Sanctuary

by Judy Nunn

  The government’s response was to send in baton-wielding riot police on motorbikes to break up the Green Movement demonstrations. Then followed armed security forces. Shots were fired into mass groups of protesters, many of whom suffered bullet wounds, but who knew how many were dead? The Huffington Post reported ‘thirty-two deaths to date’, but the true number was not determined and never would be. The government censored any form of media supporting the opposition, so how could anyone possibly know?

  One death that was recorded, and which became news internationally, was that of Mousavi’s nephew, Seyed Ali. At a demonstration in late December, Ali Mousavi was shot in the back by security forces. Following his death, protestors gathered outside Ebn-e Sina Hospital, where his body had been taken. They were quickly dispersed with the use of tear gas, after which the government transported the body to an undisclosed location in order to avoid further protests.

  In a BBC interview, the official spokesman of Mousavi’s campaign abroad revealed that Iranian secret police had called Seyed Ali Mousavi a number of times, saying, ‘We will kill you,’ and that these calls had taken place only days before he was shot.

  The death of Mousavi’s activist nephew understandably angered the many hundreds of thousands of campaign supporters, but despite their outrage the green revolution appeared doomed.

  Until the Arab Spring.

  Following the revolutions in Tunisia, Libya and Egypt, Mousavi and his fellow opposition leaders called for demonstrations to take place on 14 February 2011. Their followers eagerly turned up, and the mass outbreak of Green Movement rallies that day was the largest to take place in Iran for over a year. It seemed to the faithful that perhaps their dream of reformation was still attainable, but their hopes were short-lived. The demonstrations were declared illegal, and pro-government MPs called for the death of Mousavi. However, perhaps fearing the worldwide condemnation that would follow the execution of one so prominent, it was decided instead that Mousavi and his wife were to be placed under house arrest for an indeterminate period.

  The dream was over.

  The Mullahs’ medieval regime was once again in full power, its murderous practices unquestioned by the populace. Or so it would appear. But there remained those brave souls who continued to choose martyrdom over submission. Those who openly maintained their support for the principal opposition group, the People’s Mojahedin Organisation of Iran. Those who spoke out against the abuse of human rights – the stoning of women, the public floggings, the gouging of eyes, the amputation of body parts, the mass public hangings – all punishments wrought upon citizens who, either deliberately or inadvertently, disobeyed Islamic rule. The PMOI activists who dared defy the government and openly decry such atrocities continued to suffer unspeakable torture at the hands of the regime. Locked away in Tehran’s notorious Evin Prison, declared mohareb – ‘enemy of God’ – the acts perpetrated upon them, sometimes over a period of many months and sometimes over a period of many years, were indescribable. Escape was attained only through the final and inevitable event of their hanging, an act for which they had no doubt prayed daily. The hangings took place privately, behind prison walls, in order to avoid any public advertisement of their martyrdom, and even in death these heroic men and women were not returned to their loved ones for burial unless the required ‘blood money’ was paid. If relatives did not have the necessary funds, the body was not released to the family, but ignominiously disposed of by the prison authorities.

  Massoud and his fellow students were aware of these barbaric practices, just as they were aware of the methodology adopted by the Ministry of Intelligence. Secret police abounded undercover, plain-clothes spies mingling throughout the community, ready to pounce on any suspected of political leanings. The students knew also that they were particularly targeted. Youth and intellectualism formed a dangerous combination for the regime, as it had historically to any dictatorship.

  None of this prevented the young activists from developing their own form of rebellion, the ever-present threat of discovery simply driving them underground. Recognising the need for stealth, they exercised caution at all times. Through the use of Facebook, YouTube and Twitter, the bold ones launched a digital campaign, careful always to stay one step ahead, changing identities, protecting their anonymity. Others held secret meetings with those whom they knew they could trust, passing the word on, keeping the hope for change alive.

  The less bold, too, had their way of rebelling. Their statements were made a little more safely, it was true, but even so they were definite statements. Given the fact that the wearing of black in mourning for a relative who had been killed by the regime, or even to be seen crying in public over the death of such a relative, was viewed as insubordination and proof of revolutionary leanings, it was imperative everything, even human sentiment, remain hidden. No one dared display any sign that could be interpreted as disobedience. But many youthful Iranians, and most particularly students, while appearing to observe convention, made silent protests. A young man might have a hidden tattoo on his body; a young woman might colour her hair or wear jewellery and makeup beneath her veil. Such actions were rebellious and, shared between like-minded youth, created a bond of defiance.

  Of the committed university activists, and there were many, a medical student called Ali Hashimi was without doubt the most reckless. Ali was not only involved on all fronts – the digital campaign, the movement’s secret meetings and the recruitment of new members – Ali brazenly wore an earring. Through his pierced left earlobe was a hoop of silver. Modest in size and dull of colour, it was not particularly ostentatious, but it was a declaration nonetheless, a very distinct declaration of who he was. Ali, although discreet enough in the conducting of his private life, was homosexual, and the earring signalled his right to be so.

  Ali Hashimi was charismatic. A handsome young man, tall and well built, with an aura of authority and passionate beliefs, he was a born leader. He’d been in the third year of his medical course when Massoud had joined the university and from their first meeting, at a protest rally following the presidential election, Massoud had been lost in admiration. Ali himself had quickly registered a kindred spirit in the young student from Qom, and by the time Massoud had moved on to the second year of his arts course, by then majoring in linguistics, the two had become lovers.

  For nineteen-year-old Massoud, the long-awaited recognition and expression of his sexuality had been an overwhelming relief, not only physically, but also psychologically, which was perhaps of even greater importance. At last he could share the truth with another. No longer must he bear alone the secret that would shame his family and alienate him from society. Not unsurprisingly, his newfound liberation had a profound effect on him. The hero worship he’d instinctively felt for Ali upon their first meeting and which had further developed over the months of their friendship suddenly became something much greater. Aware that his feelings were now quite different from the boyhood crushes and sexual fantasies of the past, Massoud was forced to admit he was in love, a fact that he kept very much to himself.

  Ali Hashimi’s defiance, or bravery, or, as some might have maintained, his downright foolhardiness appeared to know no bounds. His commitment to human justice did not stop with the Green Movement’s pro-democratic campaign: he was also a gay rights activist. In a country where the slightest hint of homosexuality could mean torture or death, or most likely both, the gay rights group he led operated in a highly clandestine manner. Their campaign was conducted mainly via the internet, with discussions and articles about discrimination and persecution, the contributors always using false identities, but Ali believed also in human contact. He believed very much in assisting others to abandon the burden of guilt they’d been shouldering for years and ‘come out’. Homosexuality was not a sin, he would tell them at the group’s secret meetings. They must be true to themselves, and accept their sexual orientation.

  ‘Fuck the government,’ he’d declare, ‘whatever they say it’s
no crime to be gay.’ Then he’d add with that devilish grin of his, ‘But always take care not to flaunt yourself, and stay well clear of the police.’

  Sadly, for Massoud anyway, there was just one problem with Ali’s charisma. Everyone fell in love with him. And Ali was not always able to resist temptation. It was less than a year before Massoud was forced to accept the fact that Ali was not cut out to be a faithful partner – though of course he had never pretended he was. This inescapable reality did little to quell Massoud’s love, and nor did it lessen his admiration for the man. He merely accepted, albeit with reluctance, that their relationship had changed. He and Ali Hashimi were no longer lovers; they were good friends with mutual humanitarian and social ideals, and that would have to be enough.

  It was. The two continued to work well together on their many causes, including gay rights, and Massoud concentrated upon his studies, which had been sorely neglected while he’d been so besotted.

  Over the passing of time, he was careful to hide his feelings whenever Ali embarked upon a fresh affair with a new adoring acolyte, although by now he recognised the fact that Ali basked in adoration and that he had simply been one in a long line of admirers. So what, he chastised himself, that’s Ali, he can’t help being who he is. But Massoud worried nonetheless – Ali was becoming careless. Heed your own advice, my friend, he thought. ‘Always take care not to flaunt yourself,’ remember? You’re flirting with danger, Ali. Please, please do take care.

  Massoud was right to worry about Ali Hashimi. The inevitable happened one early afternoon in June 2013, and when the news was relayed to the members of the gay rights group, the reaction following their initial dismay was not surprise. In fact, many wondered how he’d got away with all he had for so long. They had always admired his audacity and they would revere his memory, but Ali’s death had been a tragedy destined to happen. It was even, they agreed, as if he’d been seeking martyrdom.

  Perhaps he had, Massoud thought, leaving the others who were in deep discussion about the fact. He had no desire to dissect Ali’s death with them, but was unable to control his own views on the subject. Perhaps Ali had wished his death to be a symbol of all he had fought, of the barbaric treatment suffered by those of his kind in Iran. But would he have wished such an end for Reza, his young lover? No, Massoud thought, he would never have wished this hideous death upon Reza, he would have faced his tormentors on his own. It was Ali’s carelessness that had led to the death of his lover.

  Massoud’s assessment was close to the truth, carelessness had certainly played a part, but it was actually Ali’s earring that had led to the death of his lover.

  Ali Hashimi and his young companion, Reza Baghar, a second-year university student, had been set upon by four thugs in a busy city street in the middle of the day. The ‘thugs’ were in fact plain-clothes policemen who had been ordered to make an example of ‘the one with the earring’. Ali, now Dr Ali Hashimi and serving his internship at Tehran Hospital, had been under recent surveillance by the secret police. They had no concrete proof, it was true, but he was suspected of being a political agitator, and also a homosexual. The earring, an obvious badge of his depravity, made him easily identifiable to those obeying orders from the Ministry of Intelligence.

  The two young men had been bludgeoned with clubs and then dragged to the rooftop of a nearby four-storey building block from where, nooses around necks, they had been flung over the side and crudely hanged. The police had decided to include the younger man simply because, as he was in the company of the homosexual with the earring, it was only to be presumed that he, too, was a homosexual. An example could therefore be made of the two. They would be left dangling from the building, where their bodies would serve as a warning to other sexual deviants, and to any sympathisers or family members who might harbour such degenerates.

  Things went according to plan with Reza Baghar’s execution, although his end was not quick. Barely nineteen years of age and a slightly built young man, Reza suffocated to death, his body kicking and jerking on the end of the rope. When it was finally over, he was left successfully dangling there to serve the intended warning.

  Ali’s death was much quicker, though not as successful in its purpose. Ali Hashimi was a bigger man than his companion, taller, more muscular and heavier of build. Thrown from the roof as he was with such vigour, having put up a fight until the bitter end, the snap of the rope broke his neck certainly, but with such force he was decapitated. Body and head fell separately to the pavement below, and only the rope was left dangling.

  Following Ali’s death, the gay rights group he’d led quickly disintegrated, perhaps through fear, perhaps through lack of leadership, but only Massoud and two other loyal stalwarts remained to carry on the fight.

  Massoud himself assumed the mantle of leader, determined that his friend’s death must serve a purpose. If Ali had chosen the path of martyrdom then the world should know the gruesome facts. The rest of humanity must be informed that this was the level of persecution suffered by Iran’s homosexual population.

  Pictures had been taken of the bodies, pictures naturally for publication only within Iran; like all public tortures and hangings and mutilations, such images were intended as a lesson to those who disobeyed the regime.

  Flaunting the government’s strict censorship laws, Massoud wrote a detailed account of the event and he and his two colleagues posted it with the pictures on the internet, ensuring they reached a far wider audience.

  The article and its accompanying images created a furore. True, the pictures themselves were quickly removed, considered too gruesome for general viewing, but the story about the hideous murders of the two young Iranians, purely upon the grounds of their homosexuality, was widely read on the net and appeared in newspapers throughout the Western world. People were appalled. Average people in the street. Americans, English, Australians – they’d had no idea this was going on.

  Massoud was gratified. It won’t change things of course, he thought with resignation, the atrocities will continue. But perhaps Ali’s and poor young Reza’s deaths have served a purpose after all. They’ve certainly set the world talking.

  With the international publishing of the story, the gay rights group disbanded altogether, quickly destroying any evidence that might lead to them. The Ministry of Intelligence was after blood and there were undercover spies everywhere. Ali Hashimi was known to have been a recent graduate of Tehran University, so they would all be under investigation.

  Massoud completed his Master’s degree later that same year and left university, returning to the comparative safety of Qom and his family. But he still feared the police would come after him. There were many at the university who would recall his friendship with Ali. If hard-pressed enough, there would be fingers pointed in his direction. And who could blame them? Everyone had their breaking point.

  He’d admitted his concerns to his mother, who knew of his activism, and that’s when she had told him in no uncertain terms that he must leave Iran, and that he must never return.

  ‘If they do not kill you for the stand you take, my son,’ she had said, ‘they will kill you for who you are.’

  Massoud took his mother’s advice, but he did not cross the border into Iraq as many Iranian dissidents had done in the past. The situation there had become too dangerous. ISIS was increasingly targeting those known activists housed in the Iraqi refugee camps; the regime and ISIS had a great deal in common. Iraq was no longer safe for the likes of Massoud Ahmadi.

  He headed south instead, to another world altogether. He’d been informed by fellow activists that visitors’ visas from Iran into Thailand were relatively easy to acquire. A flaw in the system, perhaps? Thankful to discover they were right, he flew to Bangkok.

  Shortly after his arrival, he settled into a small apartment not far from Sukhumvit Road, the city’s main commercial street. He advertised in a local Arabic paper and steadily gained employment teaching English from home.

  Work was
slow to start with, but word soon spread and he found himself becoming quite selective in his choice of pupils. The children and wives of wealthy Middle Eastern businessmen who’d settled in Bangkok; overseas students who wanted to get ahead with extra tuition and whose parents were willing to pay the price: within a year or so Massoud was doing very well for himself. But he wasn’t particularly happy. A stranger in this city, he didn’t feel he belonged.

  He made several new friends, particularly amongst his students, and even had a casual affair with a local young man. Sirawit worked as an assistant concierge at the Sheraton Grande Hotel and was keen to improve his English in order to move up in the ranks of the hospitality industry. It was Sirawit who introduced Massoud to the city’s gay bars, which he initially found most confronting.

  How can people expose themselves publicly in such a way? he’d wondered as he’d sat at the Balcony Bar in Soi 4, Silom, watching two men standing affectionately together, their arms around each other. Sirawit had been quick to assure him there was no public condemnation of such behaviour.

  ‘Thai people is good people, Massoud,’ he had said in his broken English. ‘Gay, straight, here no matter. Thai people is …’ He struggled for the word.

  ‘Tolerant?’ Massoud suggested.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Sirawit smiled happily, ‘tolerant. Is good word, tolerant. In Thailand you be who you want. People no care.’

  Massoud welcomed the news, but the gay nightclubs and dance venues Sirawit favoured in Soi 2, the more salacious area of Silom, remained altogether too confronting for him. He had no wish to pick up strangers for sex, nor to be approached himself.

  However, when his affair with Sirawit ended, as it was destined to, Massoud found himself still visiting the occasional gay bar. Why? He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t seeking an affair. But it was there he met the Australian. And it was the Australian who, within just two short weeks, changed the course of his life.

  Stanley Pearce was thirty years old and a typical Aussie. At least he appeared to Massoud everything one would expect a typical Aussie to be. Not that Massoud had been aware of the term itself – ‘Aussie’ was an expression he learnt from Stan during their brief time together. But had he given the matter any thought, he would probably have expected all Australian men to look like this – tall, lean, sun-bleached sandy hair, piercing blue eyes, rather like the surfie images one saw on the internet.