by REZA KAHLILI
“God, I admit I am helpless and am begging you for guidance, as you represent true love and justice and I believe in you and your power.”
I folded my sajadeh and put it away. Then I went back to my desk, opened the drawer, and reached for Roya’s letter, hidden with an old picture of Naser and me posing next to Davood and Agha Joon. I stared at the picture, unfolded Roya’s letter, put the picture inside it, and put it back in the drawer.
As I closed the drawer, a thought came to my mind that I’d never considered before. God had clearly put it there as an answer to my prayers. I realized with sudden clarity that there was only one thing I could do to honor the spirit of my lost friends and all of the other innocent victims. I needed to go back to America, to the one other place I’d ever called home. America was one of only two true superpowers in the world, and I was convinced that Americans didn’t really know what was happening inside of Iran—and that if they did, they would do what they could to free us. Someone needed to tell them about the atrocities.
I was that someone. I believed this now with every fiber of my being and I needed to act on it.
Feeling emboldened and feeling that I had to set things straight with the people I loved, I decided to make two visits I’d put off for too long. The first was to Davood, whom I had not seen since I dropped him off after our ill-fated trip to Evin Prison. On the way back that day, he barely spoke. But as he got out of the car, he turned his face away from me and stared into the distance. In a broken voice he said, “How can you wear the uniform of such a murderous regime, Reza?” He left without another word.
That question left a scar on my heart, a scar that grew more livid as I came to understand that I had no acceptable answer for it.
Mahin khanoom, Naser’s mother, opened the door for me when I arrived at the house. She was barefoot and dressed in black and she looked much older than her age. She showed me no sign of recognition, though when I asked her permission to enter and see Davood, she took me to his room.
Davood was lying on his bed. The lines on his face were deeper, longer, and more defined; his gray hair drooped over his forehead to one side. When he tried to smile to be polite, I could see that the effort nearly overwhelmed him. Had he forgotten how? Or did he now think of me as one of the enemy?
I bent toward him and kissed his wrinkled, warm, and fatherly hand. “Davood jon, I am here for your forgiveness. …” I was not sure if he was listening to me. He stared at a wall in front of him. But whether he was or not, I needed to tell him how I felt. “I am so deeply sorry. I wish I could change everything. I wish I could carry all your pain. I wish I had the power to bring back the peace you and your wife deserve. I wish I could bring back your children. Davood, I am not happy with who I have become. I am not happy with what has happened to us. Please forgive me, pedar jon, if I caused any pain to you. I am sorry, Davood jon. You are like my own father and I can’t see you like this.”
He hadn’t looked directly at me to this point, but when I spoke to him, calling him “dear father,” something he would never again hear from his own children, he turned slowly and made eye contact through his tears. His expression warmed. He put his hand over mine, tightly clasping it. As his sleepy brown eyes fixed onto mine, I felt the blessing under his fatherly touch. He then closed his eyes and, with a tender smile, fell asleep.
Davood died two days after my visit, his heart unable to bear the burden of so much grief.
A rage brewed inside me. I couldn’t tell Davood that I was going to use the uniform he despised to avenge his son’s unjust death in prison. I couldn’t tell him that with this uniform I was going to burn and bury Parvaneh’s filthy murderers. His death was another sign from God that my mission was necessary. I needed to save other fathers from the misery that had killed Davood.
With new resolve, I approached Kazem, intent on involving him in helping me. I was going to give him a problem, and let him come up with the solution. Agha Joon had told me that doctors had diagnosed my aunt Giti with Parkinson’s disease, and that he wished a family member could attend to her during this difficult time. I now realized that I could use this event to take the dangerous steps I needed to take.
“Kazem, I just had a call from Agha Joon. My aunt Giti is in declining health and needs to go to a rest home. Agha Joon says it is time for me to pay back my dues. Since she provided for me during my stay in the U.S., it is my duty to go there and take care of her needs.” I shook my head. “He’s put me in a very awkward position.”
Kazem considered this for a moment. “I think you should help her, Reza. You owe her for all she did for you. We have to take care of our relatives.”
“But I am not sure how to go about it. I can’t just leave work. I have no idea how long I’ll need to stay there.”
“Don’t worry, Reza. I will talk to Rahim and take care of it.”
“You are a true friend, Kazem. You have always been there for me.” I swallowed my pride to be able to continue. “I never got to thank you for your efforts to rescue Naser. I knew you would if you could. Naser went a different way. You were always right that the Mujahedin manipulate our young people and that Naser did not see that.”
“It is sad what happens to these people. They are turning to these stupid opposition groups. For what? We have everything that God wants us to be in our Islamic government and they still allow themselves to fight against his rules!” He shook his head and said nothing more, never mentioning Naser by name or acknowledging the loss of our friend’s innocent siblings. I let that pass, as I needed him to help me with my travel plans.
I called Agha Joon first to let him know that I would be able to travel to America. Then I went on the second trip I needed to make: to see my mother. The relationship between us had become strained and I had to fix that. The last time we talked was when she called me to let me know that Davood’s children had been arrested. It was no longer unusual for this much time to pass between conversations because it had become nearly impossible for us to talk without offending each other. My decision to join the Guards had driven a wedge between us. The last time we were in a room together, a discussion over the president at the time, Abolhassan Banisadr, turned into an ugly argument. Banisadr had been elected the first president of the Islamic Republic of Iran in January 1980 with almost 80 percent of the vote. He was a liberal counterpoint to the mullahs, someone Khomeini tolerated because he offered the illusion that the clerics hadn’t taken complete control of the country. More than a year after Banisadr’s election, people like my mom, who were so disappointed with the Islamic regime, saw him as the only hope for a free Iran. Although Khomeini had approved of this election as a concession to liberal powers in the country, Banisadr had taken to giving stirring speeches on the virtues of freedom and self-governance, criticizing the mullahs for their torture and execution of the opposition. He never directly challenged Khomeini, but incendiary slogans shouted by his crowds, such as “Free us from the mullahs!” were deemed acts against God.
My mother was among those who shouted this from the crowd. She participated in Banisadr’s rallies with much enthusiasm. I was secretly proud of her and I supported those courageous souls demonstrating on Banisadr’s behalf, but I did not want anything to happen to her. I tried to stop her from joining the rallies, especially after club-wielding Hezbollahi had beaten other demonstrators and the Guards had fired on the crowds—and especially after my best friend and his siblings lost their lives for doing less. She mistook my concern for her as being anti-Banisadr and our words became bitter.
With the hope that I could reconcile with my mother, and a wish that her motherly instinct would recognize the purity of my intentions, I knocked on her door. When she opened it, she just glared at my beard and then left the door open and walked into the living room.
“I am going to Los Angeles to take care of Aunt Giti,” I said as I shut the door and followed her in. She turned up the television and sat on the couch.
“They are destroying
our only hope,” she said as she stared at the TV. The broadcast showed a report about the rising opposition of the clergy against Banisadr.
“Things are not going to stay like this, Mom. I promise.” I was sure in my mind that I could make a difference with my plan. She glanced at me, got up, and turned off the television.
“Reza! I don’t know how someone like you, who never cared much about this religious nonsense, can suddenly come back from America and devote himself to a man like Khomeini. Do you even realize that what they are doing is inhumane? Do you see what is going on around you? Do you even care about Naser and what happened to him?”
Every accusation she had made carried a sting, but this one struck me right in the heart. I got up to leave.
“Your father and I had high hopes for you. We thought we raised a man.”
I slammed the door and left her house. For her safety, I had to bite my tongue and let my mother be ashamed of me. To tell her what I was about to do would put her at even greater risk. But now I was even more passionate about my mission.
I will prove it to you, Mom. I will prove it to you that you raised a man, not a coward.
I waited a few days for Kazem to get back to me about Rahim’s reaction to my travel plans. At that time, the government didn’t permit ordinary citizens to travel because of the war with Iraq, and I needed his approval to secure the necessary authorization. When Kazem called me into his office, I thought he was going to give me an answer.
“Come on in, Reza,” he said, motioning me to sit. He was behind his desk signing papers and reviewing some files. After putting the folders to the side, he looked up and said, “Thank God Imam Khomeini finally reclaimed the position of commander-in-chief from Banisadr. It’s about time. We can’t afford a president who is weak on war. This is a serious time in our movement. Our enemy, Saddam, is wreaking havoc on our soil and Banisadr is drawing up a truce and negotiating the terms to end the war.” He shook his head.
I knew then that Banisadr was in trouble. The mullahs did not intend to allow his verbal insurrection to continue. Nothing had so galvanized the population behind the mullahs as this war, and no one, not even the president, was going to interfere.
“Kazem, have you talked to Baradar Rahim yet?” I asked with hesitation.
“Is everything okay, Reza? You don’t seem to be yourself.”
“You know how Agha Joon is. He’s been calling me nonstop. He is so worried about his daughter.” I tried to compose myself. “He is afraid to lose her, too. He’s already lost his son and his wife. And now Aunt Giti is sick.”
“Of course, it is a hard time for him. I did talk to Rahim and he is looking into it. I mentioned it was urgent.”
I thanked Kazem and left his office, frustrated at the time this was taking, but feeling satisfied that he was at least trying to help. Rahim, however, had other things on his mind. In the days following my conversation with Kazem, the parliament impeached Banisadr for standing in opposition to the mullahs. The brothers in the Revolutionary Guards, including Rahim, were ordered to invade the presidential palace to arrest and kill the deposed president. They didn’t succeed at this, as Banisadr went into hiding and later managed to escape to France with Massoud Rajavi, the leader of the Mujahedin. They did manage to arrest several of Banisadr’s friends and associates, and they executed them.
My anxiety level was rising. The loss of Banisadr, the only liberal in a position of leadership in Iran, meant the country was moving even further from the ideals of the revolution. I needed to act and I now had a plan, but I couldn’t do anything without permission to travel. I couldn’t push Kazem any harder than I’d already pushed him without the risk of raising suspicion. On top of this, Agha Joon kept pressuring me to go to LA to attend to my aunt.
On June 27, a week after Banisadr’s impeachment, I ran into Rahim in the hallway of our building. He waved and gave me a short “Hi” as he passed by me.
I found this simple gesture deflating. Apparently, my request was of little concern to him. Weeks had passed since I asked Kazem for his help. With the crisis escalating in the country, it looked less likely that Rahim would approve my travel. I was about to enter my office and rethink everything when someone called my name.
“Baradar Reza!”
I turned my head. It was Rahim.
“I need to see you. Tomorrow I am busy attending a meeting, but come to my office the day after tomorrow and we will talk.” He started to walk down the hall. “By the way, bring your passport.”
I went home anxious to let Somaya know that I was finally getting my permission to leave. Rahim’s asking for my passport was a good sign, as I needed the authorization to exit stamped in my passport. Somaya told me that she was happy for me, but I could hear the sadness in her voice.
“Why don’t you go to London and visit your parents while I’m gone? I can arrange for that. And then we can come back together.”
“Reza, you need this trip. I know you’re going because Aunt Giti is sick, but you also need to get away for a while with everything that has happened.” She smiled. “Don’t worry about me. My grandma is having a surgery on her back and I promised my mom I would take care of her.”
I held her in my arms and told her how deeply I loved her. She was the purest soul in a country gone mad and I felt lucky to have her.
When I went to work, I saw Kazem and told him about my planned meeting with Rahim, thanking him again for arranging everything. That night, Ayatollah Beheshti held a high-level meeting at the Islamic Republic Party (IRP) headquarters. Beheshti was the head of the judicial system and the second most powerful man in Iran next to Khomeini. Rahim and several Guards members from our base attended this meeting, which was why he couldn’t meet with me until the next day.
That night, while in my study, I grabbed my passport to make sure I didn’t forget to take it with me. Then I pulled out Roya’s letter and Naser’s picture. I looked at Naser and then my eyes flicked to my grandfather. I thought about how Agha Joon always used to say “Grow old, young man” to us. I finally realized what he meant by this: Every person has the right to grow old and be part of this world. No one should be allowed to take that from anyone.
Somaya came into the room. “I am a little tired. I am going to bed. I’ll leave the light on.”
“I am almost done here. I am coming to bed in a little bit.”
I put the picture and the letter back and checked to see that the passport was in my pocket. As I did, a loud blast shook the house. I ran out of my study and screamed Somaya’s name. She was already outside the bedroom, running toward me, asking about the explosion. She rushed to the family room to turn on the television while I tuned in the radio.
“Do you think it was an attack by Iraq?” she asked anxiously.
“I don’t think so. There is no siren or power outage. Let me make some phone calls.”
I called Kazem, but there was no answer. I then called Agha Joon and Mom. They had not heard the blast. We spent the rest of the night fearing what would happen next, unable to sleep.
The following day at work, I learned that a series of powerful explosions rocked the Islamic Republic Party’s headquarters where Beheshti was holding his meeting. Chaos spread through our unit. I went looking for Kazem, but he was not around. I rushed to Rahim’s office. He was not there, either. Only then did I remember that Rahim had been at the meeting. I hurried back to my office and made a dozen calls to find out what I could.
I learned that this was a well-orchestrated attack. The assailants had planted bombs throughout the adjoining area to guarantee the greatest amount of devastation. Beheshti and more than seventy other party members died that night—among them cabinet ministers, deputy ministers, and parliament deputies. Many Guards members had been injured. Rahim was one of them.
I was devastated. Nobody would be trusted enough to leave the country now. Meanwhile, Khomeini, fearing a coup, ordered the Guards and the Basijis to surround the military bases. He named th
e Mujahedin the perpetrators of the attack and ordered the execution of many political prisoners in retaliation.
The Khomeini regime used this tragedy, as they did with all calamitous events, as a vehicle for public relations. They immediately claimed that seventy-two people died in the attack, calling them martyrs and comparing this incident to the martyrdom of Imam Hussein and his men, also seventy-two in number. The mullahs added a dramatic flair to the story when they spread rumors that Beheshti had told the crowd just prior to the explosion that he could “smell heaven.”
A few days later, Rahim came back to work with a broken leg. He and Kazem came to my office, Rahim on crutches and Kazem helping him navigate.
“Baradar Reza, I did not forget about you,” Rahim said as he handed his crutches to Kazem and sat in a chair. “I hope you have your passport with you. Kazem told me how close your family is and he has great respect for your grandfather. I have talked to the authorities and, with my concurrence, they are allowing you to travel.”