“Shall I give you a tour?”
“Excuse me?” I asked, taken aback.
“A guided tour—would you like one? I work here part-time, as a volunteer guide,” he continued in a soft, calm voice that contrasted with the arrogance of our first encounter.
“Uh, sure, why not.”
I followed him over a ramp. Loudspeakers crackled out a children’s song praising the bravery of the volunteers. An army, one man, all equal before God, all equal before death! In the buzzing melody, the shahids, the “martyrs,” were compared to Imam Hossein. The decapitation of the Third Shiite Imam by the Umayyad Sunni army, in Karbala in 680, was one of the foundational events of Shi’ism. Then we entered a second room, with unbearable scenes of carnage. Unperturbed, the Basiji continued:
“These martyrs are the pride of our country! They sacrificed themselves for Iran and for Islam. Some had only their hands to defend themselves with. But they knew that in dying, they would attain purity.”
His eyes lit up when he spoke about the war. As if he dreamed of being in their place. Until now, the young people I had spent time with had never shown any interest in that violent conflict that claimed perhaps a million victims on both sides. At most, like Sepideh, they expressed a pronounced disgust. For my “guide,” the Basiji calling was sacred. The war, an obsession. He told me that his father, from the working-class area of Tehran, and a revolutionary to the bone, was a war veteran who survived the trenches. But, for him, the real hero was his uncle. Having died during the conflict, he now rested in Behesht-e Zahra, the “Paradise of Zahra,” named after the daughter of the Prophet Muhammad, the gigantic cemetery adjoining the mausoleum of Imam Khomeini on the road that leads to Qom. Over there, the tombs of shahids stretch as far as the eye can see.
“My parents and I visit him every Friday. We bring flowers, fruit, and cookies. In Iran, Friday is dedicated to the dead. We clean his tomb, we spray rosewater, we picnic there, we talk with the other families. We read the Quran and recite prayers. We also pay tribute to the memory of Imam Khomeini and the revolution. We recount the exploits of our ‘heroes,’ those who had the courage to defy, with the help of God, the powerful army of Saddam Hussein. It’s an important moment of reunion, of fraternity … of wellness.”
This young man seemed like a stranger to me. His account peddled the same ideology that had lured so many adolescents to join the front line. Raised on propaganda, they had charged toward death, a gift from the heavens. And their friends and families celebrated them with pride. From morning to night, the television honored them with syrupy videos. In Tehran, most of the streets bore their names. At intersections, one saw their faces covering building facades. Even the schoolbooks were full of stories of the victories of Allah’s valiant soldiers, written in the style of the great epics of ancient Persia.
What a contrast with the way we French are taught about the two world wars. A more restrained instruction, more individual, markedly less exhibitionist. Listening to this young militiaman, I thought again of my French grandfather, Jean Hubert, a resistance fighter during World War II. A prisoner of the Germans for four years, with an atrophied lung, he had dropped the military uniform as soon as the conflict ended and made an effort to forget about those dark years. He died before I was born; I didn’t have the chance to know him. But when my grandmother talks about him, it is primarily to tell us how he had asked for her hand in marriage once he was back in Paris. “He wanted to settle down, have children. It was his way of turning his back on death, of recovering his zest for life,” she once told me. They had six children together. Three girls, three boys. And none of my uncles has ever showed much of an interest in the army.
The constant crackling of the loudspeakers pulled me from my thoughts: An army, one man, all equal before God … Intoxicated by the patriotic songs that followed us from room to room, the militiaman didn’t notice my bewilderment. He was still set on proudly recounting the battlefield feats of this soldier, the bravery of that. He knew by heart the stories hidden behind each photo. As we neared the exit, he handed me a book. I looked at the cover. It was decorated with red tulips, the symbol of martyrs. It was a collection of all the snapshots of the war.
“Consider this a modest gift.”
“Thank you,” I replied awkwardly.
“Thanks to you for taking the time to listen to me.”
After some hesitation, he continued:
“My name is Mahmoud, by the way.”
“Mahmoud … Nice to meet you.”
Mahmoud blushed. He started to rifle in his pockets to take out another photo. A young woman with gray eyes seated in front of the camera. She must have been younger than eighteen. A female martyr?
“This is … This is my wife,” he murmured, blushing even more intensely. Her name is Fatemeh.”
“Oh … Moborak! Congratulations!” I exclaimed, surprised that he would shed this small light onto his private life.
“We just got married,” he said, lowering his head.
“She’s very pretty,” I continued out of politeness, even if it was quite difficult to appreciate her beauty through the thickness of her chador.
“I would really like to introduce you to her. Would you accept an invitation to come for dinner at our house one night?”
His suggestion stopped me short. He, the Basij militiaman of Darakeh, the man who had terrorized my young friends up on the mountain, was inviting me to share a meal at his home!
“It’s just that … I wouldn’t want to be a bother,” I replied according to the ta’arof, that very Iranian art of politely declining an invitation.
To tell the truth, I was torn between a fear of crossing the border into the Iran that frightened me and an insane desire to enter the impenetrable world of these shadowy forces.
“No trouble at all. Fatemeh will be thrilled!” he insisted.
In that moment, neither of us could have suspected that our paths would end up closely intertwined.
* * *
When Fatemeh opened the door for me, I couldn’t help staring at the long, silky hair that brought out the gray in her eyes. She was so much more beautiful in person than under her chador in that photo! Though the intimacy of her home and the absence of a male guest spared her from wearing the veil, I, on the other hand, had to keep mine on.
“Welcome,” she said in a frail voice, motioning for me to enter.
I hadn’t had any trouble finding their home. The young couple lived in a modest ground-floor apartment nestled in a back alley in Darakeh, at the foot of the same hiking path where Mahmoud had questioned us. Fatemeh invited me to follow her into the living room. The walls were decorated with verses from the Quran. A few cushions on the floor acted as a couch. They had been placed around a sofreh, a traditional tablecloth, on which the young woman had laid out place settings.
“Mahmoud went to pray at the mosque; he’ll be back in a few minutes,” she murmured timidly, playing with her shirtsleeves.
Following her, I wondered which of the two of us was more uncomfortable. Hoping to lighten the mood, I congratulated her on her marriage, wishing, inshallah, that she would have children. She gave me a faint smile. Then she explained that the nuptials had taken place a month earlier. An arranged marriage, by the book. I was curious to know how the two had met.
“Our parents have known each other a long time,” she said. “One of my uncles was a martyr in the war. Mahmoud’s mother noticed me at a memorial reception for him. She was looking for a good wife for her son. One day, their family came to visit us. I served tea, offered cookies. Then, after a few minutes, they left us alone, Mahmoud and me. My hands were trembling under my chador. It was the first time I had looked a man in the eyes … I liked him!”
“You mean you fell in love right away?”
“He didn’t smile much, but he seemed nice. During our time alone, we found out we had a few common interests: walking in the mountains, religious festivals, anti-Americanism … That’s what’s mo
st important! Praise God, it was a good match! We decided to get married.”
So, for her, love was that simple? A cup of tea, a few cookies, common deaths to mourn, and just like that, ring on the finger! Not even a handshake … Hadn’t she ever felt attracted to another man? Hadn’t she ever imagined herself as the princess in The Thousand and One Nights? Hadn’t she dreamed, as a teenager, of a Prince Charming coming to win her heart?
“In my opinion, love before marriage opens the door to every kind of debauchery,” she continued, as if she had guessed my questions. “Look at those girls who run away. It’s always because of a love affair. At night, they find themselves sleeping in parks. To survive, they end up prostituting themselves … Some of them even take drugs! I have to say that I’m very lucky—”
She cut herself off. The front door had just creaked. Mahmoud was back.
“Sorry to be late … But I see that you two are already hitting it off!” he exclaimed, hanging his jacket on the coatrack.
Once Mahmoud was sitting cross-legged on the opposite side of the sofreh, Fatemeh hurried to fill our plates with khoresh bademjan, with fesenjan and ghormeh sabzi. Seeing these huge, succulent dishes on the tablecloth, I gathered that my hostess had made a great effort to impress her husband. But he was interested only in the preparations for the festivities of Ashura, which he tended to every night. In a few days, Iran would be in mourning for forty days to commemorate the death of Imam Hossein, who had died more than thirteen hundred years ago.
“A real event! Every year, I wait impatiently for this day. My Basiji friends and I always manage to get to the front of the processions. Together, we lash our chests with metal whips. It’s a very special moment, a moment of collective fervor. We’re almost in a trance, we learn to surpass suffering, and we think of all the soldiers who had the strength, like Hossein, to defy death—”
Mahmoud cut himself off to serve me a glass of doogh, a cold drink with yogurt and dried mint. Taken aback by his account of suffering, I took advantage of the pause to ask the question that had been gnawing at me since our first encounter: Since he seemed so fascinated by the war, why hadn’t he gone to fight at the front?
A silence crashed down upon the sofreh. Mahmoud put down the carafe. Crossing his arms, he let out a large sigh. A shadow of melancholy crossed his face.
“If only I could have gone … If only…”
Plunged into his memories, he continued:
“I was a restless, daredevil child. I wasn’t afraid of anything. I celebrated my tenth birthday in 1988, a few months before the end of the war. My father was on leave in Tehran. I begged him to let me go fight with him. He refused. He said I was too little. So I cheated. I faked an ID, changing my date of birth, and I joined the Basij. My father found out. He was furious. He lectured me, and blocked me from leaving! I was condemned to stay in Tehran. I never recovered.”
Kept from the battle against the outside enemy, Mahmoud the martyrophile started to seek out enemies inside Iran: the young hikers of Darakeh, daddy’s boys who listened to punk rock in secret, improperly veiled girls, children of adversaries … He spent his free time collecting everything that had to do with the war. Once a week, he went to the Mahestan Shopping Center, a Mecca for young Basijis. Located in the south of Tehran, it was home to a plethora of stores selling trinkets dedicated to the memory of the soldiers.
“And where do you keep it all?” I asked him, looking around the living room, which was almost empty.
“In the bedroom!” replied Mahmoud, as if it were obvious. “Come, I’ll show you!”
I followed him, intrigued. Printed on large tiles, two gigantic turbaned portraits presided above the queen-size bed. To the right, Khomeini. To the left, Khamenei. Was this where the young couple had spent their wedding night, under the impenetrable gaze of these two icons of the Islamic Republic, whose star continued to fade? The idea seemed absurd, but it was certainly the case. In a solemn gesture, Mahmoud opened the door to a closet. Small, meticulously dusted objects were lined up on a shelf. Shoelaces, plastic “keys to Paradise,” license plates, bullet casings, newspaper clippings yellowed with time … A real miniature museum! On the shelf below was a collection of films by Morteza Avini, a war correspondent who died a martyr’s death stepping on a land mine at the front. Mahmoud’s idol.
“If Iran had to wage war against another country one day, I would be the first to offer myself as a martyr!” he exclaimed.
In fact, Mahmoud was a living shahid, a half-martyr. Death was his reason for living. A divine objective. A refuge where he could shut himself away. He ate, he slept, he dreamed of death. However, since the end of the war, life had smiled upon the Basijis. Taking good care of them the better to use them once the opportunity arose, the state had offered them a multitude of privileges. They could shop at a discount in specific cooperatives. They received favorable bank loans. They were granted a quota for spots at the university. At the end of the war, Fatemeh’s father had been promoted as a Basij commander in a suburb of Tehran. Mahmoud’s father had joined a small, partly state-sponsored business where he worked part-time. The Basijis had their own summer camps, their own networks of mosques, of clinics. And a certain social prestige.
“Everyone in the neighborhood respects Mahmoud. If he were to run in the elections, he would win by a landslide!” Fatemeh proudly proclaimed, having followed us into the bedroom.
But clearly that wasn’t enough for Mahmoud. His daily life remained haunted by a double frustration: that of living in a country at peace, and feeling out of step with his own society. In his eyes, he was the victim, not the liberals.
“The youth call us every name. They laugh too loudly, they listen to ‘cool’ music. They have no respect for traditions, or for their elders who defended their country. It’s not fair—”
Fatemeh interrupted him. She had something to show me, too. I watched her plunge her head into a chest of drawers. From between two tubes of red lipstick, which I’m sure she wore only for Mahmoud, she pulled out a laminated document.
“This is my nursing diploma!”
“Nursing?”
“Yes, each year, with the girls from the Basij Corps, I take part in vaccination campaigns. Abroad, they always depict us as a group that terrorizes the population. But violence is a weapon that we use only when national security is at risk. Since the Khatami years, we’ve become increasingly involved in social work. If there’s an earthquake, we assist the victims. We take disadvantaged children to the countryside for summer vacation. We distribute free meals during religious holidays.”
I hadn’t known about this facet of the Basij. Listening to Fatemeh, I realized that this group was more complex than it seemed. Lost in his deathly dreams, Mahmoud had disappeared into his closet of trinkets. Fatemeh took me by the hand to lead me back to the living room. She whispered to me:
“The other day, up on the mountain, I think Mahmoud got a little carried away. Forgive him. Please, don’t write lies in your articles. As you can see, we’re Iranian like everyone else; we deserve to be better understood. Here’s my cell phone number. Call me whenever you like, we can go shopping together. I know some good places.”
This young woman was especially sensitive to the image she was projecting. I found it almost touching that she wanted to convince me that the Basijis were respectable people. Despite their preconceived notions about the West, Mahmoud and Fatemeh had opened their door to me. They had served me their best dishes, had confided their dreams and resentments to me. But in the end, what had I done to deserve this hospitality? On the way back, I started to have doubts. Had that been a tactical ambush? Had the two young lovebirds been ordered to get closer to me in order to better spy on my daily routine? Or were they simply stirred by the same curiosity about me that had drawn me to them?
I DIDN’T RECOGNIZE her at first. She was wearing a blouse with thin gray stripes. Her face was as white as porcelain. Her empty gaze was lost in the crowd of uptight guests at a society di
nner at the end of February 2002. One of those old Iranian intelligentsia soirées, the kind you would certainly have attended, Babai, where people sit around until the early morning sipping whiskey from crystal glasses and dreaming of a better world. When I arrived, I walked among the tables, complimenting the women on their elegant ’60s dresses, which still carried the scent of mothballs, and discussing the day’s news with their husbands.
So much younger, she stood out from the crowd. But her eyes were what first caught my attention. Eyes at once soft and icy, as if frozen by the cold breeze blowing through Tehran that night. At first there was silence. Then a smile. “Delphine?” murmured the intriguing woman in the striped blouse. “Niloufar!” I responded immediately. My dear Niloufar! Two years had passed since my search had dead-ended at her apartment, after the interrogation by the intelligence service. Two years of imagining the worst, even her definitive disappearance. She was there, standing in front of me, in the flesh. But so different! Her beautiful brown hair, thick and silky, had turned completely gray. Her features were drawn. Bags hollowed out her eyes. She had lost at least twenty pounds. “You’ve been missed,” I said to her awkwardly, embarrassed to ask where she had been all these months. She glanced to her right, then her left, as if to reassure herself that no one was eavesdropping.
“They arrested me during the protests of July 1999,” she murmured in one breath.
“They” … Hardly had she said the word when the face of my interrogator, the man with the two missing fingers, reappeared in a rush of dizziness. They—that had to be the secret police. Or else Mahmoud and Fatemeh’s Basiji comrades.
“And after?” I asked her, teeth clenched.
“They threw me in prison and sentenced me to five years.”
“Five years!”
“But, you see, I was lucky. I was out after two,” she continued in the ironic tone she had not lost.
Niloufar had come back from the dead. I could see that she was trying to reassure me. I wanted to tell her how worried I’d been, tell her about the void left by her prolonged absence. But the hostess’s invitation to be seated for dinner quickly brought us back to more practical concerns.
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