll get back to you.”
Gary then excused himself to make a call, informing his “next
client” that he might be a little late. That was part of our plan. He wanted me
to see what Rasool’s reaction was. If Rasool was not sure, I had to convince
him that he should make another appointment with Gary. And if he was already
set to do so, my job was easier. But either way, Gary needed my signal to do
his part.
“I think I like this man. I trust him. I should keep going with
this,” Rasool said.
“Whatever you do, big guy, don’t pay him up front. He seems
trustworthy, but first you have to make sure he can produce a visa for you.”
He laughed. “Don’t worry, Reza. I’m a businessman myself. I know the
rules.”
Gary came back. I reached inside my pocket to get a pen. Gary
noticed my signal.
“Okay. Where were we?” Gary sipped his coffee. “About the fee. Yes.
I’m not going to charge you for this meeting, and as for the next one, should
you decide to go forward, my consultation fee is a hundred fifty pounds. But
since my office might not be ready by then, and I know it is inconvenient to
meet in a restaurant, I will not charge you for that one, either. After that,
should you want me to proceed, I will apply that fee to the total cost.”
“That sounds fair,” I stated.
“Yeah. I think that sounds good,” Rasool said. “I would like to
proceed and find out if I can get a visa.”
Gary handed his business card to both of us, and Rasool exchanged
his.
“I will call you to set up something in a week and let you know what
documents to bring with you,” Gary told Rasool. Then he turned to me. “You
should also talk to your wife and give me a call, Reza.”
Rasool seemed content. Something nagged at me, though. If he really
wanted to immigrate to America, he could have found an immigration
lawyer in London at any time during the years he lived in England.
When we were alone again, my curiosity got the best of me and I asked him why
he’d never tried to do this before.
Rasool’s expression became wistful. “I did. I had a girlfriend. …”
He paused. “Liz was British-American and did not need a visa. She left for
America and asked me to join her.” He stopped and looked for his pack of
cigarettes, lighting one before he spoke again. “I saw a lawyer who told me
that it was very easy. If I would just marry my girlfriend or get engaged, I
would not even need a lawyer. I could go to America in a matter of a few
months. Just apply through the American consulate either as a spouse to a
citizen or under an engagement visa.”
“What happened?”
“I called Liz and told her the good news.” He puffed on his
cigarette, staring down at the ground. “She said she was sorry but she did not
think we should see each other anymore.” He crushed his cigarette under his
shoes.
I felt a rush of empathy for him. “I am sorry, big guy. Really
sorry.”
We parted and I found myself hoping that everything worked out for
him. That he would take the CIA up on their offer, do good work with them for a
few years, and then find a safe home on American shores.
Meanwhile, my own passage was nearly complete. Somaya was exuberant
when I told her we were on our way.
“Reza, I can’t believe this. I am so happy!” she said, giving me a
huge hug. Before I could drown myself in her arms, though, she pulled away.
“What’s wrong?” I asked in surprise.
She sat on the couch and pulled her legs up against her chest. The
sudden change in her mood left me feeling unsteady.
“I am just not sure about this.” She bit her nails and took a moment
before continuing. “You know how long I waited for you to come here, away from
your little mysterious life.” She offered me a look that said that she knew I
had not told her everything. “But it’s been more than a year since you’ve
gotten here, and you’re still the same man you were back in Iran. You are so
attached to this revolution. I just don’t know, Reza. I don’t know what you see
that I cannot see.”
It was clear that she was fighting her emotions as she spoke. I
wanted to help her with this, but I also knew that I needed to let her say what
she needed to say.
“I cannot get my hopes up just because we are moving somewhere
else,” she continued. “What if you have more obligations and more work to do
for the Guards once we are there? I don’t know if going to America is a good
idea anymore.”
She dropped her head.
I sat next to her, wrapping an arm around her. “I know. I know I
have not been the husband you’ve deserved. I know I’ve neglected you and our
son. Just give me another chance. We’ll start our dream life. I’ll make up for
all the years I was not there for you and Omid. My work with the Guards is
over. Completely. I promise.”
Somaya looked at me and wiped her eyes with the end of her sleeve.
“How do I know this isn’t just more talk, Reza. I’ve waited so long for you to
change. I am just so frustrated.”
“I know. And I know that I can’t possibly say anything to convince
you that I mean everything I say this time. But I promise you with all of my
heart.”
I don’t know if Somaya believed me or if she just decided to go
along with me because of her incredible loving nature, but she started planning
our trip and preparing Omid for the new and exciting life we were about to
lead.
With great trepidation, I called Amiri to let him know that I was
leaving the Guards. Even as I waited for him to come to the phone, I wondered
if he was going to try to convince me to stay—or do something even more
persuasive. As it turned out, though, I had misplaced my fears, at least in
this case. Amiri said that since Rahim was no longer my commander and since I
had no pending engagements in London, leaving was up to me.
“Whenever you are back, call me,” he said. “If there is something
you can do, I’ll let you know.”
The ease with which he let me go stunned me. Of course, I did not
tell him I was going to the United States, nor did I tell anybody else. I even
asked Somaya to tell her parents that we were going to take a tour around
Europe. We agreed that we would tell her parents our real plans once we were
settled in the U.S.
We met with Gary at the American consulate. I introduced him to
Somaya as Harriet Johnson’s assistant. There was no waiting in line for us as
we entered the consulate’s private door and met the consul general himself.
“Why are they treating us so specially?” Somaya asked with disbelief
in her voice.
“I paid Harriet Johnson a lot of money,” I whispered in Farsi.
“They’d better treat us well.”
We signed the papers, and both Gary and the consul general wished us
luck.
We were nearly on our way.
I wanted to say good-bye to Rasool. He’d become a real friend and I
couldn’t leave England without calling him to let him know I was going. Neither
Gary nor he had said anything about the direction of their conversations, and I
decided it would be best if I didn’t ask. Of course, I couldn’t tell him that I
was going to live in America, and it surprised him to hear that I was taking my
family for a trip around Europe.
“My wife is not taking any classes this semester, so we decided to
travel around the continent for the rest of the summer before Omid’s school
starts in the fall,” I lied.
“That’s a good plan,” he said.
“It is. I haven’t been able to spend enough time with them since I
arrived in England, especially my son. I was worried Baradar Amiri would not
approve of my leave, but he was okay with it.”
Rasool didn’t say anything for a moment. When he spoke again, his
voice was more conspiratorial. “Reza, I did what I said I would do for you. I
know you are a family man, so I talked to Amiri and told him you are not the
right guy for what we’re trying to do here. I hope that’s what you wanted. You
should not get involved, Reza.”
“I know. You’re right. By the way, how, exactly, did you say this to
Amiri?”
“I just told him that you were a coward!” He laughed boisterously.
I laughed along with him.
“By the way, my meeting with that lawyer, Gary Sullivan, was not
bad. Thanks for finding that ad for me. There might be a chance for me to get a
visa. But I need one more favor from you. Please do not mention it to anybody.
It might not work out, and I don’t want to lose my job here.”
I congratulated him, and said I would keep his secret—a secret that,
for my safety and the safety of my family, I needed to take to my grave.
My last meeting in London with Gary was a couple of nights before
our flight. To my surprise Gary had a list with him.
“Okay, let me go over these!” He showed me a sheet with a breakdown
of annual salaries. “Should you decide to work in the States at the agency,
here are the numbers. The first year would be this amount … the second year
this amount … here is the bonus for the first year: this figure … plus the
housing expense … this one …”
We hadn’t discussed any of this, and I wasn’t prepared to do so now.
No more, please! I thought. I cannot do this to Somaya and Omid
anymore; they deserve a life without lies!
Mercifully, Gary ended the sales pitch. He handed me a card. “Here
is my number in the States. Regardless of what you decide, I would love to hear
from you. Keep me posted.”
“I will,” I said, though I really didn’t want to think about this.
As we prepared to leave for the States, I had begun to feel the fresh breeze of
freedom wafting through the deepest layers of my being—a breeze that would blow
away all traces of Wally and the life I knew I could no longer live. I was
ready to let that breeze carry me all the way to my new home.
VATAN
2001 somaya hid her face in my shoulder as she burst into tears.
“Oh, honey, it’s going to be okay,” I said, wrapping my arms around
her.
“I know, Reza. I am just so proud of Omid. These are happy tears.”
I knew what she was talking about; I had been blinking away my own
happy tears. We’d just dropped my son off for his first year at UC Berkeley,
and I knew he was going to excel there. The school’s rigorous educational
standards and the diversity of its culture were ideal for him. He deserved
this. He’d become an impressive scholar and an even more impressive young man.
On that warm mid-August afternoon, Somaya and I walked around the
campus after we said good-bye to our son. The layout of the university, the
tall trees alongside the road, and the fresh sense of life in the air reminded
me of how my grandparents’ neighborhood had been when I was a child. The memory
this stirred in me was both bittersweet and surprisingly welcome.
I remembered the day I said good-bye to Kazem and Naser before I
left for USC. I recalled our vows to be friends forever and to take this oath
to our graves. Kazem and Naser had maintained their part of that oath, though
none of us could have imagined that they would be resting in their graves so
soon after making this promise. On the other hand, I had betrayed them both.
How different would my life have been if my father hadn’t insisted I go to
college in America?
Somaya broke into my tangled thoughts. “Berkeley is just delightful.
Do you think we should move here?” She took a deep breath of the sweet air. “It
is so different from LA. It reminds me of the north of Tehran where Agha Joon
lived. Does it remind you of that, too?”
I looked at her lovingly and moved her hair gently away from her
forehead. That hair was streaked with gray now, which I thought made her look
even more beautiful. Of course, I’d betrayed Somaya as well. We’d been married
for more than twenty years and she had no idea how deceptive
I’d been. I wished that God would give me the strength to confess to
her and ask for her forgiveness.
“Yes, it does remind me of Agha Joon’s neighborhood. People say LA
is like Tehran. But I get even more of that vibe here.” I put my arm around her
shoulder as we continued our walk. “But I don’t know if we should move here.” I
realized that Somaya was saying this only because she wanted to be closer to
Omid. But LA had truly become our home. There, we were among hundreds of
thousands of our people who had escaped the Islamic Revolution to seek freedom.
This offered us a sense of closeness with our homeland we would not have had in
Northern California. And for me it served as a necessary reminder of all those
who hadn’t gotten the chance to escape.
Soon, we were back on the road. It’s about a five-hour drive on I-5
from the Bay Area to Los Angeles, most of which is flat and boring.
“Highway 101 is so much nicer,” Somaya complained. We had taken the
scenic 101 up from LA. Every time Somaya encountered a beautiful view— which
was very often—she made me stop the car so she could take pictures with Omid
alongside the road.
“But this road is faster,” I said with a smile. “We are saving at
least three hours. Plus the extra five hours for your pictures.”
She scowled at me and decided to take a long nap so she didn’t have
to listen to my “not very funny jokes.” Since she was sleeping, I needed
something else to keep me awake. I decided to play a Persian CD.
“Vatan parandeyeh par dar khoon
Vatan shekofteh gole dar khoon
Vatan falate shahid o shab
Vatan pat a be sar khoon
Vatan taraneye zendani
Vatan ghasideyeh virani …”
Dariush’s words did more than help me stay alert. They sent me on a
journey through my past, the memories of which eleven years in America had done
nothing to diminish. Vatan, my homeland, was always on mind. And it was
still as Dariush had captured it … “a wounded bird drowning in blood … a
blooming flower covered in blood … a desert of martyrs … blood from head to toe
… an imprisoned song … a ruined poem …”
Hearing these words and thinking about another Dariush brought pain
to my heart. About two and a half years earlier, the Islamic government
assassinated the founder and leader of the Nation of Iran Party, Dariush
Forouhar, along with his wife, Parvaneh. The assailants entered their home,
tied the husband and wife to chairs, faced them toward Mecca, and stabbed them
to death. In what became known as the “chain murders of dissidents,” MOIS
agents stepped up their killing spree, murdering dozens of dissident intellectuals,
journalists, poets, writers, and political activists.
At this time, Mohammad Khatami was the president of Iran. Running on
a reform platform, he had received 70 percent of the vote in a huge turnout.
He’d managed to raise hope among young and old that he could bring change to
Iran’s domestic and international policies after eight years of Rafsanjani, who
not only did not deliver on the promise he’d made to the Bush administration to
improve relations with America but had worked with other radicals to further
suppress Iran’s citizens while increasing assassinations and terrorist
activities abroad. Khatami was trying to accomplish the reforms he promised,
but his opposition was overwhelming, led by the Supreme Leader, Ali Khamenei,
Ayatollah Ahmad Jannati, chairman of the Guardian Council, and Ayatollah Mesbah
Yazdi, director of the Haghani School, a radical Shiite seminary in Qom. Using
the Revolutionary Guards to exert their will, they snuffed out any attempts at
reform.
When the regime shut down Salam, a pro-reformist newspaper,
students organized a peaceful demonstration. But that night, paramilitary
vigilantes stormed Tehran University and attacked students in their
dormitories, leaving many injured and dead. The next day, thousands of students
demonstrated in the streets of Tehran demanding reform. The protests spread
throughout Iran and were so intense that those of us outside of the country
began to believe that we could be witnessing the end to decades of thugocracy and
merciless bloodshed by the mullahs. Certainly, when the rest of the world saw
what was going on, they would rush to support a nation whose identity had been
stolen two decades earlier.
But Guards and Basijis brutally crushed the demonstrations. Once
again, many gave their lives to speak out for what they believed. And once
again, the rest of the world looked the other way. All that was left was the
hope that someday Iran would be free again, a hope expressed in a later verse
of the song “Vatan,” a verse I now sang aloud.
“Emruze ma emruze faryad
Fardaye ma ruze bozorge miaad
Begu keh dobare mikhanam
Ba tamamiye yaranam
Gol sorude shekastanra
Begu, begu keh be khoon misorayam
Dobare ba del o janam
Harfe akhare rastan ra
Begu be Iran, begu be Iran”
“Today is the day to shout for justice
Tomorrow is the promised day
Tell them I will sing again
Tell them I sing with all my companions
The anthem of freedom
Tell them; tell them I sing in blood
I sing again with all my heart
I sing the last song of salvation
Tell it to Iran, tell it to Iran”
Somaya turned in her seat, opened her eyes, glanced at the road, and
went back to sleep. I wiped my face and turned down the music. She seemed to be
in an uncomfortable position and I placed my hand under her neck to try to
straighten it. She sighed and settled into a new spot.
I took my eyes off the open road for a moment to study her. Our life
was so much simpler now than it had been during my years as Wally and as a
member of the Guards. Gone was the disappointment and discord that had marked
that time. Somaya and I didn’t argue now, and I no longer felt as though I was
letting her down every time I went to work. She loved that the job I did now
with a local software company had nothing to do with the Guards and “dirty
bearded pasdar.”
Most important, I no longer needed to lie to her. My final lie came
shortly after we settled in LA. In September of 1990, I flew to Washington,
D.C., to see Gary. It felt different to see him in the U.S. While our meetings
in London had always been shadowed by risk, this felt more like a reunion with
an old pal. We talked about our new lives and what was happening in
the world. Iraq had just invaded Kuwait and Gary characterized
Saddam as an audacious man with a destructive mind.
“We’ve been following his troop movements for a long time,” Gary
said. “It was clear that he was up to something. He had amassed a large number
of his troops on the Kuwaiti border.”
“The man is a lunatic,” I said venomously. “He destroyed so many
lives when he attacked Iran. If the U.S. knew he was amassing troops, why
didn’t they send him a warning?”
Gary shrugged. “Maybe he interpreted our silence as a green light.”
The implications burned me, though I held my tongue. Had it been
politically expedient for the U.S. to let this madman invade a neighboring
country? Did they do so to give them an excuse for taking military action?
Saddam and his army had become quite powerful with the help of the West. Now,
perhaps, America felt it was time to undermine that military power as a message
to all Arab regimes that without U.S. support they would fall. Millions of
innocent people had suffered during the Iran–Iraq war. Had that been political
maneuvering on the part of the U.S. as well?
“What do you say we go out for lunch tomorrow?” Gary said, changing
the subject, though the thoughts lingered in my mind. “I can show you around
afterward.”
The next day, we drove through Washington and down into Virginia,
with Gary showing me different neighborhoods. “What do you think?” he asked.
In truth, it was difficult for me to think about anything other than
the offer Gary had made during lunch. With no preamble, Gary asked me to join
the agency to assist in covert operations around the world, making contacts
among Iranians of interest working for the Islamic government. Showing me these
huge homes in the prestigious neighborhoods of Washington and Virginia was part
of the sales pitch. Gary told me that all I needed to do was bring my family
east and we could live in one of these spectacular homes and sign up Omid in
one of the best private schools in America.
Certainly this would be an upgrade. Upon our arrival, Somaya and I
had rented a small town house and furnished it sparingly. Somaya had planned to
go back to college, but she’d started volunteering at Omid’s school and had
become a fixture there, telling me that being around children brought her
levels of joy and serenity she’d never known before. I loved this, but
volunteering offered no income and I had yet to land a job. We were eating
into our savings (the money Somaya thought I’d inherited from my
mom), and it would have been impossible not to find Gary’s offer tempting.
Gary stopped the car at a nearby park. “Let’s walk around here.”
We got out and strolled. “Just think about it, Wally. I don’t need
an answer right away.”
He kicked back a ball to a group of boys Omid’s age. “Thanks, sir!”
one of the boys shouted.
Gary waved at the boy and then returned to me. “There would be
intensive training, you would have us behind you wherever you traveled, and
your family would be safe. And you have to admit that the salary is very
impressive.”
The temptation grew stronger. A huge house in this neighborhood?
Omid playing with these well-mannered boys?
“I will think about it, Gary.” How could someone not think
about something like this? But I had already made my decision and nothing would
make me reconsider. The life Gary was offering—as appealing as it sounded and
as much of an improvement as it would be over our financial situation—was not
what I wanted. I had found my long-sought peace and tranquility in the arms of
my wife and the smile of my son. I could not leave that behind again.
I wished I could do something to make a difference for my country.
That desire would never leave me. But I had to admit something to myself: all
my years of spying had not changed Iran for the better. The information I
provided to America might have been useful, but it didn’t accomplish what I had
hoped. And I couldn’t take any more chances with my life or with my family for
this purpose.
During my short stay in D.C., Gary and I’d met a couple more times.
He was still recruiting and I was still incapable of telling him that I was
unequivocally through with the CIA. I’m not sure what was holding me back.
Maybe some sense that losing my connection to the agency meant losing an
essential part of myself. Maybe some sense that I’d come to rely on being both
Reza and Wally. Maybe some sense that turning my back on the CIA was one
final betrayal of my homeland.
I never did tell Gary that I was done. Shortly after I returned to
LA, he called to tell me that he had to take the offer off the table. He said
that things had changed at the agency and that they couldn’t offer me a
position.
He gave me a new contact in LA to use if I needed something or had
any helpful information to pass on.
I read between the lines. Gary knew what was going on in my head and
he was making things easy for me. He’d given me what I needed from the agency
at this point—a local connection in case something happened—and wasn’t going to
ask anything more of me.
My contact with the CIA lasted on a local level for several years
after that, during which I met with several different agents and sometimes with
the FBI to offer help on suspected Iranian activities within the U.S. In one of
those meetings, my CIA contact asked me to find an Iranian who would testify
that Iran had developed a nuclear bomb. To me, this was a clear indication that
the administration of the first President Bush had not succeeded in making the
headway with the regime they thought they were going to make. It would have
been pointless for me to say, “I told you so.”
Eventually, after shuffling through several other contacts, my
connection to the agency died away naturally.
This left Somaya, Omid, and me to live our new lives in America. To
protect our identities, we had changed our names upon arrival. We applied for
citizenship shortly after we reached the five-year residency requirement. I
remember crying the day we took the Oath of Allegiance, both for the blessing
America had bestowed upon us and for the heartache that had brought us here.
Through that oath, we vowed to support and defend the constitution and laws of
the United States of America. And once more I wished that my adopted country
would step in and spread its democracy, freedom, and human rights throughout
the world, and especially to my homeland.
When we returned from our trip to Berkeley, Somaya spent a great
deal of time in Omid’s room trying to contend with the fact that her only child
was now heading off on his own. Her mother had died a few years earlier after a
bout with breast cancer and she tried to convince her father to leave London to
live with us. He kept saying that he would, but he always found a reason not to
do so. Finally, Somaya decided to go to England to bring him back with her.
However, this trip would not happen.
The day before Somaya planned to fly to London, we were going
through our usual morning routine. I was dressing for work and Somaya put on
the television. Suddenly, I heard her screaming my name hysterically. I ran to
the family room, where she sat on the floor, the remote in one hand
and her mouth covered with the other.
“What is it?” I asked, worried about what could possibly have her
this upset. Before she could say a word, though, I found the answer on the
screen, which was showing a commercial jet crashing into one of the Twin
Towers.
“Oh my God,” Somaya screamed. “That was the second building!”
We sat, shocked and confused, in front of the television for untold
hours. Eventually, Somaya went to the phone to tell her father that she
wouldn’t be visiting him any time soon.
I knew what bin Laden was thinking when he ordered these acts of
terrorism on American soil. He believed that he could cripple the country with
fear. He had completely miscalculated America’s resolve—anyone with the tiniest
understanding of the U.S. would have known that they would recover from
this—but he had dealt a devastating blow. And I had to believe that this
happened because the government had not been more decisive in dealing with his
prior attacks on America’s interests and entities. This lack of a response had
encouraged him.
The pattern was clear to me. Being soft on bin Laden emboldened him
to commit a heinous act. Leaving the Taliban unchecked allowed them to enslave
their own people. Trying to appease the mullahs allowed a thugocracy to extend
its reach. Did the message finally get through as the towers fell? Radical
Islamists had no regard for our values of human rights and democracy. When the
West, the defender of such values, sidestepped those principles for vague
political purposes, it left its citizens vulnerable.
For a short period, it seemed that everyone understood this. The
world was in complete solidarity with America, Afghanistan was freed from the
Taliban madmen, and bin Laden and Al Qaeda were on the run. I believed it was
only a matter of time before this force created a united front against the
mullahs—the terror masters of the world—and once more empowered the people of
Iran.
But instead there was the invasion of Iraq and a divided world
again. Though I was glad to see the fall of Saddam, I did not want to see
innocent Iraqis suffer. I worried that America would not do everything they
needed to do to help Iraq become a fully democratic country. I worried that
they didn’t fully understand the mullahs’ plans for Iraq. For decades there had
been close collaboration between the two Shiite hotbeds, Qom in Iran and
Najaf in Iraq. During the Iran–Iraq war, they had formed the Badr
brigades from Iraqi recruits and had helped create the Supreme Council for
Islamic Revolution in Iraq, now one of the largest and most powerful political
parties in that country. The clerics in Iran had been methodically setting the
stage for an Islamic government in Iraq that mirrored the one in Iran.
America had gone into Iraq to bring those people democracy. But the
only true avenue to lasting peace in the Middle East was to help bring about a
free and democratic Iran.
Would I live to see that day?
OMID, HOPE
2005 god finally gave me the strength to do what I should have done many years before.
This hardly seemed like a blessing at the time, and I would have done anything
to change the circumstances, but I was convinced he was sending me a message
and that I had to come clean, at last and completely, to Somaya.
She’d been diagnosed with breast cancer. My wife of twenty-five
years, so young and so beautiful, was fighting for her life. She’d been through
a highly invasive operation and was in the midst of four debilitating cycles of
chemotherapy with the prospect of thirty-three days of radiation still in front
of her, and she was struggling mightily to regain her strength, even though
doctors couldn’t be certain at that point if they’d gotten everything.
Omid flew home as soon as he heard, deciding to delay the second
semester of his senior year to be with his mother. Somaya didn’t want him to do
this, but he insisted. He even shaved his head to show solidarity with his
mother after the chemo had stolen hers.
I sat by her bed every night before she fell asleep. She was
nauseous and weak, and she’d lost so much weight.
“Where is Omid?” she asked one night.
“He is in his room, honey. Do you want me to get him?” I kissed her
hand. “Do you know what Omid told me the other night? He told me how proud he
is that his mother is so strong. He also said he has plans to move back to LA
after graduation. Kelly is moving here with him. He wants to propose right
after he is done with school.” I squeezed her hand gently. “Isn’t that great?”
Omid had told me nothing of the sort, but I thought I needed to
break my commitment against lying to my wife to bring her some light now.
Somaya was staring at the ceiling, but I saw a dim smile.
“If they marry and have a child,” I said, “we will be grandparents
soon. Have you thought about that?” She turned her head to me slowly. “You’ll
be a grandma—a fine, young, and beautiful one. We will have a ‘little Omid’ in
our life again.”
I saw a tiny glow in her half-opened eyes and she mumbled Omid’s
name. The Farsi word for “hope.” Then she rubbed her wet eyes. “I am glad we
named him that. He is my hope. My only omid.” She sighed.
Before I sent our son in, I told him that, to give Somaya a little
boost, I lied to her about his pending engagement to his girlfriend of two
years.
Omid looked at me in disbelief. “That’s not a lie, Dad! I was going
to let you and Mom know that I planned to propose to her, but I did not know if
it was the right time to say anything.”
I smiled at him. “I think it is the perfect time, Son. Go in and
talk to her about it.”
Omid came out of Somaya’s room a short while later, rushing past me
in the hope that I wouldn’t notice his tears. He’d seen what we’d both been
seeing for months now—that his mother seemed to be disappearing in front of us.
The doctors had been optimistic, but what if they were wrong? What if I was
rapidly running out of time to tell her what I needed to say and what she
deserved to know?
I made up my mind in that moment. I was going to do it now.
Hesitantly, I opened the door.
“Why aren’t you coming in?” Somaya said weakly when she saw me
reluctant to enter the room. “I am still awake. Could you get me a glass of
milk? I am a little hungry.”
I did so gladly. She hadn’t touched any food that day. A glass of
milk would bring her some strength. I arranged her pillows, and she sat on the
bed sipping her food.
“All of a sudden I feel so much better. I am so glad Omid is here.”
She stirred the drink with the straw I’d placed in it. “He told me that after
my radiation is over, he wants to introduce us to Kelly’s parents.” She smiled
and her eyes reflected the hope that her son, true to his name, always brought
her.
“Somaya jon, you are an angel,” I said with a broken voice. I
hesitated one last moment, then I added, “And … and I am so evil.”
She released the straw between her lips and her eyes widened. What
did she think I was about to tell her?
“I know I should have confessed this to you long ago. But I need
your forgiveness, Somaya. Please tell me you will forgive me.”
Somaya seemed to grow paler, if that was possible. I castigated
myself for adding to her suffering. I should have been soothing her, not
causing her
more torment.
“Reza, what are you talking about?” she asked weakly.
I moved closer to her and held her hand in both of mine. “I was a jasoos.
…”
She shook her head and looked at me in total confusion. Her
half-open eyes had lost the glow that Omid had brought to her a few minutes
ago. “You were what? … A spy?” She handed me the unfinished glass of milk,
which had started shaking in her hand.
“I betrayed you; I betrayed my son, my parents, and grandparents. I
betrayed my friends and my country. I am ashamed of what I have done to you.”
Somaya stayed quiet while I told her my life story. I told her about
how Naser’s death erupted like a volcano deep inside me. I told her how Roya’s
letter propelled me to become a betrayer to fight for all of the others like
her. I told her how I contacted the CIA, how I invented stories about what I
was doing in London, and how I’d played so many shameful and dangerous games
with her. Rather than challenging the regime directly, I’d taken a coward’s
route.
With this last admission, I sobbed. Somaya hadn’t said a word
through all of this. Now she pulled my head to her chest and started petting my
hair. “Hush, Reza. Hush.” I couldn’t believe that I had put her in a position
where she needed to comfort me when she was in so much need of comfort. This
shamed me further.
“I betrayed you,” I said through my tears. “I lied to you and I
deceived you.”
“Reza, don’t. Don’t do that to yourself. You are ripping your soul.
You did nothing wrong.”
I sat up to face her. “But Somaya jon, I am a jasoos,
a traitor! How could you ever forgive me?”
She pulled the blanket all the way to her neck and drew her body in.
“All I know, Reza …” She was so weak that she was having trouble speaking. She
took several long seconds before she continued. “You should not be ashamed of
what you did for your country.”
This brought another sob from my heart. “Somaya jon, I love
you so much. But I need to know if you can forgive me for all I have done to
you.”
It was past midnight, and she looked incredibly tired. But still she
found the strength to reach out to me. “Reza, I understand why you lied. It’s
good
to know that I did not waste my life living with a man who was a
supporter of a brutal regime. Now I know why you behaved the way you did.” Her
voice was fading, but she struggled to stay awake. “I wanted so badly for all
those years to believe that you were not one of them, and now I know. I know
you wanted to protect our son and me. Of course I forgive you. But promise me
something. Don’t give up. Tell the world what you witnessed and what these
criminals have done to us.”
A tear ran across her face. “You are not a coward, Reza. You are
not,” she whispered before she closed her eyes.
Omid had been very close with his grandfather when he lived in
England. Unfortunately, once we moved to America, their only contact was over
the phone or on the rare vacation visit to London. We were finally able to
convince Moheb Khan to move to Los Angeles, though, and Omid spent as much time
with him as he could when he was home from college. They became even closer
during the 2008 presidential election, which was interesting because they
supported different candidates. Omid loved Barack Obama, while Moheb Khan found
the policies of the Republican Party more to his liking and therefore backed
John McCain.
“Omid jon, Senator McCain is who we need now,” Moheb Khan
said decisively during one of their many debates on the subject. “He can get
rid of the mullahs in Iran. And if he solves that problem, he will bring peace
to the entire Middle East.” He had seen Lebanon, his homeland, devastated in
the 2006 Israel–Hezbollah war, and he believed this resulted directly from the
mullahs arming Hezbollah and promoting the destruction of Israel.
“Grandpa, Obama is a breath of fresh air. After years of war and
radical foreign policy, we need to show the world that we are a compassionate
people. That’s the only way we’ll regain respect and authority. We need a
united world to fight the religious fanatics. Obama can provide the hope to
achieve that.”
At this point, my father-in-law would shake his head. “Those words
are nothing but fancy talk. Change. Hope. We need a powerful and
experienced leader. This Ahmadinejad is not the kind of human to negotiate
with. He is demented.”
Omid would grow more animated in his response. “Hope is not
just a fancy word. Hope can bring the whole world together. The Iranians inside
the country need hope. And they definitely need change.”
I stayed on the sidelines for most of these conversations. I had my
opinions, but I didn’t want to impose them on my son or his grandfather because
I found their debate so stirring, and I didn’t want to tilt the discussion in
either direction. It still amazed me how people who loved each other in America
could disagree so vociferously without fear of consequence. It brought me back
to the Fridays of my childhood with Agha Joon and Davood. I found exchanges of
this sort inspiring, and whenever I heard them I prayed that people in Iran
would be free to engage in them again before too long.
“‘Hope’ is a strong word, Moheb Khan,” I said, allowing
myself to butt in only this much. “Certainly we can all attest to that.”
Somaya knew more than anybody else in that room how powerful that
word was. With the hope she had, she overcame the battle of her life and had
been cancer-free for three years. As this debate continued, she sat next to
Kelly and put her hand on her daughter-in-law’s stomach to see if she could
feel her grandchild moving. With her health, the nearness of her family now
that Omid and Kelly were renting a place close to our home, and her son’s baby
on the way, Somaya was the very manifestation of hope.
Moheb Khan and Omid kept trading opinions throughout the election
season. At the same time, I shared my thoughts with the rest of the world by
writing articles in various media outlets in which I spoke about the
relationship between the American election and the mullahs’ aspirations for an
Islamic conquest of the world. Of course, I used a pseudonym—one separate from
the names we’d taken when we came to America—to protect my identity. After I
confessed to Somaya, we agreed that it would be safest to keep this secret
between the two of us for the rest of our lives. But, as I had promised her, I
was telling the world what I’d witnessed. The simple fact was that the West had
a tremendous influence on the policies of Iran— despite what the mullahs might
say—and I knew the next American president would have a chance to give the
young people of my homeland their first real glimpse of freedom. Regardless of
which candidate won, I prayed that he would not repeat the mistakes his
predecessors had made of trying to appease the regime. When Barack Obama won
the election on the same day that our grandson, Arya, was born, I saw this as a
very positive sign.
Still, as much as our own household radiated optimism, Iran
continued to face dark times. Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, the current president of
Iran, was
a closed-minded radical Islamist. He’d been vaulted into power by
the same clerics who’d so completely undermined former president Khatami in his
attempts to bring reform: the Supreme Leader, Ali Khamenei, Ayatollah Mesbah
Yazdi, and Ayatollah Jannati, the true believers of Mahdaviat who
awaited the coming of Mahdi, the twelfth Shiite Imam, who would rule the world
before the end times. Before becoming the president, Ahmadinejad, then mayor of
Tehran, had secretly instructed the city council to build a road especially for
Mahdi that led to the mosque of Jamkaran. Once he became president, Ahmadinejad
allocated millions of dollars to enhance the mosque for the reappearance of
Mahdi from the adjacent well where the president and other zealots believe the
twelfth Imam is in hiding.
Like others who think as he does, Ahmadinejad believes that many of
the signs of Mahdi’s return have emerged. Known as hadiths, these signs include
the invasion of Afghanistan, the bloodshed in Iraq, and the global economic
meltdown. According to prophecy, the hadiths will grow increasingly furious as
Mahdi’s return comes closer, including “persecution and injustice” engulfing
the earth, “chaos and famine,” and “many wars.” The hadiths predict that “many
will be killed and the rest will suffer hunger and lawlessness.” People like
Ahmadinejad so completely believed that these conditions would hasten the
return of the twelfth Imam that they were willing to foment universal war,
chaos, and famine to bring it about.
After the 9/11 attacks and the fall of the Taliban, I decided that I
needed to activate a handful of sources within Iran. The world seemed to hold
the Islamic government blameless in the attacks, but I knew that the mullahs
were likely to have had a hand in any act of terror directed toward America. My
sources told me that the Guards were harboring Al Qaeda members and that Ahmad
Vahidi had close contact with bin Laden’s organization. Back when I was working
for the CIA, I’d reported on Vahidi, then chief intelligence officer of the
Guards, who was involved in the U.S. Marine barracks bombing as well as many
other terrorist acts, including the bombing of a Jewish community center in
Buenos Aires in 1994 that earned him an arrest warrant from an Argentinian
judge and a red-alert listing on Interpol. By 2008, he was deputy defense
minister (and he is now defense minister), overseeing Iran’s ballistic missile
and nuclear programs with only one goal in mind: to obtain the bomb. My sources
also told me that the Guards were running multiple covert operations for their
nuclear bomb project and that one was set in a secret underground facility west
of the
province of Mazandaran, a mountainous region in the north of Iran.
This latest revelation was something of a tipping point for me when combined
with what I’d learned on my own—I had become more vigilant about my
surroundings and more aware of radical Islamist activity in the U.S. I realized
that I needed to share what I had learned. Since I no longer had a handler, I
called the CIA headquarters in Virginia to arrange a meeting with a local
agent.
I had high hopes that the Obama administration would be tougher on
the Islamic government of Iran, especially given what they knew about the
regime’s nuclear activities. However, his first overture to the mullahs
disappointed me. He sent greetings for the Persian New Year in which he urged
better relations between America and Iran. He then repeated this in letters to
Ayatollah Khamenei. To me, this was a sad case of not learning from history.
Once again American politicians refused to see that the mullahs were not men of
reason, and that their animosity toward America was rooted in the
interpretation of a prophecy that called for the annihilation of the West and
all non-Muslims. I knew the regime would see Obama’s entreaties as a sign of
weakness, and that this would embolden them to take radical steps.
While I continued to hear from my contacts within Iran, I strove to
stay focused on my family. The summer of 2009 was an idyllic time in our
household. Somaya and I had fallen in love with our grandson. “Oh! He looks
exactly like Omid,” Somaya would say every time she held Arya. Our home
brightened with the presence of a new baby, and though we never discussed my
sickbed confession again, I think the baby helped heal any lingering wounds
this confession might have caused. As summer began, Somaya told me that she
would not go back to work the next fall. She wanted to stay home, where she
could spend more time with her grandson when Omid and Kelly were at work. With
Arya around, she would not miss the children at the elementary school.
I wish Iran could have experienced some of our joy that summer.
Instead, it continued to serve as a source of heartbreak for all of us.
Worldwide headlines blared the news that the people of my homeland were in the
streets of Tehran protesting peacefully for the freedoms they felt the regime
had stolen from them yet again. A presidential election very different from the
Obama-McCain election had just taken place between Ahmadinejad and reformer Mir
Hossein Mousavi. On the eve of the election, all signs pointed
to a landslide victory by Mousavi. Interior ministry officials
informed him that he was going to win and Ali Larijani, the speaker of the
parliament, congratulated him. Then Guards commanders entered his headquarters
to inform him that Ahmadinejad would be pronounced the winner the next day.
They told Mousavi that he should not object to this as it was in the best
interests of the Islamic Republic and that this outcome had the approval of the
Supreme Leader.
As a result, Ahmadinejad “won” a second term, and the people of Iran
simply couldn’t take it any longer. I found it inspiring to see young people
loudly broadcasting their desire for change. In the crowd scenes beamed back to
America, I saw Nasers, Royas, Soheils, and Parvanehs. I saw the protesters as
the tenders of Agha Joon’s garden full of flowers, a new generation spreading
their seeds in its soil, nurturing freedom, and helping it to blossom in my
lost country once again. They were strong and united and ready to rid
themselves of the pain my generation had brought them. Even without the support
of the West, they were going to bring about change. They were escalating a
movement that had begun only moments after Khomeini betrayed Iran by lying to
us about his intentions. He was responsible for the deaths of hundreds of
thousands and the killing had continued in the two decades since he died. But
no one could kill the spirit of this movement.
The protests drew the attention of the world in unprecedented ways.
Iran was the focus of headlines for weeks, and world leaders denounced the
results of the election and the regime’s brutal response to the protests. With
the eyes of the world on them, the mullahs and the thugs who took orders from
them fought mercilessly to hold on to the power that had never been their
right, using extreme force to deny that their time was over. In their minds,
Mahdi was coming and the blood they shed now was yet another hadith. When a
Basiji shot young Neda Agha-Soltan dead as she stood on the periphery of a
protest, Neda became the international symbol of the fight for freedom and the
regime’s utter disregard for life. The government threw all foreign journalists
out of the country and suppressed the media, but they couldn’t prevent the
video of the dying Neda from reaching every corner of the world.
As I complete the writing of this book, the regime seems to have
pushed back another attempt at reform. In late September 2009, Ahmadinejad
spoke defiantly to the UN, and days later Iran tested long-range missiles. In
addition, one covert nuclear facility was exposed, though it was not
the facility I had information on. This means that there are others that have
not yet been revealed. The American response so far has been to seek a world
coalition to enact the toughest sanctions yet in an effort to force the Islamic
government to participate equitably in the world community. The sanctions would
target Iran’s oil income among other things and they would be devastating—if
there is a true coalition. Unfortunately, the world has not united to uphold
sanctions against Iran in the past, so there’s little reason to believe it will
do so this time.
While the regime is standing tough, I truly believe their iron rule
over Iran is coming to an end. The Iranian people have announced to the entire
world that they want the liberties that are their birthright. They are not
going to accept anything less.
Twenty-eight years ago, I began a quest to free my people. My
efforts took us only so far. But now an irresistible movement is forming. Iran will
be free again. And when that time comes, in spite of the heartache I
endured and the shame I felt at needing to resort to betrayal, I will rejoice.
During this journey of more than three years, I was so lucky to have
a literary manager who believed in me. Peter Miller never doubted my story, and
his encouragement gave me strength throughout this project. Peter, you are a
true lion!
I made so many friends throughout this journey; the friends whom,
for safety reasons, I never had the chance to meet in person, friends who had
never insisted on knowing my true identity. They just believed in my story, and
their help made this book possible. My thanks to Mary Strobel, to whom I am
indebted genuinely for her care and guidance and incredible work of more than a
year day and night editing and re-editing; Darrend King Brown, who opened my
eyes in so many ways with his to-the-point critiques; Joe Quirk, for his
enthusiasm, unbelievable talent, and great work; Tamim Ansary, for his
insightful comments and critiques; and John Strobel, for his unmistakable line
editing.
I am so thankful of my dear friend Shirley for her kindness,
support, and trust. Thanks so much for all you’ve done for me and for reading
the manuscript and believing in me. I will never forget your fondness.
Special thanks to Washington, D.C., attorney Mark Zaid, who helped
me navigate through all sorts of unimaginable hurdles that stood in the way of
the publication of this book. Without his efforts, many pages might have been
nothing more than black lines.
I also would like to take this opportunity to thank the great
Iranian singer Dariush and Mr. Iraj Jannatie-Ataie, the legendary songwriter,
for all the beautiful and caring songs they’ve performed for Iran and the
Iranians, especially the heartfelt song “Vatan.”
Finally, I have to admit that this book would have not been
published without the help of Lou Aronica. His hard work, talent, critique,
comments,
and fine editing make this story flow like a river. He raised my
confidence, and his involvement was an honor. Lou, I thank you for all the hard
work and for making this possible.
Needless to say, I am indebted to everyone at Threshold Editions,
and to Patrick Price, for his hard work, great review, and recommendations, and
particularly to Anthony Ziccardi, for his faith in my story and for believing
that my voice should be heard!
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