by REZA KAHLILI
17
THE TORCH IS PASSED
INSIDE MEHRABAD AIRPORT’S terminal, echoing voices competed with loudspeaker flight arrival and departure announcements. Somaya and Omid were waiting at the gate outside customs. I rushed toward them, eagerly anticipating a hug and leaving Kazem behind. My wife and son had become my refuge, my one safe place where I could be who I wanted to be.
But Somaya’s usual smile was missing that day. As I got closer, I could see tears in her eyes. We embraced briefly, and then she buried her head in my shoulder and started crying.
I cradled her and took Omid from her arms, pulling him close to me. “What’s wrong?” I said to her.
Somaya looked up at me sadly. “Reza, Nima was killed in jebheh. We just got the news this morning.”
The army had conscripted Nima, her eighteen-year-old cousin, four months earlier. They gave him only rudimentary training and sent him to the front. The revolution had now claimed another one of us.
Kazem had given me a little space to greet Somaya. Now, having witnessed our drama, he came over and asked what was wrong.
“Baradar Kazem, I just heard that my cousin was killed at the front,” Somaya said.
Her calling Kazem “brother” touched me. It warmed me that she would make the effort to show respect for my position, even though she detested my being in the Guards, and even while she was contending with a tragedy.
“I am so sorry for your loss, khahar,” Kazem said, calling Somaya “sister,” “but he is a shahid now and he paid his share of sacrifice for Islam.”
For reasons that I can’t comprehend in retrospect, I felt it was important for me to support this point. “Baradar Kazem, you are right. We should be proud that now our family has a God’s warrior, a martyr.”
The words felt artificial to me the moment they left my mouth. And, more important, I knew that by saying them I had crossed the line with Somaya. While she might grudgingly accept my role in the Guards, she would never accept my trivializing the death of a loved one in this way. I felt miserable instantly.
Somaya reacted as I knew she would—and should. As soon as Kazem turned his head to a voice calling his name, she pushed my arm away. Glaring at me angrily, she said, “Let’s get out of here.”
On the plane, Kazem had told me that he’d learned from Rahim that the Iraqi army was using chemical weapons on our forces in the offensive dubbed Operation Kheibar, which took place on Majnoon Island in Iraq. These weapons, a combination of sarin and mustard gas, had killed or injured thousands. Because we lacked treatment facilities, the Guards were seeking help throughout Europe. With no cure or antidote available and nothing to alleviate their suffering, our soldiers experienced convulsions, nose and mouth bleeding, and finally suffocation. Picturing Nima dying a slow, painful death made me feel all the more guilty for what I had blurted out.
Our reunion destroyed by my callousness, Somaya had turned away from me and was walking quickly toward the exit. I rushed a good-bye to Kazem, saying I’d see him in the office next week, and ran to catch up with her.
Somaya did not speak on the way home, keeping her head turned out the window. I knew I should have said something to her, but I couldn’t think of anything. Should I apologize for being a devoted Guardsman and believing in martyrdom? Should I tell her that I didn’t believe what I’d said, and did it only to impress Kazem? Both explanations seemed empty to me, and I knew that neither would comfort her. For the thousandth time since I contacted the CIA, I wanted to tell Somaya exactly what was going on, and the fact that I couldn’t do so frustrated me and left me feeling like a miserable husband.
When we got home, Somaya put Omid in his bed while I went to my study. Minutes later, she stood in my doorway and broke her silence.
“You are a very insensitive person, Reza. You are not stupid, I know that. But sometimes you do things and say things that make you unrecognizable to me. How could you possibly say what you said at the airport? My aunt losing her son makes you a proud Muslim? You are becoming blind, Reza. You are not seeing things the way they are. I am so tired of this.” She paused and her eyes narrowed. “And I am tired of you.”
She slammed the door as she left the room, leaving me with my head in my hands and fighting back tears. I’d been so excited about coming back home to her. This was the last thing I wanted when I saw her. I rested my arms and forehead on my desk. Trying to be both Reza and Wally was causing me to make mistakes and leading me to be inconsiderate to the ones who mattered most in my life.
My head was still down when I awoke with a stiff neck in the middle of the night. It was now Friday, which meant that I’d soon be receiving a message from Carol, but I still had some time before that. I left my study and tiptoed down the hall to check on Somaya and Omid, opening the bedroom door quietly. Somaya was cuddling with Omid in our bed. I watched them for a while, wishing I were there with them, longing for the simple pleasure they shared with each other. Then I reached for the end of the blanket and covered Somaya’s feet, blew a kiss to them, and left, closing the door softly.
Before turning on the radio, I wrote a short letter to Carol.
[Letter #—]
[Date:———]
Dear Carol,
1—I got back from Dubai to learn Somaya’s cousin was killed in the war.
2—The Iraqi army used chemical weapons against the Iranian forces in Operation Kheibar. The casualties are high. The Guards are trying to transfer some of the casualties to European countries for medical help.
3—Mustard and sarin gas was used in the attack.
4—We placed the order with Computer Dynamics Unlimited.
5—We expect to receive the first shipment of the computer equipment within four weeks.
Wally
That night, I received no message from Carol. She knew I was just getting home and she might have assumed that I’d be too tired to check the radio. However, a modicum of worry crept into my thoughts. The last time I saw her was when we were preparing for her departure from my room in Dubai. What if something had happened to her on the way back from the hotel?
A week passed, Somaya was still not talking to me, and I still couldn’t think of anything to say to make things better. Somaya spent time with her family and was involved in making funeral arrangements for Nima. Fortunately, work kept me distracted, as I needed to visit two bases with Kazem and Rahim, where the Guards were conducting missile tests.
Finally, on Thursday morning, Somaya opened the door to my study. I was sleeping on the floor on a tiny blanket, squeezed between the wall and my desk, which filled most of the room.
“I’m wondering if you would come with me to go shopping for Eid-e Norouz,” she said softly, referring to the upcoming celebration of our New Year. Unlike the last time she’d spoken to me, there was no sign of hostility in her voice now. I told her I would be happy to take her shopping. She nodded and then said nothing for several long seconds. Finally, she pointed to where I was lying.
“You should have more blankets to sleep on. I put them all in the storage downstairs.” Then she offered me a smile that went right to my soul. “But you can sleep in the bedroom with us tonight.”
I wished that I could have found the words to bridge the gap between us before she had to do it. And once more, I wished I could explain to her why I’d created that gap in the first place.
I smiled back at her and said, “I’d like that.”
As glad as I was to return to our bed, the next day was a Friday, and I’d need to get up for Carol’s messages. I would have to take extra care that night to leave our room without Somaya’s even knowing I was gone. I couldn’t let Somaya think that anything—especially something that we’d mysteriously never spoken about—was more important to me than she was at this point.
As always, my body awoke me with time to spare. I decided to use this time to begin a letter to Carol. Rasool, the Guards member from the Intelligence Unit whom I’d mentioned to her in Dubai, told me about a
rms sales and Guards training provided by China and North Korea. Inadvertently, Rasool had become one of my better sources because his travels brought him in contact with dealings that I ordinarily wouldn’t hear about. Rasool liked to impress his friends with who he was and with the importance of his job. It took only a little encouragement to get him to start bragging about the extent of his insider knowledge and to get him to offer details.
Rasool had joined the Intelligence Unit directly after graduating from Amir Kabir University of Technology with a degree in electrical engineering. His father and Rahim’s father belonged to the same mosque and had been friends for many years. His job interview was perfunctory because his credentials met all the criteria required to work in the IU, he was deeply devoted to Islam, and he had a family connection to the Guards. The Guards preferred people who came with strong recommendations and who they could background-check easily. Rasool’s colleagues called him gondeh bak, the big guy, because of his six-foot height and heavy build.
In the midst of my letter to Carol that included new information from Rasool, the time came for me to listen to messages. I put on my headphones and listened carefully.
Hello, Wally,
Urgent. Have you heard anything about a CIA operative in Beirut named William Buckley? We believe he was kidnapped by Hezbollah. Any info appreciated. Let us know if you hear anything.
Carol
This was the first time the CIA had asked me for specific information on one of its operatives. To me, this suggested a new level of trust in the details I’d been providing them. The fact that Carol didn’t mention my last letter probably meant that she didn’t receive it yet, but I was glad, after not hearing from her the week before, to know that she had arrived back in England safely.
After the message, I completed my letter.
[Letter #—]
[Date: ———]
Dear Carol,
1—The Guards last week successfully tested their first remote-controlled drone. The test was done at a base outside of Tehran in the vicinity of the city of Karaj.
2—The Guards also successfully conducted a surface-to-surface missile test.
3—North Koreans are here in Iran helping the Guards in the development of surface-to-surface missiles.
4—Revolutionary Guards are being trained in fighter pilot programs in North Korea.
5—The Guards Intelligence Unit sent members for counterintelligence training to North Korea.
6—Revolutionary Guards naval forces are being trained by the Chinese at a naval base in China.
7—Guards have purchased Chinese Silkworm missiles and have received the first delivery.
8—The Swedes are selling the Guards small attack boats equipped with small missiles.
9—Have heard nothing about W.B., but will listen for any info.
Wally
At the time, I’d heard no mention of William Buckley on the news or in my offices. Because of this, I knew it wouldn’t be wise to ask. My poking around about an individual whose name should mean nothing to me would certainly have generated suspicion. The implications of Carol’s message concerned me, though. Kidnapping of Americans and other foreigners by the Guards and their proxies to use as bargaining chips was becoming commonplace throughout the Middle East. But kidnapping a CIA operative was not. In all probability, the kidnappers would not release Buckley alive—and this meant that the CIA would likely react disproportionately and that tensions would continue to ratchet up. I kept my ears open for any mention of Buckley, but heard nothing about this for the longest time.
Just before Norouz, the Persian New Year, I received a message from Carol requesting some additional details regarding my previous letter.
[Letter #—]
[Date: ———]
Dear Carol,
1—The Guards are looking into purchase of protective gear and equipment for defending against chemical attacks.
2—I heard from Rahim that Mohsen Rezaei has given the Guards the go-ahead for research and development of chemical weapons.
3—China is very active in the sales of military armaments to Iran. They are providing long-range artillery guns along with ammunition. Kazem told me that due to heavy usage of artillery guns at the front, the barrels fail and blow up, but China is keeping a steady flow of new guns into Iran.
4—The Swedish boats are 30–40 feet in length with missile launchers on the side of the bow. The missiles I saw were 4 to 6 feet long. Each boat carries two missile launchers along with a heavy machine gun.
5—The Guards plan to use drones both for reconnaissance and as means of attack by arming them.
6—There are Guards commanders that routinely travel to North Korea and there is a close relationship between the Revolutionary Guards and the North Korean military.
Wally
With a few days off for Norouz, I had a chance to relax and pay attention to my family, something I welcomed and relished. Moheb Khan and Zari Khanoom, Somaya’s parents, arrived from England to help us celebrate and to meet their new grandson, who was now crawling and displaying two bottom teeth. Somaya was exuberant to have her parents be part of Omid’s life. She busied herself with the preparations of the Norouz haft sin sofreh, the traditional New Year table, and the scent of the purple and white hyacinth, the centerpiece of that table, filled the room.
Earlier that day, I had gone to Agha Joon’s house to pick him up for our dinner. He was too old to be able do things on his own now. In fact, he would be moving into the house of my uncle (Haleh and Mina’s father) the next week. Agha Joon could no longer host Norouz, though he’d done so for so many years. As I drove over to get him, I realized that the torch had been passed from his generation to mine to continue the family traditions.
Entering the front yard of his house and going down that familiar path of geranium pots, I experienced a rush of fond memories. I closed my eyes for a moment and let out a deep breath, savoring the simplicity those memories evoked. I could hear Khanoom Bozorg calling me a lifetime ago: “Reza jon, get inside and bring your friends. It is New Year and I want to give you your eidis.” When we went to her, she handed Naser, Kazem, and me each a brand-new thousand-rial bill (worth about fifteen U.S. dollars then), which she had kept inside the Quran. Kazem kissed the Quran and thanked Grandma for her generosity. Naser saluted the shah’s picture on the bill, put it in his pocket with all of the other gift money he’d collected, and we all went back to the yard to happily discuss how we were going to spend all our eidi money.
It was in this same yard that we gathered with Naser and Davood and where Naser fell in love with Haleh. It was in this same yard that we celebrated every day of life without worrying about tomorrow.
As I stood there, I wished Davood was the one giving Agha Joon a lift to our house and that Naser, Soheil, and Parvaneh would be joining them.
Norouz means “new day” and always begins on the first day of spring. It represents two ancient symbolic concepts: End and Rebirth, or, more specifically, the end of evil and rebirth of good. One of our traditions involved an older family member, usually Agha Joon or Khanoom Bozorg, telling stories about Norouz and the meaning of the New Year while we waited for its arrival.
Khanoom Bozorg would tell us about the haft sin, or the seven S’s. She would explain that the haft sin sofreh included seven items that started with the letter S: sabzeh, sprouts, which symbolize rebirth; samanu: a sweet pudding made from wheat germ, symbolizing affluence; senjed: the dried fruit of the oleaster tree, symbolizing love; siib: apple, which symbolizes beauty; somaq: sumac, symbolizing sunrise; serkeh: vinegar, symbolizing age and patience; and sonbol: hyacinth, to denote the coming of spring. When we were kids, we were more excited about the gift money than learning about the traditions, but we patiently sat through Khanoom Bozorg’s explanations.
For the remaining thirteen days of our New Year celebration, we would gather and party incessantly. Relatives would come and visit the older members of the family, and then in re
turn, the elders would pay their respects by visiting them back. All of this meant more gift money for the children. On the last day, as was the tradition, we all went picnicking in the suburbs area, dancing, singing, and playing outside until the night forced us back to our homes.
Somaya’s table was as colorful and delightful as what I remembered of my grandmother’s, and as is the custom, it included a mirror and lit candles for enlightenment and happiness.
As the New Year approached, we gathered around the table—Somaya and her parents, Agha Joon, my mother, and me holding Omid. My mother and I had not resolved our differences, and I still saw scorn in her eyes whenever she looked at me. But Omid’s birth had softened her, and she visited us fairly regularly to see him. She loved her grandson very much and she would endure my presence if necessary to spend time with him.
Moheb Khan started to read verses from the Quran. We all closed our eyes and prayed in silence. Shortly after our prayer, the room suddenly got dark—a power outage, a common occurrence during the war.
“I know they did this on purpose today,” my mother said, shaking her head. “They don’t want us to have power for the New Year. They don’t want us to celebrate the Norouz and have a happy life.”
Although the power outages happened nearly every day, I knew my mother was making a point here: that the mullahs were trying as hard as they could to ruin our culture. I suppose she was also reminding me how much she disapproved of my association with the regime. As far as the mullahs’ aims were concerned, she was right. They tried very hard to take away our Persian heritage and force Arab/Islamic tradition down our throats. They had gone so far as to try to ban the New Year celebration, calling it un-Islamic.
There was a pregnant silence in the room when the lights went out. Then Agha Joon patted my mom’s back and said, “You are right. It is not going to be the same as long as our country is being ruled by these long-bearded, motherless donkeys. But, Fataneh jon, this is the only thing we have left. Norouz is the only part of Persian heritage that has kept our identity intact besides our family.” Agha Joon moved a candleholder closer to him. “We’ve been celebrating Norouz for three thousand years and they can’t prevent us from doing so now or ever.”