by Hooman Majd
The Ayatollahs’ Democracy
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
The Ayatollah Begs to Differ
The Ayatollahs’ Democracy
An Iranian Challenge
HOOMAN MAJD
W. W. NORTON & COMPANY
New York London
Copyright © 2010 by Hooman Majd
All rights reserved
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Majd, Hooman.
The Ayatollahs’ democracy: an Iranian
challenge / Hooman Majd.—1st ed.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references.
ISBN: 978-0-393-08039-1
1. Iran—Politics and government. 2. Democracy—Iran.
3. Islam and politics—Iran. I. Title.
DS318.9.M355 2010
955.05'4—dc22
2010018481
W. W. Norton & Company, Inc.
500 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10110
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W. W. Norton & Company Ltd.
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CONTENTS
Everything Is True; Nothing Is Permitted
Dramatis Personae
Act One: Everything Is True
Entr’acte
Act Two: Nothing Is Permitted
Prologue
My Name Is Green
Democracy, Interrupted: It Takes a Thousand and One Villages (and a Mullah or Two)
Oh Yeah? Kardeem va Shod!
Where I Sat in Babylon
Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner?: Iran and America in the Age of Obama
The Good, the Bad, the Unclean
Nothing Is True; Everything Is Forbidden
Acknowledgments
EVERYTHING IS TRUE; NOTHING IS PERMITTED
There are several peculiar features about writing any detailed account of the recent political events in Persia which make necessary some slight explanation. The first point is that Persian political affairs, fraught as they are with misfortune and misery for millions of innocent people, are conducted very much as a well-staged drama—I have heard some critics say, as an opéra bouffe.
—WILLIAM MORGAN SHUSTER, The Strangling of Persia, 1912
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, 53: The President
HIS CHALLENGERS:
Mir Hossein Mousavi, 68: Prime Minister of the Islamic Republic of Iran, 1981–1989. An architect by profession, an artist, and onetime president of the Academy of Arts.
Mehdi Karroubi, 72: Mid-level liberal cleric, two-term Speaker of Parliament, and two-time presidential candidate from the National Trust Party (Hezb’e Etemaad’e Melli).
Mohsen Rezai, 55: Conservative politician and teacher, Secretary of the Expediency Discernment Council. Commander of the Revolutionary Guards, 1981–1997. Also on the official Interpol wanted list, for allegations of involvement in the 1994 bombing of the Jewish Cultural Center in Buenos Aires.
THE PRINCIPAL PLAYERS:
Supreme Leader Ayatollah Seyed Ali Khamenei, 70: The valih-e-faqih since 1989, the highest authority in the Islamic Republic.
Ayatollah Ali Akbar Hashemi Rafsanjani, 75: Speaker of Parliament, 1980–1989. President of Iran, 1989–1997. Chairman of both the Expediency Discernment Council and the Assembly of Experts, and one of the principal architects of the Islamic Revolution and Republic.
Hojjatoleslam Seyed Mohammad Khatami, 66: Two-term President of Iran, 1997–2005. Father of the reform movement and founder of the Foundation for Dialogue among Civilisations.
Ali Larijani, 51: Speaker of Parliament, Supreme Leader’s representative to the Supreme National Security Council. Son and son-in-law of two Ayatollahs, and brother of Judiciary Chief Ayatollah Sadeq Larijani. Holds a PhD in Western Philosophy, Tehran University.
ACT ONE:
Everything Is True
5:00 p.m., June 12, 2009: Mousavi Campaign Headquarters, Tehran. Mir Hossein Mousavi, President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad’s chief rival in the presidential election, has just hung up the phone. Ali Larijani, the powerful speaker of Parliament and close ally of Supreme Leader Ayatollah Khamenei, was on the line, calling to congratulate him on his victory. The polls haven’t closed yet, but the mood is jubilant, and Larijani’s call is a confirmation of what Mousavi’s aides already believe: the next president of the Islamic Republic of Iran will be their man. This despite the fact that all day they have been calling Speaker Larijani, Interior Ministry employees, and various other officials to report irregularities in the election process—everything from a shortage of ballots to their campaign workers being denied access to polling places, from a shutdown of the nation’s SMS text-messaging network (which the campaign was going to use to report in from the field, since there is no widespread mobile data service in Iran) to pro-government websites announcing a win for Ahmadinejad before any official results have been announced. There are still long lines at many polling stations and voting hours have been extended, but everyone knows there has been an unprecedented voter turnout. Mousavi cannot lose.
But how does Larijani know at this early hour? Results are trickling in to the Ministry of Information—maybe better than trickling, given that there are tens of thousands of polling stations across the country and each is responsible for only a few thousand votes, which can be counted quite easily and entered into computers on the spot, to be transmitted to Tehran electronically, or called in by phone. Larijani knows because he has access to “firsthand and classified information and news.” Really? According to a hard-line website, he most definitely had such access. And according to that same website, in its clumsy attempt to implicate Larijani in the unrest that followed, the phone call from him began the process by which Mousavi and the other losing candidates questioned the results of the election. The website, Rajanews.com, is run by one of Ahmadinejad’s strongest supporters, Fatemeh Rajabi, the wife of former archconservative government spokesperson Gholam Hossein Elham and a journalist who has personally attacked any official who has even hinted at a disagreement with the conservative administration in power. Her previously printed attacks have been full of speculation and downright falsehoods, so maybe Larijani never made the call. But curiously, Ms. Rajabi, known sometimes as Fati-ar’reh (Fati, the “Saw”) for her merciless cutting down of public figures, must not have been aware that her accusation was actually an accusation against her beloved president, for if, as she claims, Dr. Larijani made the call and had access to “firsthand and classified information,” presumably from the Ministry of Information (which would have of course provided polling figures to him had he asked), then she was confirming that Mousavi was indeed on his way to a win, a win so big that by 5:00 p.m. there was no longer any doubt about the results, even as polls remained opened. How then did President Ahmadinejad emerge the winner? The Saw, normally one who cuts to the chase, never quite answered that question.
12:00 noon, June 12, 2009: A Polling Station, Midtown Tehran. A long line of voters snakes around the corner. Some of those already in the room are casting their ballots, but the last of the blank ballots have just been handed out. “We need more ballots!” screams the young woman into the phone. “We never had enough, and now we’re already out,” she continues, speaking to an official at the Interior Ministry. Fifty-eight million ballots were printed for an election where some fifty-two million Iranians were eligible to vote, and yet at this statio
n, and others across the country, ballots are inexplicably running out. “They said they’re on their way,” the woman tells her colleagues and those waiting to cast their vote. “We’ll have to be patient.” Some leave the room, others leave the line outside, but others replace them, waiting patiently for their chance to exercise their right to vote. “If the majority doesn’t vote, the minority rules” read one poster all over Tehran in the weeks leading up to the elections, and the message must have sunk in.
4:00 p.m., June 12, 2009: The blank ballots finally arrive. “How many do we have?” asks a poll worker, as she begins handing them out. “Fifteen hundred,” replies a colleague. “That’s it? You better call now and get some more, we’re definitely going to need them.”
6:00 p.m., June 12, 2009: The last of the ballots is handed out. “I said we need more ballots!” the young woman again screams into the phone. “You only sent us fifteen hundred, and we still have a long line of people waiting to vote.” She hangs up and turns to another worker. “They said they didn’t have any more ballots. Can you believe that?” The polling station remains open, as voting hours have just been officially extended, but no more ballots will be cast at this location. A glorious election, with a turnout of over 80 percent, as the state media claims? Yes, but not all of those 80 percent were able to vote, for this polling station is one of many reporting similar problems with ballots. How do I know? My cousin’s daughter was in charge here.
4:00 p.m., June 12, 2009: The Hyatt Hotel at Grand Central Terminal, New York City. The Islamic Republic has set up polling stations across the world for Iranian expatriates, usually at Iranian embassies or consulates, but in the United States, where Iran has no diplomatic representation other than at the United Nations, a few polling places have been organized in major cities with the help of the Iranian Mission to the UN and the Iranian Interests Section at the Pakistani Embassy in Washington, D.C. The ballots are identical to those used inside Iran, and the results are to be sent to Iran by the end of the evening, by e-mail, I understand. I join a dozen or so Iranians and cast my vote, writing “Mir Hossein Mousavi” as legibly as I can in Farsi. The mood is lively, and reports from Iran, eight and a half hours ahead of our time, so far indicate only that the turnout is massive. We all have a knowing look on our faces, a sort of half-smile that indicates we know—we know that our vote, and the votes of our compatriots, will end the presidency of Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. I have been back from Tehran for only about ten days, still wearing the green silicone wristband I picked up at a Mousavi rally, and still wondering if the results, which I expect to hear the next morning, will mean a second-round runoff or an outright win for Mousavi. Given reports of the massive turnout, it appears that perhaps former president Seyed Mohammad Khatami was right when he told me, as I was leaving Tehran, not to bother if I was expecting to return for a second-round vote. “I’ll come back for the inauguration, then,” I replied. There are other Iranians mingling outside the small conference room on the mezzanine of the giant hotel, which sits atop a railroad station in midtown Manhattan, and still others coming up the escalators. A couple of camera crews, one from the Islamic Republic of Iran Broadcasting (IRIB) network, are filming the scene, a stark contrast to the one four years ago when a much smaller room was booked at the Marriott a few blocks away, and where hardly a soul showed up to vote. It’s working, I think, this Islamic “democracy.” At least those of us voting think so.
1:00 p.m., June 10, 2009: Revolutionary Guard Headquarters, Tehran. Brigadier General Yadollah Javani, head of the Guards’ Political Bureau, has issued a statement, posted on the Revolutionary Guard website. “The presence of supporters of Mir Hossein Mousavi on the streets are part of the velvet revolution,” it reads, two days before voters go to the polls. You’re kidding, right? Javani can’t think that Mousavi is seeking to overthrow the system, can he? “Using a specific color for the first time by a candidate in this election shows the start of a velvet revolution project,” it goes on. Ah, that’s it. He’s just a little worried about the whole green thing, all those kids I saw on the streets of Tehran a week ago, partying and rallying every night, all wearing green. “Any attempt at a velvet revolution will be nipped in the bud,” Javani insists. Well, since there is no velvet revolution, and he will see that on election day, this is no big deal. Javani takes his orders from his commanders, who take their orders directly from the Supreme Leader. No, no velvet revolution here, nothing to see, move along now.
11:00 p.m., June 12, 2009: Mousavi Campaign Headquarters, Tehran. Mousavi has written two letters to the Supreme Leader, which were delivered by hand. In them he asks his former boss to intervene, to do something about the massive fraud he and his campaign officials believe is being perpetuated. In the 1980s when Mousavi was prime minister, then-President Khamenei had tried to have him removed but Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini, the Supreme Leader at the time, threw his support behind his protégé Mousavi and not his own successor, Khamenei, and Mousavi remained in his post for a full eight years. (The position of prime minister was eliminated after the founder of the Islamic Republic, the first valih-e-faqih, died.) The relationship between Khamenei and Mousavi had been tenuous at best, but that was twenty years ago. Islamic democracy had many layers then, more than today. Did Khamenei still hold a grudge? Whether he did or not, Mousavi’s letters don’t have an effect. Iran’s conservative press will announce Ahmadinejad’s re-election by an overwhelming margin in the morning papers, and Mousavi is expected to fade into oblivion, once again. But he is unwilling to do so. Meetings go on through the night, with the candidate insisting that he will challenge the election results if they hold, as they are expected to do. The phone rings constantly, supporters and the press wanting to know what has happened and what will happen. No one knows, and among the tears and forlorn faces, and anguish even, only Mousavi appears resolute.
8:30 p.m., June 3, 2009: IRTV 3 Television Studios, Tehran. It’s the one everyone has been waiting for—the first live televised debate between the two front-running candidates for president in the Islamic Republic’s brief history. Mohsen Rezai has already debated Mehdi Karroubi, and all four candidates will debate each other over the next few days, but this is the one, the debate that will give us the opportunity to see the two men most likely to be Iran’s next president duke it out. It’s an American-style campaign debate; no holds barred, and to the winner, if there is a clear one, will probably go the spoils. There are at least four IRIB cameras: one facing each candidate; one stationary for a wide shot of the two men and the moderator, seated between them at a round table; and one overhead, which zooms in every now and then for dramatic effect. Clearly visible by Ahmadinejad’s left hand is a stack of manila file folders; Mousavi glanced at them as he walked in to take his seat. One of them has his wife’s name, Zahra Rahnavard, on it.
Ahmadinejad begins his allocated ten-minute introduction presenting himself as a victim. He is not running against Mousavi, he claims, but against three men—Rafsanjani, Mousavi, and Khatami, two former two-term presidents and a prime minister—and three administrations. Ayatollah Ali Akbar Hashemi Rafsanjani is their leader, he claims, and had long ago formed a cabal to keep power in the hands of the few and away from pious, hardworking, incorruptible people like himself. It is business as usual for the president, to always portray Rafsanjani, his family, and his allies as corrupt politicians out to get him, Mahmoud, the savior of the ordinary Iranian. If one of the basic precepts of democracy, and Iranians understand democracy, is equal access to power, then Ahmadinejad is accusing Mousavi and his cohorts of being anti-democratic, for they want to deny power to anyone but themselves, he claims. They have ganged up on him from the very start of his presidency, he cries, and they are now mounting vicious attacks on him. It’s a message that resonates with his audience and with his supporters, perhaps even with some Iranians more ambivalent about his presidency. Ahmadinejad, like the Glenn Becks and Sarah Palins of America, appeals to every Iranian who is either envious or contemptu
ous (or both) of the highly educated elite—Iranians who believe themselves entitled to govern over the masses of less educated and less sophisticated people. “A worthless, torn piece of paper,” Ahmadinejad had once said of a college degree, when one of his ministers was accused of forging his. Economic theory was just that to Ahmadinejad—theory—and a regular guy could do as good a job with the economy of the country as could a professor, because, after all, regular guys understood regular problems.
Mousavi speaks in his slow, deliberate, even boring way, but he methodically counters every Ahmadinejad accusation. One wonders if it is having any effect, this professorial tone of his. He accuses Ahmadinejad of mismanaging the economy, hinting that regular guys might not, in fact, have all the answers. Gee, but does Mousavi have to be boring? Well, this debate isn’t going to be, not by a long shot, and not if Ahmadinejad, hardly someone to be accused of being boring, has his way.
We don’t have to wait too long for the excitement to begin, the moment when Ahmadinejad starts waving Zahra Rahnavard’s file in the air, Stasi-style. Wait, what is this? Debates are unusual in Iranian politics, but this is going way beyond what anyone could have imagined. From the expression on his face, Mousavi is clearly pissed, and the television audience is riveted. Is it a sign of desperation on Ahmadinejad’s part? Zahra hides no secrets—a rumor had been making the rounds of Tehran salons that she donned miniskirts when she was a college student, before the revolution; perhaps the file contains the photographs to prove it? A week before at her office she had readily admitted as much to me though, so who would really care? After all, she chose, she said, to adopt the hijab, also before the revolution. It’s a choice, she emphasized, and her personal belief is that the government should not be in the business of mandating clothing laws, although she also emphasized that it is not within a president’s mandate to change those laws. She said all this quite freely, so what does Ahmadinejad’s file contain, other than photos of a young Zahra mal-veiled? It is a weak moment for Ahmadinejad, even among his staunch supporters. No one likes files kept on them—no one, not even in the Islamic Republic.