Screaming Eagles

by Michael Lawrence Kahn

  I know that we will meet again. Where or when, I’m not sure, but his father and I have a bond of blood. The bond had now been transferred to Dara’s son. When the time is right and our karma ordains it, we will surely meet.

  Looking down at the card, Dara’s son glances at the name, pockets it, and walks to his father’s body.

  * * *

  Sitting in his Jeep, Sadegh sees the boy take Jay’s card. His eyes narrow and he makes a mental note to look into it later. The sergeant appears in front of him. Distracted, Sadegh returns his salute. “Do not cancel the high alert, but keep your men here until all spectators have left. Leave everyone on the roofs. I do not want any demonstrations. None, do you understand?”

  “Yes, General. No demonstrations.”

  * * *

  The boy’s dignity and courage haunt me, as does Dara’s execution and my inability to rescue him. I do not contact Sadegh again and on the few occasions that we bump into each other at social events, we greet each other with just the correct amount of formality and politeness.

  * * *

  One night, seven months later, the boy appears at my door. He takes out my business card, “Mr. Reilly, sir, my name is Jalal. You stood by my side when they killed my father.”

  Before he can say anything else, I pull him inside and give him a bear hug, lifting him off his feet and swinging him around, crushing him into my chest and cupping my hand behind his head, “Welcome, welcome to my home, Jalal. You honor me by coming here. I have waited a long, long time for this day. I knew one day you would come to me, one day you would find me. With all my heart, I welcome you, Jalal. Know that you will always have a private place in my heart. Your father was one of the finest men I have ever met, and again I say, you honor me greatly by coming here.”

  Jalal, who is actually fourteen, will live with me while he attends school. Jalal never speaks about his father, his family, or about the hanging. It is topic untouched, always in the background, a dark cloud, but it is not intrusive to our relationship. His family is a closed door, a barrier between us. I am excluded, locked out. It is the way of the mountain people, and I understand. Years ago, when I lived in Dara’s village for a few weeks, Dara had taught me to be patient when dealing with his people. I understand the importance of not prying, or trying to force an issue. Dara readily acknowledged theirs was a closed society. His culture had ground rules about when topics of importance could be discussed, and the intricacies of how to discuss.

  I have to wait him out. Jalal has to initiate the conversation, but he never does. If I try to, it will be considered not only rude, but discourteous and a blow to our friendship and my loss of face would be great.

  The Shah played power politics every few years, dangling independence to the twenty million Kurds, knowing Iraq would never agree. What I knew was that his family had been expelled when Iraq decided to carve a security zone along the Iranian border. When the West complained, Iraq said that the relocation of two hundred thousand Kurds was only a communal program to preserve the grazing land for cattle. The West soon forgot about the relocation. The UN conveniently left it off any agenda. The Kurds couldn’t, because thousands of them died from starvation in the mountains. The Kurds could never be anything but pawns. Iran knew it, so did Iraq, and so too do the Kurds.

  Only Jalal doesn’t believe that. He studies hard and is a straight A student. He reads anything he can get his hands on. He is tutored daily in English, and we soon begin to speak in that language, switching to Farsi when necessary. Jalal plans to educate himself into the twenty-first century. I have no doubt he will one day be a leader of his people.

  Obviously he isn’t in Iran by chance. He is here to learn as much as he can about Iran and the Iranians. I wonder how many other Kurds are learning about their enemies in the same fashion. Jalal never tells me where he goes after school, or whom he meets. I have never asked.

  I am sure Jalal knows how his father and I had met. His mother must have told him how I had saved Dara’s life, yet Jalal shied away from any personal questions, or observations about my mission in his village or my connection to his father. Most importantly, he never asked me why I had been at the hanging, even though I planned to explain Sadegh’s relationship.

  CHAPTER THREE

  30th December 1978

  The 707 touched down at Merhabad Airport. Two cars with American security guards, machine guns pointing out of all four windows, flank the plane as it taxied along the runway. For security reasons, Pan Am planes are directed to the farthest end of the terminal. Today, there are five passengers.

  These five Americans have urgent reasons to return to Iran. I am one of the five. The dozens of clever ones have already liquidated their assets and left a long time ago. This is my last chance. If I can’t get my money and sell my properties, I will be broke, flat, flat broke.

  I decided that this would be my last trip here for a while. I still cling to the hope that against all odds, the Shah will somehow soon regain power.

  Kameran Samimi, my business partner, called Chicago three days ago. He and Fardiba, his wife, are in Shiraz, five hundred kilometers north of Teheran, as their daughter is expecting their first grandchild. Kameran informed me he would not be in Teheran for at least a week.

  The 707 will be returning to Chicago two hours after refueling. Its normal passenger load is 119. Against I.A.T.A. rules, Pan Am will be returning with about 175 people, mainly women and children. Each adult allowed one suitcase, none for the children. No food or drink will be served on the flight, so each person is allowed one plastic bag of food. Small children have to sit on their parent’s laps with a seat belt around both of them.

  All armrests are raised to allow for more space. The American government has repeatedly requested permission to send large 747s so that they can fly out all of our nationals within a 24-hour period. Iran has refused, allowing only the 707s to land once a day, continuing to maintain a semblance of normalcy to the outside world.

  The plane comes to a halt; the door swings open. A man comes up the stairs, asks each passenger his name and makes notes on a clipboard. He is in his mid-twenties, probably an American paratrooper in civilian clothes. He speaks to us.

  “Unless your reason for being here is absolutely and unquestionably necessary, the American government strongly suggests that you stay on board. Teheran is, for all intents and purposes, in a state of civil war. Martial law has been declared. The curfew is from 8 p.m. to 6 a.m. Civilians of all nationalities have been ambushed. Many have been shot or killed in crossfire. Hospitals are overflowing with the injured. We cannot guarantee your safety.”

  He continued. “If you insist on disembarking, take my card. It has a 24-hour direct line to the American Embassy. We can do very little for you, but if you can make it to the embassy, we will try to protect you for as long as we can. It is better if you stay on board. Go back home, Tehran is a war zone.”

  No one says that he will stay on board. All of us are desperate men, desperate to survive. I cannot run away from possible death. In our hearts, knowingly and with deliberation, all of us have returned to hell. Each of us has waited too long. Each in our own way has misread the signs of the impending disaster.

  Losing all of our money is another kind of death. The paratrooper gives us a justification to stay on the plane. His warning gives us a chance to return to our families with honor and not be accused of cowardice.

  The paratrooper turns and leads us down the steps. I put his card into my wallet. Eight men with guns are facing away from us, looking warily at the terminal. They are dressed in civilian clothes, a small American army guarding an American plane and its five passengers.

  The paratrooper says, “The workers are on strike. You will have to unload your own suitcases.”

  “I don’t have a suitcase. I have only a briefcase,” I say in a low voice.

  “Okay, follow me. How come no luggage?”

  “I live in Chicago and also have an apartment here. I have cl
othes in both places. It makes life easier.”

  The other passengers walk toward the security guards, who instruct them how to unload their luggage. I walk beside the paratrooper. Even in his civilian clothes, the paratrooper looks tough and dangerous. He exudes self-confidence in the way he holds himself. For him, Teheran is no different than walking into Beirut or Cali.

  The paratrooper speaks into his walkie-talkie. “Entering terminal, one passenger, no luggage, briefcase only.”

  “Where are the Iranian soldiers who used to be here?”

  “Guarding Pan Am is now considered nonessential. We do all of our own security now. I leave you here. When are you returning to Chicago?”

  “Don’t know. Will have to see what happens to my business. I’ll buy a ticket when I know I’m leaving.”

  “Good luck, man. Take care.”

  He walks away, looking in each direction and murmuring into his walkie-talkie. I don’t even know his name.

  I show my passport to immigration and walk past immobile luggage carousels that look like huge hybernating metal snakes. Car rental kiosks, lost luggage, hotel accommodation booths and limousine tour booths, all stand silent. Some are boarded up, quiet sentinels watching over a graveyard.

  Nothing moves in the terminal. This area, built only a few years ago, used to serve five times as many travelers than designed for, always frantic, bustling and chaotic. It is now ominously quiet. The silence is dark and eerily oppressive.

  My shoes echo loudly, with a cracking sound similar to a sniper firing unhurriedly, methodically, deadly. The echo follows me as I make my way to an exit.

  Outside, I search for a taxi. A huge crowd of people, shouting and pushing, are trying to enter the departure area. Taxis, cars, and buses arrive, continuously unloading large groups of men, women, and children. Everyone is dragging suitcases, trunks, and boxes. Some have rolled-up carpets. All the women are wearing chadors, the long black veils covering their bodies from head to foot.

  When I’d left three weeks ago, things were tense. Many people were leaving, but it had been nothing like this. At least a hundred people must be try to get into the airport. I wonder if the Shah is still in control.

  On the trip from the airport, I notice subtle and not so subtle changes. In shop windows, pictures of the Shah have always been obligatory. Now I see only a few. Billboards on the side of the road proclaiming the Shah’s magnificence, wisdom, and kindness have been defaced with graffiti.

  Signs declaring “Death to the Shah,” “Khomeini the Just,” “Khomeini, Son of God,” “Khomeini our Leader, Imam Khomeini,” are written boldly on walls, tied onto lampposts, hanging from branches of trees. Pictures of Khomeini are also nailed to trees, and somehow attached to rocks, viaducts, and bridges.

  The taxi driver, surprised and delighted to have found not only a fare from the airport, but also a foreigner who can speak Farsi, boasted his joy at the revolution which is happening in his country.

  “Soon, Agha, sir, you will see the coming of Messiah, the new age our Koran has foretold. With Khomeini, blessed be his name, as our great revered leader, Iran, Islam, and Sharia law will challenge imperialist America and Russia for leadership of all peoples. First, though, the scourge, the cancer, has to be forcibly cleansed, disposed of, eliminated, never again will the stink of Shah’s devil, blaspheming regime of bloodsuckers, soil or pollute our beautiful, glorious, magnificent country.”

  He gestures animatedly, alternating smiling and frowning. He watches me closely in the mirror, sometimes turning around to emphasize a point. My professed support of the driver’s views ensure that I won’t be killed and dumped in some alley with a slogan pinned to my body. Also, I need to find out when the driver thinks Khomeini will arrive. I ask him.

  “Soon, Agha. Very, very soon.”

  “What about the curfew?”

  “Stupid,” hisses the driver. “Only a crazy man can believe that stopping us from coming out into the streets at night, he can stop our unstoppable revolution. The Shah is like a little child. He thinks that if he puts a blanket over his head, the men he is afraid of will go away. The only thing that happens during curfew is that there are no prostitutes on the street. No man can make love to his sweetheart, then go back to his wife later that night. Restaurants, hotels, entertainment places, movies and shops close at six o’clock so that workers can get home before the stupid eight o’clock curfew. After eight o’clock, there are no doctors or ambulances available. If a person gets sick, we have to wait until morning. If we cannot wait, we die. Insha Allah, God is Great.”

  I realize I will have to learn to adapt to this new Iran, this new freedom that allows taxi drivers to denounce the Shah. Is this new era the end of the Iran that I have lived in? I am shaken by the driver’s overt confidence and his willingness to boast of a revolution about to explode to a complete stranger. What if I had been working for SAVAK, the secret police? Where are the fear and suspicion that have been a way of life for the average Iranian?

  A tremor of fear passes through my body. I have no idea what will be waiting for me. Will I be able to function or cope in this new society? A society that allows taxi drivers to openly call for the overthrow of their government to all who take a cab ride on a Sunday afternoon from the airport? No Arab country anywhere allows taxi drivers, students, opposition politicians, or anyone else, to speak in the manner of this driver. The more confidence the man exudes, the greater is the certainty that the Shah is about to be overthrown.

  Driving past the huge, strikingly beautiful Shah Yad monument, the driver spits out the window. “That monument’s name will be changed to Asadi, freedom. Just wait, Agha.”

  The driver drops me at my apartment in Yusef-A-Bad. I over-tip him, as I don’t want any arguments. I need him to think well of me. After all, I am a hated foreigner in that man’s country.

  Just a few short weeks before, I had been well liked and welcomed. Now I am considered the enemy, whose support keeps the Shah in power.

  Walking across the small bridge that leads to my front door across the channel that runs between the road and my apartment building, I smell the foulness of the joub, the city’s open drain system. As usual, it stinks. Teheran, built on the side of a mountain that winds down the mountainside alongside each road. Everything and anything is thrown into the joub. When it rains or snows, the filth floating down the mountain does not stink so badly. Sometimes I can even open my windows that overlook the city. They are kept tightly closed and in the middle of summer, air fresheners are hung behind the curtains.

  Weeks ago, I’d noticed for the first time hands cut off at the wrists floating in the joub, some without fingers, nearly all without fingernails. So far, no hands are floating in the water.

  Pinned to the outside of my door, a piece of brown paper flutters in the breeze. Putting my briefcase down, I pull out the pin, smooth the paper, and read: “Foreigner, traitor, son of the great Satan, you have twenty-four hours to leave our country or we will kill you. You are warned.”

  Someone will be watching so I don’t look around. Instead, I insert the key in the lock, still holding the paper that is my death sentence, pick up my briefcase, and enter the apartment, slowly closing the door behind me.

  I didn’t know how long I stand there trying to ignore thoughts of death. I begin playing mind games with myself. Should I abandon everything and run? I am helpless. Dozens of plans form in my mind of what I can do. Dismiss them all. A note on my door is a warning. Rather than blow up buildings and lose valuable structures, local “committees” always give owners of the building one warning. Generally, no second note or warning will appear. I have no idea if the note was placed today or days ago. One of the neighbors will be watching and reporting that I am back to the committee that now owns the area that I live in.

  The committees are street gangs, no different to New York, or Los Angeles, only here the gangs are religious fanatics wanting to rid their country of foreigners, not drug lords.

  At
most, I have twenty-four hours, one more day in Teheran. It will be impossible to sell my properties, business, cars, and furniture in that short time.

  Two weeks ago, while I was in Chicago, my business partner Kameran informed me that Bank Saderat had been blown up. Dardashti, the manager, and twenty-six of his assistants were killed.

  The bank’s affairs were now being run by the government-owned bank called Bank Melli. It had taken over Saderat’s accounts, and never having dealt with Bank Melli, I had no idea whom to contact there. I need to withdraw all of my money, about $600,000. I’ll go to the bank first thing in the morning on my way to the airport. I will have to get there early in case there is a crowd.

  I’ll take all legal documents of ownership to my apartment and office buildings with me to Chicago, for I cannot sell anything with this chaos surrounding me. I will lock up the apartment, fly out, wait a few weeks, and then return. I know I’ll need to fine tune as I go along tomorrow, but at least I’ve made some decisions.

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, I walk to a supermarket a few blocks away, along streets I’ve used for years. The street is crowded. Everyone is hurrying. Women in black chadors are everywhere; they seem to have taken over the streets. Usually groups of men stand talking, their fingers busily counting prayer beads, reading, smoking, or eating. Today, the street is different; it doesn’t feel the same. Its atmosphere is fractured. I know I don’t belong here anymore. It is filled with different people—chador-clad, sullen, unfriendly, suspicious people.

  Returning from the supermarket with a bag of fruit, I walk quickly. A young woman runs past me, knocking my arm. I nearly drop the bag. Instinctively, start to say something, to shout a curse, but in time check myself. I’ve got to be careful, must not attract unnecessary attention. She is too far away anyway. I am surprised that she is not wearing a chador.