by REZA KAHLILI
On that warm mid-August afternoon, Somaya and I walked around the campus after we said good-bye to our son. The layout of the university, the tall trees alongside the road, and the fresh sense of life in the air reminded me of how my grandparents’ neighborhood had been when I was a child. The memory this stirred in me was both bittersweet and surprisingly welcome.
I remembered the day I said good-bye to Kazem and Naser before I left for USC. I recalled our vows to be friends forever and to take this oath to our graves. Kazem and Naser had maintained their part of that oath, though none of us could have imagined that they would be resting in their graves so soon after making this promise. On the other hand, I had betrayed them both. How different would my life have been if my father hadn’t insisted I go to college in America?
Somaya broke into my tangled thoughts. “Berkeley is just delightful. Do you think we should move here?” She took a deep breath of the sweet air. “It is so different from LA. It reminds me of the north of Tehran where Agha Joon lived. Does it remind you of that, too?”
I looked at her lovingly and moved her hair gently away from her forehead. That hair was streaked with gray now, which I thought made her look even more beautiful. Of course, I’d betrayed Somaya as well. We’d been married for more than twenty years and she had no idea how deceptive I’d been. I wished that God would give me the strength to confess to her and ask for her forgiveness.
“Yes, it does remind me of Agha Joon’s neighborhood. People say LA is like Tehran. But I get even more of that vibe here.” I put my arm around her shoulder as we continued our walk. “But I don’t know if we should move here.” I realized that Somaya was saying this only because she wanted to be closer to Omid. But LA had truly become our home. There, we were among hundreds of thousands of our people who had escaped the Islamic Revolution to seek freedom. This offered us a sense of closeness with our homeland we would not have had in Northern California. And for me it served as a necessary reminder of all those who hadn’t gotten the chance to escape.
Soon, we were back on the road. It’s about a five-hour drive on I-5 from the Bay Area to Los Angeles, most of which is flat and boring.
“Highway 101 is so much nicer,” Somaya complained. We had taken the scenic 101 up from LA. Every time Somaya encountered a beautiful view—which was very often—she made me stop the car so she could take pictures with Omid alongside the road.
“But this road is faster,” I said with a smile. “We are saving at least three hours. Plus the extra five hours for your pictures.”
She scowled at me and decided to take a long nap so she didn’t have to listen to my “not very funny jokes.” Since she was sleeping, I needed something else to keep me awake. I decided to play a Persian CD.
“Vatan parandeyeh par dar khoon
Vatan shekofteh gole dar khoon
Vatan falate shahid o shab
Vatan pat a be sar khoon
Vatan taraneye zendani
Vatan ghasideyeh virani …”
Dariush’s words did more than help me stay alert. They sent me on a journey through my past, the memories of which eleven years in America had done nothing to diminish. Vatan, my homeland, was always on mind. And it was still as Dariush had captured it … “a wounded bird drowning in blood … a blooming flower covered in blood … a desert of martyrs … blood from head to toe … an imprisoned song … a ruined poem …”
Hearing these words and thinking about another Dariush brought pain to my heart. About two and a half years earlier, the Islamic government assassinated the founder and leader of the Nation of Iran Party, Dariush Forouhar, along with his wife, Parvaneh. The assailants entered their home, tied the husband and wife to chairs, faced them toward Mecca, and stabbed them to death. In what became known as the “chain murders of dissidents,” MOIS agents stepped up their killing spree, murdering dozens of dissident intellectuals, journalists, poets, writers, and political activists.
At this time, Mohammad Khatami was the president of Iran. Running on a reform platform, he had received 70 percent of the vote in a huge turnout. He’d managed to raise hope among young and old that he could bring change to Iran’s domestic and international policies after eight years of Rafsanjani, who not only did not deliver on the promise he’d made to the Bush administration to improve relations with America but had worked with other radicals to further suppress Iran’s citizens while increasing assassinations and terrorist activities abroad. Khatami was trying to accomplish the reforms he promised, but his opposition was overwhelming, led by the Supreme Leader, Ali Khamenei, Ayatollah Ahmad Jannati, chairman of the Guardian Council, and Ayatollah Mesbah Yazdi, director of the Haghani School, a radical Shiite seminary in Qom. Using the Revolutionary Guards to exert their will, they snuffed out any attempts at reform.
When the regime shut down Salam, a pro-reformist newspaper, students organized a peaceful demonstration. But that night, paramilitary vigilantes stormed Tehran University and attacked students in their dormitories, leaving many injured and dead. The next day, thousands of students demonstrated in the streets of Tehran demanding reform. The protests spread throughout Iran and were so intense that those of us outside of the country began to believe that we could be witnessing the end to decades of thugocracy and merciless bloodshed by the mullahs. Certainly, when the rest of the world saw what was going on, they would rush to support a nation whose identity had been stolen two decades earlier.
But Guards and Basijis brutally crushed the demonstrations. Once again, many gave their lives to speak out for what they believed. And once again, the rest of the world looked the other way. All that was left was the hope that someday Iran would be free again, a hope expressed in a later verse of the song “Vatan,” a verse I now sang aloud.
“Emruze ma emruze faryad
Fardaye ma ruze bozorge miaad
Begu keh dobare mikhanam
Ba tamamiye yaranam
Gol sorude shekastanra
Begu, begu keh be khoon misorayam
Dobare ba del o janam
Harfe akhare rastan ra
Begu be Iran, begu be Iran”
“Today is the day to shout for justice
Tomorrow is the promised day
Tell them I will sing again
Tell them I sing with all my companions
The anthem of freedom
Tell them; tell them I sing in blood
I sing again with all my heart
I sing the last song of salvation
Tell it to Iran, tell it to Iran”
Somaya turned in her seat, opened her eyes, glanced at the road, and went back to sleep. I wiped my face and turned down the music. She seemed to be in an uncomfortable position and I placed my hand under her neck to try to straighten it. She sighed and settled into a new spot.
I took my eyes off the open road for a moment to study her. Our life was so much simpler now than it had been during my years as Wally and as a member of the Guards. Gone was the disappointment and discord that had marked that time. Somaya and I didn’t argue now, and I no longer felt as though I was letting her down every time I went to work. She loved that the job I did now with a local software company had nothing to do with the Guards and “dirty bearded pasdar.”
Most important, I no longer needed to lie to her. My final lie came shortly after we settled in LA. In September of 1990, I flew to Washington, D.C., to see Gary. It felt different to see him in the U.S. While our meetings in London had always been shadowed by risk, this felt more like a reunion with an old pal. We talked about our new lives and what was happening in the world. Iraq had just invaded Kuwait and Gary characterized Saddam as an audacious man with a destructive mind.
“We’ve been following his troop movements for a long time,” Gary said. “It was clear that he was up to something. He had amassed a large number of his troops on the Kuwaiti border.”
“The man is a lunatic,” I said venomously. “He destroyed so many lives when he attacked Iran. If the U.S. knew he was ama
ssing troops, why didn’t they send him a warning?”
Gary shrugged. “Maybe he interpreted our silence as a green light.”
The implications burned me, though I held my tongue. Had it been politically expedient for the U.S. to let this madman invade a neighboring country? Did they do so to give them an excuse for taking military action? Saddam and his army had become quite powerful with the help of the West. Now, perhaps, America felt it was time to undermine that military power as a message to all Arab regimes that without U.S. support they would fall. Millions of innocent people had suffered during the Iran–Iraq war. Had that been political maneuvering on the part of the U.S. as well?
“What do you say we go out for lunch tomorrow?” Gary said, changing the subject, though the thoughts lingered in my mind. “I can show you around afterward.”
The next day, we drove through Washington and down into Virginia, with Gary showing me different neighborhoods. “What do you think?” he asked.
In truth, it was difficult for me to think about anything other than the offer Gary had made during lunch. With no preamble, Gary asked me to join the agency to assist in covert operations around the world, making contacts among Iranians of interest working for the Islamic government. Showing me these huge homes in the prestigious neighborhoods of Washington and Virginia was part of the sales pitch. Gary told me that all I needed to do was bring my family east and we could live in one of these spectacular homes and sign up Omid in one of the best private schools in America.
Certainly this would be an upgrade. Upon our arrival, Somaya and I had rented a small town house and furnished it sparingly. Somaya had planned to go back to college, but she’d started volunteering at Omid’s school and had become a fixture there, telling me that being around children brought her levels of joy and serenity she’d never known before. I loved this, but volunteering offered no income and I had yet to land a job. We were eating into our savings (the money Somaya thought I’d inherited from my mom), and it would have been impossible not to find Gary’s offer tempting.
Gary stopped the car at a nearby park. “Let’s walk around here.”
We got out and strolled. “Just think about it, Wally. I don’t need an answer right away.”
He kicked back a ball to a group of boys Omid’s age. “Thanks, sir!” one of the boys shouted.
Gary waved at the boy and then returned to me. “There would be intensive training, you would have us behind you wherever you traveled, and your family would be safe. And you have to admit that the salary is very impressive.”
The temptation grew stronger. A huge house in this neighborhood? Omid playing with these well-mannered boys?
“I will think about it, Gary.” How could someone not think about something like this? But I had already made my decision and nothing would make me reconsider. The life Gary was offering—as appealing as it sounded and as much of an improvement as it would be over our financial situation—was not what I wanted. I had found my long-sought peace and tranquility in the arms of my wife and the smile of my son. I could not leave that behind again.
I wished I could do something to make a difference for my country. That desire would never leave me. But I had to admit something to myself: all my years of spying had not changed Iran for the better. The information I provided to America might have been useful, but it didn’t accomplish what I had hoped. And I couldn’t take any more chances with my life or with my family for this purpose.
During my short stay in D.C., Gary and I’d met a couple more times. He was still recruiting and I was still incapable of telling him that I was unequivocally through with the CIA. I’m not sure what was holding me back. Maybe some sense that losing my connection to the agency meant losing an essential part of myself. Maybe some sense that I’d come to rely on being both Reza and Wally. Maybe some sense that turning my back on the CIA was one final betrayal of my homeland.
I never did tell Gary that I was done. Shortly after I returned to LA, he called to tell me that he had to take the offer off the table. He said that things had changed at the agency and that they couldn’t offer me a position. He gave me a new contact in LA to use if I needed something or had any helpful information to pass on.
I read between the lines. Gary knew what was going on in my head and he was making things easy for me. He’d given me what I needed from the agency at this point—a local connection in case something happened—and wasn’t going to ask anything more of me.
My contact with the CIA lasted on a local level for several years after that, during which I met with several different agents and sometimes with the FBI to offer help on suspected Iranian activities within the U.S. In one of those meetings, my CIA contact asked me to find an Iranian who would testify that Iran had developed a nuclear bomb. To me, this was a clear indication that the administration of the first President Bush had not succeeded in making the headway with the regime they thought they were going to make. It would have been pointless for me to say, “I told you so.”
Eventually, after shuffling through several other contacts, my connection to the agency died away naturally.
This left Somaya, Omid, and me to live our new lives in America. To protect our identities, we had changed our names upon arrival. We applied for citizenship shortly after we reached the five-year residency requirement. I remember crying the day we took the Oath of Allegiance, both for the blessing America had bestowed upon us and for the heartache that had brought us here. Through that oath, we vowed to support and defend the constitution and laws of the United States of America. And once more I wished that my adopted country would step in and spread its democracy, freedom, and human rights throughout the world, and especially to my homeland.
When we returned from our trip to Berkeley, Somaya spent a great deal of time in Omid’s room trying to contend with the fact that her only child was now heading off on his own. Her mother had died a few years earlier after a bout with breast cancer and she tried to convince her father to leave London to live with us. He kept saying that he would, but he always found a reason not to do so. Finally, Somaya decided to go to England to bring him back with her. However, this trip would not happen.
The day before Somaya planned to fly to London, we were going through our usual morning routine. I was dressing for work and Somaya put on the television. Suddenly, I heard her screaming my name hysterically. I ran to the family room, where she sat on the floor, the remote in one hand and her mouth covered with the other.
“What is it?” I asked, worried about what could possibly have her this upset. Before she could say a word, though, I found the answer on the screen, which was showing a commercial jet crashing into one of the Twin Towers.
“Oh my God,” Somaya screamed. “That was the second building!”
We sat, shocked and confused, in front of the television for untold hours. Eventually, Somaya went to the phone to tell her father that she wouldn’t be visiting him any time soon.
I knew what bin Laden was thinking when he ordered these acts of terrorism on American soil. He believed that he could cripple the country with fear. He had completely miscalculated America’s resolve—anyone with the tiniest understanding of the U.S. would have known that they would recover from this—but he had dealt a devastating blow. And I had to believe that this happened because the government had not been more decisive in dealing with his prior attacks on America’s interests and entities. This lack of a response had encouraged him.
The pattern was clear to me. Being soft on bin Laden emboldened him to commit a heinous act. Leaving the Taliban unchecked allowed them to enslave their own people. Trying to appease the mullahs allowed a thugocracy to extend its reach. Did the message finally get through as the towers fell? Radical Islamists had no regard for our values of human rights and democracy. When the West, the defender of such values, sidestepped those principles for vague political purposes, it left its citizens vulnerable.
For a short period, it seemed that everyone understood this. The
world was in complete solidarity with America, Afghanistan was freed from the Taliban madmen, and bin Laden and Al Qaeda were on the run. I believed it was only a matter of time before this force created a united front against the mullahs—the terror masters of the world—and once more empowered the people of Iran.
But instead there was the invasion of Iraq and a divided world again. Though I was glad to see the fall of Saddam, I did not want to see innocent Iraqis suffer. I worried that America would not do everything they needed to do to help Iraq become a fully democratic country. I worried that they didn’t fully understand the mullahs’ plans for Iraq. For decades there had been close collaboration between the two Shiite hotbeds, Qom in Iran and Najaf in Iraq. During the Iran–Iraq war, they had formed the Badr brigades from Iraqi recruits and had helped create the Supreme Council for Islamic Revolution in Iraq, now one of the largest and most powerful political parties in that country. The clerics in Iran had been methodically setting the stage for an Islamic government in Iraq that mirrored the one in Iran.
America had gone into Iraq to bring those people democracy. But the only true avenue to lasting peace in the Middle East was to help bring about a free and democratic Iran.
Would I live to see that day?
31
OMID, HOPE
2005
GOD FINALLY GAVE me the strength to do what I should have done many years before. This hardly seemed like a blessing at the time, and I would have done anything to change the circumstances, but I was convinced he was sending me a message and that I had to come clean, at last and completely, to Somaya.
She’d been diagnosed with breast cancer. My wife of twenty-five years, so young and so beautiful, was fighting for her life. She’d been through a highly invasive operation and was in the midst of four debilitating cycles of chemotherapy with the prospect of thirty-three days of radiation still in front of her, and she was struggling mightily to regain her strength, even though doctors couldn’t be certain at that point if they’d gotten everything.