To Keep the Sun Alive

by Rabeah Ghaffari

  Dear Father,

  I am in the capital. I apologize for having frightened you by leaving without notice but I knew if I were to tell you, you would not let me go. Please do not worry. I am safe and among friends. I do not know where to begin to tell you what I have seen in the past several days. It’s unlike anything that I have ever dared imagine. My first night here, I arrived by train and it was late and I was so tired. A taxi driver took me to the central square, refusing my money—which is for the best, since I have so little to spare. Stepping out of the car, I was shocked. The streets were a war zone. Fires burning everywhere. Papers, filing cabinets, and other debris littered the streets and sidewalks—all of it hurled from windows. Thousands upon thousands of people milled about. I walked for what seemed like hours. From north to south, east to west. The electricity that ran through the city came from the people. I stopped to speak to as many as I could. Each told me a piece of the story that I had missed. About the people killed. About the flight of Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi and the arrival of Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini. As I walk the streets of the capital I can only describe it thus: It is as though all of the people here are one. From the farthest regions of the country to the middle of the city they have gathered in brotherhood. We look at and acknowledge one another as we pass. We are aware of the same thing. And in each and every face that I have seen, I saw the spark of possibility. I have been offered meals, refreshment, and a roof under which to sleep. I have been given sweets, embraces, and salutations along all of the streets I walk, by young and old, man and woman, from north and south, in chadors and blue jeans.

  Father, it took my breath away. I had never imagined such a thing was possible. I had begun to believe that one had to go somewhere else and build a new life, that a country with thousands of years of history could not change, that we could not see past our differences, could not forgive our past aggressions, could not let go of our prejudices, that we were incapable of change. But I am watching that change and I know my place is here with my people, my brothers and sisters.

  Please know that I am safe. I’ve been staying at the dorms in the university. There is much activity here and some of the students that I met on the street have shown me such immense hospitality. Sleep is impossible! Night and day, we stay awake discussing all that needs to be done in this beautiful new Iran. Just last night I sat at dinner with several students—one was a Communist, another was a seminary student. Still another had just returned from Paris. There were many differences of opinion but we all agreed on one thing, that our fate is in our own hands.

  Last night, we started making posters and flyers. We’ve made plans for student unions and are in the process of starting a paper to spread news and information throughout the country. I have personally interviewed a young cleric who has been sitting in on our student meetings. He’s a fine fellow and is as excited for the future as we are. We visited with his congregation and spoke openly about the concerns that affect us all. There are some who worry about outside intervention, which is to be expected, but I think with all of us banding together that would be impossible—never again. The past is the past. We are ready to determine our own future.

  This fall, I want to enroll in university. Nasreen and I can live here in a small apartment during the school year and come home for holidays and longer breaks. It would be wise, I think, for her to attend university as well. Once I finish my studies I want to work in Naishapur with the local engineering corps. There is a sand dunes project I have in mind. It’s something I’ve been thinking about for years, and I think that with my education under my belt and the new possibilities before us I will be able to realize it. But I’m getting ahead of myself. You must forgive me. I’m just so terribly excited! Please give my regards to everyone, especially Nasreen. Do not be worried—I am among family here as well.

  Your son,

  Madjid

  Dear Father,

  I hope this letter finds you and the family well. I am sitting here in the dorm room, writing to you by candlelight. Everyone is asleep and it’s unusually quiet. It’s the first chance I have had to sit alone and think after the whirlwind of the last few days. Today was not a very good day. In the morning’s paper there were photographs of the high military officials who had been executed, their bodies laid out in a row in the prison yard. I was shocked by the severity. I had expected proper public trials to address the grievances of the people, and to examine how these injustices were allowed to continue. It is not possible to build a house on a gutted foundation. There have been some officials who have resigned in protest or who have been dismissed. People whose work and reputation I am aware of. It was a great loss to my brothers and sisters. And to myself. But I take refuge in the fact that while change can sometimes be messy, setbacks can’t derail it completely. Others agree. I spent most of today at our table outside the university, speaking to passersby who stop to read our pamphlets. There have been some reports of violence toward people across the capital but they have been sporadic. A girl here at the dorms was badly hurt by a group claiming to be defenders of morality. They threw acid in her face, and her parents came and took her back home.

  Violence is a potent enemy, Father. If you let it fill you with fear then all will be lost. But we are standing firm. We know that the majority is on our side and we will press on. Please do not worry. I am among family here.

  Your son,

  Madjid

  Dear Father,

  I am sorry it took so long to write again. There have been several student raids at the dorms. Not to worry. I am doing fine. But they have taken many away. We’ve been spending most of our time inquiring of their whereabouts at the prison and hospitals but to no avail. It’s frustrating. I am worried for my friends. It’s been uneasy at the dorms. Some of the students are beginning to suspect that there are informants among us, but informants for whom? I don’t fully understand what is happening. But please do not worry. I am among family here.

  Your son,

  Madjid

  Dear Father,

  I stood in line for several hours today to vote. It was the first time I have ever cast a ballot. When I reached the building and stepped inside, my heart raced in excitement. But Father, when I got the ballot, it said: Islamic Republic of Iran, yes or no. I don’t fully understand what is happening.

  Your son,

  Madjid

  Dear Father,

  The carpet I came to the capital for is not what I had expected. The central motifs do not correspond to the ones in the expanding circle. One of the central shapes overpowers the rest and is causing an imbalance in the entire design. In fact, upon closer inspection, I realized that it has overwhelmed what was otherwise a very promising design. It is unfortunate that such a beautiful design has been so grossly realized but what can one do? Not all grand ideas imagined can come to fruition. As we discussed before, I left to come here for the sole purpose of purchasing this carpet and since it is not the one I was looking for, I will be returning home on the next train. Perhaps I will be able to find a more appropriate one in our own town.

  Your son

  Shazdehpoor folded the letters and held them in his lap. The room was silent. He labored to catch his breath. He had forgotten how much it upset him to open his wooden box. He started to pace around the room but it only made his breathing more rapid. And the loneliness more acute. He needed to see other people. He couldn’t stay in this room for another moment.

  He took off his pantaloons and changed back into his seersucker suit, slipping his feet into loafers.

  He headed toward the foyer, stopping at the door. He buttoned his jacket. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, touching the cold sweat on his brow. All would be well once he was around other people. Even strangers.

  THE UNIVERSITY

  Who are you?” the man said as he stood over Madjid, leaning in close to his face. Madjid, blindfolded, hands and feet bound, sat on a chair in a windowless room. He could feel the man’s breath on h
is face, and it made him shake. But he managed to answer, “I am a student.”

  The man stood straight and turned with his hands clasped behind his back. He took several paces and suddenly turned back, lunged at Madjid, and slapped him across the face, hurling him from the chair. Madjid’s full weight landed on his shoulder and dislocated it with a muted snap. He screamed. The man leaned over and lifted him off the ground by his shirt collar. Madjid’s arm muscles began to spasm and a film of sweat covered his face. He tried to swallow his saliva but drooled.

  The man paced the room leisurely with his hands clasped behind his back. His shoes had taps on the soles like those of a 1930s movie star. He walked to the door and knocked several times. Two men entered. They walked over to Madjid and lifted him off the chair by his elbows. He whimpered in pain, his shoulder throbbing. “We will continue this conversation very soon,” said the man.

  Nausea heaving in his chest, Madjid stumbled at the foot of a stairwell. He blindly climbed the steps, trying to keep up with the men at his elbows. Suddenly there was a wall. Then blood oozing from his forehead as the two men laughed. “Watch where you’re going,” one of them taunted as they turned the corner. He felt dizzy, confused, and shuffled his feet trying to keep up.

  Keys jangled and unlocked a door. The rope that bound his hands was violently untied, leaving nail scratches on his wrists. Then the blindfold was removed. In the dim light, his vision was blurry. He was shoved into a cell, the door slammed behind him. He stood there as his vision became acclimated, making out several men sitting crouched on the floor.

  They all stared at him. “You have dislocated your shoulder,” said one of the men. “Come, I’ll fix it for you.”

  Madjid stood there shaking from the spasms in his arm.

  Another man said, “Let him fix it. He’s a doctor.”

  Try as he might, Madjid could not move. Blood oozed down his forehead, rolling down his cheeks like black tears.

  The doctor slowly walked over to him, reaching for his shoulder, but Madjid pulled away. The doctor spoke again, his voice calm and gentle. “It’s all right. I won’t hurt you.”

  Madjid relaxed his stance as best he could, his eye fluttering from the blood. The man unbuttoned Madjid’s shirt and gently slipped it off his shoulders and motioned to two others to help. He turned to Madjid and said, “I need you to lie down flat.”

  The two men helped Madjid to the corner. The doctor took a bed sheet and looped it under Madjid’s armpit. He nodded to the other men. One took his dislocated arm while the other sat on his legs, holding his other arm to the ground. The doctor held on to the sheet and leaned over Madjid and said, “The pain will be excruciating but it will pass quickly.”

  On the count of three he leaned back, pulling the sheet toward himself as the other man pulled his arm from his body and the third man held down Madjid. With a crack, his bone slipped back into place. The doctor let go of the sheet and the man sitting on him got up. A shiver ran down Madjid’s body, and he turned to the wall and vomited.

  The doctor leaned over him. “Is the pain gone?”

  Madjid nodded yes.

  The two men helped him sit up and covered his vomit with a rag. He joined their circle and counted four altogether, including the man who hadn’t moved to help him. His face was hidden by the shadows and his propped-up leg. In his hand, his worry beads clicked, invisible in the dark.

  The cell was damp and frigid but large, as if meant to hold more captives. The four men had attempted to create dignified living quarters. Their blankets were laid out like beds. A sheet cordoned off the pail they used as a toilet. Their cups and plates were laid out on another sheet they had improvised as a sofreh and their few books were stacked against the wall, along with a few pens and pencils.

  The doctor pressed a damp cloth on Madjid’s forehead to soak up the blood. He held up his index finger and moved it, instructing him to follow it with his eyes. “Do you feel dizzy?” he said.

  “No,” said Madjid.

  “It’s best to stay awake for a while just to be sure. The bump on your head is quite significant.”

  “I feel all right.”

  The doctor sat back and, smiling at his patient, said, “Welcome to the university.”

  They all laughed, and Madjid smiled, confused. “What do you mean?” he said.

  The man who had been sitting in the far corner in the dark moved closer. “We call our cell the university because he is a doctor.” He pointed to the next man. “He is a writer.” And the next. “He is a historian.” Then he pointed to himself. “I am a defrocked cleric.”

  He swept his hand across the cell. “And this is a place of higher learning.”

  “Who are you, my boy?” said the doctor.

  “A student.”

  “Then you have come to the right place.”

  They all laughed and Madjid felt a little like himself again. He asked the cleric, “Do you know what time it is?”

  “No. That is one thing you can never be certain of here.”

  “What do they want from us?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why are we here?”

  “To be broken. They know as well as we do that we are a threat to their power. They once survived this same university.”

  “Who are they?”

  “They are us.”

  Hours passed as the men told Madjid about the rotation of guards, the nightly roundups, and the dreaded Section 209, where screams of agony could be heard throughout the nights that bled into days and the days that bled back into nights, time a constant stagnant state of darkness, anticipation and dread, captivity and subordination. Madjid suspected Section 209 was where he had been held. Had they heard him?

  He moved closer to the cleric, intrigued by his presence in the prison. “Haj-Agha,” he asked. “Why are you here?”

  The cleric seemed amused. “You think because I am a cleric that I am one of them?”

  “Well, I assumed—”

  “There are two schools of thought among the clergy: those who believe that they will create a state based on the principles of their faith; and those who do not believe that this is possible and that we should not be involved in matters of state. The latter have ended up assassinated, exiled . . . and imprisoned.”

  Madjid fell into thought for a few moments then wished the cleric a good night. He walked over to the corner of the cell where the historian had laid him out a blanket. He lay awake and stared at the darkness until he slipped into a waking dream in which he was standing over a colony of ants, a line of uniform black shapes without distinction, moving in unison, his foot suspended over them.

  “Who are you?” the man said as he stood over Madjid, leaning in close to his face. Madjid sat on the same chair, in the same room, bound and blindfolded. He did not speak but tensed his body and prepared himself for a blow to the temple that never arrived. He could hear the man’s tapping footsteps going to the door, opening and closing it. He sat there alone for what might have been an hour, he could not be sure. His cellmates had shared with him what they had suffered during interrogations. The cigarette burns on the naked thighs, the switches on the soles of the feet, the punches to the face, the leather straps rubbed on the scrotum that resulted in a pain so excruciating that one of them had passed out. The ice-cold water dumped on the head to wake one up, only to be subjected to more. And the most unbearable part of it all was not being able to see or know when the blow or punch or slap would come, and the silence of not being asked a single question whose answer might end the torment.

  The door opened again. Madjid’s heart began to palpitate. He sat there in the dark, his lungs pushing against his chest as he labored to catch his breath, tears running down his cheeks. The men started to laugh as they taunted him. One of them said, “Awww, don’t cry. Are you afraid? What are you afraid of?”

  Madjid’s fear gave way to rage. He breathed heavily, trying to yank his hands and feet out of their bounds.

 
; “Oooh, he’s getting angry,” said a new man. “That’s good. That’s very good.”

  Madjid was boiling over and almost wished one of them would strike him. He screamed, “Go ahead! Do whatever you want. I don’t care. You can kill me if you want. I don’t care!”

  Madjid started to flail on the chair and fell over. There he lay, on the cement, on his side, still tied to his chair. Silence flooded the room. Madjid felt the interrogator’s breath on his ear. “They will not kill you,” he said. “They will not cut you or break a single bone in your body. No. They won’t even strike you.”

  He grabbed Madjid by the collar, lifting him with the chair back to his sitting position, and once more brought his face close to Madjid’s. “They will do something to you that is far worse and you will wish that I had killed you.”

  He heard the interrogator’s footsteps heading to the door. He heard him whisper to his henchmen and then the door slamming behind him. A few seconds of silence followed and then he heard the unclasping of belt buckles and he knew the interrogator was right.

  He woke up in a four-by-six cell in the fetal position, alone. It was pitch black except for a shaft of light that streamed in from a high window, and for a brief moment he felt triumphant that he could distinguish day from night. There was nothing in the cell save a bucket for his waste and a wiry, damp blanket next to his head. He moved to sit up and felt a sharp pain shooting through his bowels. He lay back down again. He touched his rectum and felt the blood and raised his hand to the shaft of light to make sure that it was blood, which it was. He began to weep softly and gently rocked on the concrete floor until his mind gave way to unconsciousness.

  He woke with a start, raising himself by his arms. There was a metal cup and plate inside his cell. He leaned over and sniffed at the cup. It was water. The cold, mucus-like sop on the plate smelled of oats. Looking up to the window, he wondered how long he had been asleep. Only then did he realize the light was unnatural, unchanging. He hung his head in quiet defeat.