A State of Fear

by Dr Reza Ghaffari

  In the visitors’ waiting room, women hugging framed photographs of their sons and daughters to their chest under their chador showed these pictures to other families, explaining that this loved one had been shot or hanged. They were there to find out where the bodies of their murdered kin had been hidden. Macabre though this was, it was the main way information about the massacre spread, helping families to gauge its extent.

  As usual, I was taken through the prison, but instead of going to a visiting booth, I was led to the main office. I had no idea what was happening, but dared not ask my guards.

  Before me stood a prison official. ‘Your family is here to take you home for your month’s visit. Remember, we will be watching you constantly – whatever you do, wherever you go. Whether or not you will be released hinges on how you behave.’

  No one had referred to my release since my interview with Haji Naserian, and no prospective date given at the time. The idea was to catch each prisoner unawares, so no arrangements could be made between prisoners. This meant that I was not primed with messages from cellmates for those outside.

  The official motioned a guard to take me to an adjoining room. My clothes, shoes and body were searched for messages. I was led out into the courtyard, and sat in the back of a Jeep, with one armed guard next to me. I remained blindfolded.

  The guard beside me asked, ‘How do you feel now? You were very sick last time I saw you.’

  ‘I’m still not well,’ I replied, ‘Maybe I can get some medical treatment while I’m on leave. But where do you know me from?’ He said he recognised me from a particularly brutal beating I received in the ‘jogging protest’ at Gohardasht. By this time we were almost at the big main gate. The guards at the security post checked my papers and removed my blindfold.

  The gates swung open with the screech of iron on iron and the hum of electrical motors. Before me stood my wife, three sisters and father, bathed in the early afternoon of a bright sunny day. You have no idea what a beautiful sight that is.

  Upon seeing me one of my sisters fainted. We had to carry her 250 metres across waste ground to where the rest of my family waited: about 20 of them, with several cars and a minibus. With them waited many friends I had not seen for long, long years. None of this seemed real. I had not seen a world without walls for so long that it now seemed strange and wonderful beyond belief. I was surrounded by sun, sky, family and friends. I could see children returning from school; experiences I had been robbed of for years.

  It was odd. I was having difficulty walking, not just because I was so weak, though that was true, but because I had been confined for so long that, out in the open, I just couldn’t get my bearings. There was no wall before me to adjust my perspective to. Gloriously disorientated, feeling a sense of agoraphobia, I reeled around like a drunkard. Friends clasped me from either side and steered me towards our transport. We clambered joyously into the vehicles: me in the back of a car, along with my wife.

  On arriving home, the celebrations began. The family had splashed out on a live lamb, which was ceremonially slaughtered and cooked. This is a traditional form of welcome. Beasts as large as camels are sometimes bought live and feasted on in this way – though we wouldn’t have got one in our oven. The lamb was divided up, making sure that those neighbours hardest hit by the times got their share first. The party got into full swing. Groups of two, four, ten friends arrived in a steady stream, bearing flowers, cakes and drinks. My oldest daughter made sure that everyone was made welcome.

  As people finished eating, I unconsciously went straight into my prison routine. I went around the house picking up dishes. In automatic pilot, as the partygoers looked on curiously, I carried the stack of crockery into kitchen and began washing up. My eldest daughter followed on my heels.

  ‘Dad, what are you doing? Stop and go back into the party. Please!’

  I insisted that I was going to do the dishes, that I felt guilty about leaving them around. Male friends of the family who had followed me in were horrified: it just isn’t done for a man to do such jobs in Iran. ‘For God’s sake stop! If you carry on like this, you’ll have our wives expecting us to wash up too!’

  But the more they pleaded, the more I dug my heels in.

  Doubt was nagging at me as I milled around the party. As the night drew on and people left I became more jittery. Why? Ten years of bromide, beatings and isolation are not good for a man. ‘I hope my wife won’t be disappointed with me’ I thought, ‘There’s no way I’m going to be able to perform as expected of a husband – especially after an absence of ten years.’

  I was anxious about what sort of relationship would be possible with my children. They had grown up without me. I watched them throughout the night: they seemed like strangers. My 14-year-old girl was now a woman. My daughter was a teenager. And my son was now a gangly 13-year-old, as tall as his father. How was it possible, given all this time and all that the whole family had been through, for me to take up the mantle of father?

  That night, I dreamed I was still in prison. I was hiding in my cell and the guards were looking for me. I was in for a beating. I was shaken awake by my wife, horrified at the way I thrashed about and screamed in my sleep. It was as if my subconscious refused to accept that I really was free.

  Every night, I would stay up while the family slept, hunched over the radio. I moved the dial over from World Service, Voice of America and Radio Moscow to the underground Iranian opposition stations and back again. I absorbed news like a sponge.

  My difficulty with being outdoors persisted. The blue dome of the sky wheeled and lurched every time I poked my head outdoors as if I was drunk. I couldn’t judge perspective, distances or speeds. Crossing the road seemed more hazardous for me than for a hedgehog. I couldn’t judge the speed of approaching cars. Had I not been constantly watched and helped by patient family and friends, I would surely have bounced off someone’s front bumper. Indeed, one time I was knocked to the ground as I stepped into the path of a moving vehicle. Fortunately I was only grazed and bruised. Better still, the concerned driver was behind the wheel of an ambulance.

  For two weeks people came visiting: friends and relatives from the provinces, even Islamic associates of my father came with flowers. How things had changed since my arrest, when no one in the family dared to say that I had been arrested for fear of reprisals.

  I saw a series of medical specialists, who examined each of my many ailments. After ten years of harsh jail life, this meant a considerable number of doctors. The gratifying thing was knowing that each one had pushed me up their long waiting lists as soon as they found out I was being temporarily released, and what my condition was. Some had year-long queues. Perhaps more surprisingly they refused to accept a fee – this at a time in Iran when money was the determining factor in relationships.

  My pleasure wasn’t entirely personal. It was inspiring to know that those of us who had held out against the regime in prison had not been forgotten, but had won respect and admiration. The welcome seemed to validate our whole struggle.

  But I constantly reminded myself of the need to be watchful. I had to be very circumspect on the phone or in gatherings. All the people I spoke to I trusted, but words filter through. I also needed to prepare to leave the country. This needed careful planning, and from the second week onwards I devoted all my time to preparations.

  Using the pretext of medical treatment, I called a halt to social visits. In Iran the tradition is that if someone visits you, you repay them with a return visit. If I’d done that, I would have been too busy seeing family and friends to even think of skipping the country. My excuses made, I established contact with comrades in my organisation.

  I explained the urgency of getting out of the country. Messages were left for me with a third person, so that there would be no direct link with our house, which was undoubtedly being watched. In this way, I got details of when and where to meet someone who would take me the 1,000 or so kilometres from Tehran to a town on the Turkish b
order, and from there over into Turkey. I arranged to meet him in the border town itself, so minimising my contact with others, who might have to face heavy flack once I was safely away.

  No one else knew about these plans, not even my wife. I could not afford to have anyone give anything away, by even so much as a change in behaviour, that might provoke suspicion.

  I had already asked a relative to let us borrow a car for day trips to visit provincial branches of the family. A sister lived halfway between Tehran and the border, and this was our ostensible weekend destination. As we loaded our things into the car for a supposed two-day trip, my family didn’t know that this was not the final destination.

  We arrived at her house at about 10pm, where we spent two or three hours with her family. At about 2am, I announced we were leaving for a wedding the next morning, between 400 and 500 kilometres further on – and conveniently near the border. Our car left, with a male friend driving, two sisters, two small children, my wife and myself – a natural-looking family outing, even if at an odd hour. I had grown a beard, my friend usually wore one and the women had covered their faces with all due propriety, so we even looked respectably Islamic.

  It was not the best time to travel. Iran today is like a garrison. As you travel through it, you come across countless checkpoints along the road. Most are manned by Basij, the youth wing of the Islamic Guard. Some are in dugouts with the guard sitting behind a heavy machine gun, finger on the trigger, as if they are expecting the entire tank battalions of Iraq to come rumbling along their little country road, rather than just the casual traveller. After dark, such military readiness intensifies.

  We were stopped leaving the city where my sister lived, waved down at a guards’ kiosk at the roadside. A sandbag wall ran in front of it, over which poked the threatening muzzle of a heavy automatic. Three or four young khaki-clad men kept the gun company in its sandbag nest. Out came another guard, with a pistol at his side. He ordered our driver out of the car, asked to see identification, and then walked to the back of the car with him, to go through the boot. Satisfied that our family car was not the advanced guard of an Iraqi invasion, we were ordered on our way.

  I was not too disturbed by this, as in the two weeks I had been out, such checks around Tehran had become familiar. Those outside Evin and Gohardasht just lived in a bigger prison, and the border of Iran was its perimeter wall.

  As we drew nearer to the border, security checks became more frequent and rigorous. Now we were all ordered out, questioned – children included – and the whole car searched. Each checkpoint was more thorough than the last. At the town nearest the border, the last was the worst. It was a large brick building, sitting right in the middle of the road, at the centre of a roundabout. Guards armed with Kalashnikovs stood at each junction, stopping every car. Sandbagged machine-gun nests looked down every road.

  We were all ordered out. One young guard checked the car, took up the back seats, and looked underneath the car. Another went through our bags, strewing their contents over the road in the search for guns, subversive literature or who knew what else. Anyway, whatever it was, he didn’t find it.

  We were asked the purpose of our journey. ‘Where are you going, Haji Aghah?’ one asked, his use of the deferential title thankfully indicating that I looked suitably religious and respectable. I showed our invitations: ‘We’re off to a wedding, brother.’ They always like you more when you call them brother (I hoped).

  My stomach was knotted and tense at this last hurdle. Anything could go wrong. I knew from bitter experience that we could be derailed if a guard took exception to the look of one of us. The 15-minute search crept slowly on before we were told to pack up our stuff and be on our way. Even then guards still watched from the windows. We took our time, not wanting to seem nervous or hurried in case we were pulled back for further questioning. No one did, and in another ten minutes we were on the road again and heading towards the border town.

  It had been a long drive, with frequent interruptions, so by now it was almost midday. We were all hungry, thirsty and tired. The family stopped off at a village cafe. ‘Eat whatever you like,’ I announced. ‘I’m picking up the tab for us all.’

  I left with one of the small children, who was about six or seven, telling the rest of our group that I was going to buy him a toy, and would meet them later. We wandered through the bazaar together, where we bought what caught the boy’s eye. I was keeping a sharp eye, meanwhile, on those around me, to make sure we were not being watched or followed. Being a border town, security was very tight.

  Satisfied that things were all right, we walked to a busy street corner, where people queued for a number of telephone booths. The queue inched slowly forward. I eventually got to a booth and tried to look busy; dialling, redialling, putting more money in and talking to no one on the other end, waiting for someone to approach me, as had been arranged.

  No one came and eventually I had to put the phone down and leave, in case the length of my apparent calls attracted suspicion. We went to a nearby cafe for a tea, with sweets for my nephew. We then took another wander through the bazaar, buying souvenirs, and then returned, loaded with unwanted handmade crafts, to the booths to try my luck again.

  Again I queued, and again eventually wound up in a booth, pretending to make phone calls. Again, no one came. I left, complaining to those around me that I could not get my connection, so that it would not be thought suspicious if I turned up later.

  So, to another cafe, more sweets, more tea. My nephew was having a whale of a time. ‘Let’s go and buy some souvenirs’, I said.

  ‘But Uncle,’ he said, ‘you’ve just bought a lot. How many do you want?’

  ‘Well, I think you need some too,’ I said, trying to sound enthusiastic. ‘Let’s go and see what we can find.’ And off we went again. We must have been the bazaar’s best customers that day.

  By now it was nearly 3.30pm, and my rendezvous had been set for 1pm. I was beginning to get very edgy. Thoughts elbowed their way, uninvited, into my mind, like drunken gatecrashers. What if this was a trap? Even if it wasn’t, I might be picked up for behaving so suspiciously and sent back to Evin.

  I had not seen my family for nearly three hours. They would want to know where I was, so I would soon have to get back to them. So back we went, me and the boy laden with souvenirs. We ran across one another, as the rest of the family was driving slowly through the streets looking for us. I told them that I was expecting to meet someone, but that he hadn’t turned up. I said that I would go and look for him again, and if he couldn’t be found we would begin to make our way to the wedding. They were quite surprised, as I had not mentioned a word of this before.

  This would be my last run round the town. It was getting too dangerous to keep going over my tracks. If I did not find my contact, I would return with the family to Tehran. It was not wise to attempt to get over the border by myself. The freelance middle men who could be contacted to get you over the border could just as well lead you into a trap. Your journey over the border could turn out to be a walk into Evin. I had met enough of these unfortunate victims in prison.

  So off we went once more. Through the bazaar, collecting more souvenirs, and again by a winding, hopefully leisurely looking, route to the phone booths. By now I was despondent and nervous. It felt like all eyes were on me. Hopefully anyone on the lookout would now understand my plight in failing to connect with my fictional party on the other end of the line, or shifts had changed, and I would be a new face to the next lot.

  Kept going on hope, I queued, and again went into a booth. I wasn’t looking at what I was dialling, but instead my eyes travelled around the area, searching for someone who looked like they might be looking for me. But there was no one, and after a fruitless 10 minutes, I left the booth with the heaviest of hearts. For the last time, I took a slow walk round the 20 booths, telling myself if no one showed up, I would go straight back to Tehran.

  The circuit of the booths was almost complet
e, and I began to head off with my, by now, very frustrated young nephew in tow. He knew something unusual was going on, but couldn’t figure it out. As I passed the last phone booth, looking for some sign of recognition from the man inside, someone tapped me on the back. I felt sick. The security forces! How could I lie my way out of this? I turned.

  The man before me smiled and asked, ‘Have you finished your shopping yet?’

  A wave of relief lifted me. This was my contact’s introduction. But I had to make sure: ‘What do you mean, my shopping?’

  ‘I know I’m late’, he said apologetically, ‘I was supposed to be here at one o’clock. We don’t have much time, I’ll explain it all later.’ He told me to take my nephew back to the family and make my excuses one more time, in such a way that none of my family would become suspicious.

  This done, I was told to walk down the right-hand side of the main street, where I would be picked up by car. I handed back my confused nephew to my family – along with armfuls of bric-a-brac – and told them that I had run into an old friend, and that I was stopping with him for a few days.

  ‘Go home, and I’ll see you in Tehran soon.’

  We said ‘Goodbye’ briefly and by now the family had become suspicious. Our driver wanted to know why I was rushing off with barely a word. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘No time to explain. But you’d better leave soon.’ Which, again, did little to quieten them.

  I waved off the family car, crossed the road and walked down the right-hand side of the road. About a hundred metres down, a car pulled up, the door opened and I jumped in, turning to find myself sitting next to Ali, with whom I had made the arrangements in Tehran. I knew I was in safe hands. Still, they could see that I was tense and upset. I complained at the nerve-racking delay and the laxity of their security arrangements. Ali explained that the man who was supposed to contact me had also had to drive in and he’d had a flat tyre on the way to the rendezvous. He had been stuck without a spare and was towed back to his starting point.