I gathered my wits. I had to be especially prudent. As a precaution, I confirmed the meeting by email. At the bottom of my closet I found my longest black coat, and then grabbed the dark veil that went with it. I found an old shopping bag in the kitchen. On my way, I bought a big box of pastries to throw off curious bystanders. A few yards farther along, I hailed a taxi in the street. Under the pretext of a “family visit,” I asked a driver to wait for me in front of the building. I climbed the stairs without looking around, as Iranian women do. On the second floor, a door opened. I slipped through the half-open space, mouth stitched closed. The apartment was somber and modest; it smelled like anger. Crouched on the floor, in a concert of whispers, the bus drivers spat everything out: the unpaid wages, stomachs hollowed out with hunger, the political disappointments, the desire to revolt …
Leaving the interview, I climbed back in the taxi, shopping bag over my shoulder. In the street, day was fading to night, that transitional moment at the end of the afternoon when the sky is covered in pink streaks. I had only a few hours to write my article and pack my bags before going to the airport. The driver took the first left, then the second right. There was no traffic. Only a few onlookers lost in the half shadows.
The car stopped suddenly. A screech, then the odor of burnt rubber. The taxi driver’s grunt. I thought he had a flat tire. I raised my head. Two motorcycles were blocking our path, the same kind that Mahmoud rode.
“Where are you coming from?” barked one of the two bearded men, brusquely opening my door.
Basijis!
I stuttered:
“A personal visit. A friend’s birthday.”
He didn’t believe me. He repeated:
“Where were you?”
I didn’t have time to respond. He was already seated to my left, in the backseat. His companion had slid into the front passenger seat. Behind the wheel, the driver didn’t say a word. He was scared stiff. I grabbed my cell phone. I wanted to call the first number on my contact list.
“No!” shouted my neighbor, forcing me to press Off.
Then he ordered the driver to lock the doors. How had I gotten into this mess? Was I under surveillance? Had there been an informant among the bus drivers? Was Mahmoud, Fatemeh’s mysterious husband, in cahoots with my attackers? These two bearded men were by no means nice guys. Colossal shoulders, boxer physiques, walkie-talkies in their hands. It was hot in the car. My head was starting to spin. I was angry with myself for playing with fire. Through the window, the sun was waning. That’s when one of them yelled:
“Open your bag!”
I shook my head no. I was afraid of opening it. Afraid they would find the interview recording. I wanted to protect the bus drivers. Protect myself, too. The man growled. Got out of the car. Behind the glass, I saw him tapping on his walkie-talkie. I imagined he was contacting his superiors. Seated in front, his associate couldn’t see me. I had to take advantage of this brief instant of madness and fright, when I was invisible to them. I hastily slid my hand into my bag, searched by feel for the back of the recorder. I grabbed the memory card and slipped it under my coat before concealing it in my bra. It all happened in a flash. I was covered in sweat. I straightened up in the seat. I couldn’t save the notebook and the camera, at the bottom of my bag. I heard the door open again. The giant was already back in the car.
Sitting down again, he yelled:
“The bag! Or prison!”
Prison! I shuddered again, thinking of what I had just done. I lifted my eyes toward him. In the middle of his forehead, his prayer bump stared back at me, menacing. A third eye imprinted between his two eyebrows. Blood pounded through my head. I thought again of my meditation classes. Of those long nights spent preparing myself psychologically in case of an arrest. I had readied myself for this. Listening to the stories of former inmates, I felt as if I had already memorized Evin Prison’s layout, its odor, its windowless cells, its interrogations. I knew the glare of the fluorescent lights, the sound of the iron doors, the cries that resounded through the corridors. But fear had left me gutless. In real life, you can never be prepared for an arrest.
“Come on, the bag!”
His voice crashed against the windows. It was an order. A real one. Like a slap, the face of Zahra Kazemi suddenly stung my memory. Zahra Kazemi, a journalist beaten to death in front of Evin Prison in 2003 for refusing to hand over her camera to the same sort of officials. I was paralyzed. I had never felt so vulnerable.
“The bag!” he repeated.
The bag. I gave in and opened it. Without protest, I watched my things disappear into his big hands: my recorder, my notebook, my camera.
Then the giant with the third eye ordered the driver to open the doors again. The poor man was rattled. He was shaking behind the wheel. Before getting out of the car, the officer tore a page from my notebook and scribbled a name and address, which he read aloud:
“Mr. Beheshti, Ministry of Foreign Affairs. He’s the one who will give you back your equipment,” he added.
He mounted his motorcycle, my things jammed beneath his arms. The other officer followed him, walkie-talkie in hand. Forehead against the glass, I watched them take off like bandits. I was exhausted. I was still shaking. The driver turned toward me:
“Those guys are criminals, Madam! You have to lodge a complaint. Let’s go. I’ll take you to the ministry right away.”
I was touched by his kindness. A Good Samaritan in this hornet’s nest.
At the ministry, there was no “Mr. Beheshti” in the roll of employees. And yet it was a rather common name! I showed the piece of paper to a variety of people, everyone from the security guard to the secretary. They all looked at me with pity, probably familiar with this kind of “procedure.” I ended up calling the Ministry of Culture. They laughed into the phone: “You should have resisted! They were definitely thieves!” I was enraged. I was convinced that the entire country was conspiring against me. That they were trying to break me. When the taxi dropped me off at home, I rushed to my computer. I had just under an hour to write my article. In fact, I had nothing left to write. I no longer knew how to write. I was afraid of putting the cabdrivers in danger. I called Paris; I explained everything to my editor in chief. The response came like another slap: “I reserved you three columns in tomorrow’s paper. You have forty-five minutes to churn something out!” I restrained my sobs. They were the only thing I barely managed to control. I sunk my fingers onto the keys of my keyboard and “churned out” my article. A basic piece, full of generalizations about the country’s economy. Without a doubt, the worst thing I had ever written.
The telephone rang. It was Borzou.
“Are your bags packed?”
My bags. Good grief! I had only a few hours before my plane to Amman, via Dubai. I took a deep breath … and lied:
“Yes, yes. Ready!”
“How are you doing?”
“I’m fine.” What a question!
Borzou wasn’t convinced by my response, so I insisted in such a way that he would believe me. I wasn’t in a condition to argue. In any event, we would be seeing each other in a few hours. We’d have plenty of time to talk.
Of course, I wasn’t fine, not at all. Hanging up, I felt paranoia invade me, as if I were being watched from all sides. I said to myself: the Basij, the intelligence service, the ministry, they are all the same! I called a photographer friend. Without giving any details, I begged her to accompany me to the airport. I was worried about going there alone. I knew all too well that it was crawling with bearded men. Perhaps they had enough time to figure out that the memory card was missing from the recorder? Perhaps one of them was waiting for me at my gate? Perhaps they would escort me directly to prison?
None of that happened. I don’t know by what divine grace I arrived in Amman in one piece. That’s how it was in the Kafkaesque state of Iran: you could never predict when the troubles would start, nor when they would end. To this day, I still wonder if I was able to leave thanks t
o a cunningly calculated long-term strategy or a lack of coordination at the intelligence service.
Over dinner, I told Borzou everything. He was furious. He couldn’t stand that I had lied to him on the phone.
“What if something had happened to you at the airport?”
“I didn’t want to worry you,” I replied.
Eyes half-closed, hands on the arms of the chair, he replied:
“Worry me? Imagine how worried I would have been if you hadn’t arrived in Amman! You think you’re invincible!”
“No, I don’t!” I said clumsily.
“In this profession,” he continued, “there is only one motto: ‘Stay alive today so you can keep reporting tomorrow’!”
He stood up. He looked out the window, as if searching for comfort in the calm of that Jordanian summer night. Outside, Amman seemed so peaceful compared to other Middle Eastern cities. Borzou turned back. He sat opposite me. He took a sip of wine. And he said:
“You have to divorce Iran!”
“Divorce Iran?”
“Yes, divorce Iran!”
His voice was serious. He sounded like someone begging an insane person to come to her senses.
“Impossible!” I replied.
How could I tear myself away from Iran? How could I detach myself from it? It seemed too late to amputate a part of myself. Iran, a country I had dreamed of, and reclaimed. I had lived all those moments of its recent history. I couldn’t abandon it. Besides, there was no life for me after Iran. That country was my life.
Borzou looked me right in the eye.
“In Iran, they decide if you stay or leave. You have already stayed too long. You know too much. They don’t like that. They want to use their power to control you, but you elude them. They don’t like that.”
I withdrew into a long silence. I felt sobs invade my throat. To avoid crying, I changed the subject.
“And how was Iraq?”
“Oh, same as usual!”
I detected hesitation in his voice.
“Same as usual?”
He was pale; he had one of those looks that meant he was hiding something. After several minutes, he confessed.
“The other day, I went to Najaf. A routine report on the Shiites. At a checkpoint, men with guns made me get out of the car. They were Sunnis. They asked for my papers. I had made sure to leave my American passport at the hotel. I took out the Iranian one. In their eyes, it was hardly any better. They pointed a revolver at my temple. I thought I was going to die.”
“And then?”
“And then they let me go. They told me they didn’t want to see me again at that checkpoint. It was a really close call!”
I was livid, devastated by the turn our lives were taking. He had lied to me, too. Each of us had used lying as a shield to protect the other. Over time, we had learned to disguise our anxieties within pretense. Listening to Borzou’s story, I became slowly aware of the point we had reached: having too long rubbed shoulders with fear, we no longer knew how to live without it. It was as if our bodies were programmed to endure it. We were ruled by fear; our movements made no sense except through fear: how to thwart an ambush; laugh off threats; hear a noise, deal with it; respond to a call; skirt danger. Each time, we promised ourselves it would be the last. And then we’d start all over again. Would we ever be able to live differently?
A few days later, I returned to Tehran. I could not help it. It was an urgent need. The stubbornness of someone lost. The more Iran mistreated me, the more I wanted it. Like a battered woman who refuses to acknowledge her scars. My days ranged between anxiety attacks and incomprehensible pleasure at being there, in the city that made me suffer and that I insisted on loving. And then came an unexpected call from the Ministry of Culture: “Come get your things. They were turned in.” On a wooden desk in the Foreign Media Department, a plastic supermarket bag was waiting for me. The “thieves” had returned all my equipment. My press pass, though, would never be returned.
* * *
I didn’t imagine that the “thieves” would travel all the way to France.
It was an afternoon in May 2007, nearly a year later. I was visiting Paris for a few days. Borzou and I had bought a studio apartment, as a refuge for whenever we needed to unload our stress. That morning, as I dropped off my bags, my Skype started ringing. It was Kourosh, my loyal fixer. He had just come back from a meeting with the intelligence service. The message from his interrogator had been as clear as it was incisive:
“Don’t even think about working again with that haramzadeh!”
Haramzadeh, “haram child”—“bastard” in more familiar jargon. In Islam, it’s a word saturated with hatred and contempt. I was speechless. Me, a haramzadeh? They despised me so much that they were trying to cut me off from those close to me. I slammed the door as I left the studio. I needed some fresh air. I ran along the quays, quickly crossed through the Louvre courtyard, then charged headfirst into the Jardin des Tuileries. I ran until I was out of breath. I was sweating all over.
Back at the studio, I felt wrecked. So was my apartment. Someone had forced the window wide open. My Iranian passport had been thrown on the floor. My French ID had been placed on the kitchen counter. I looked, panic-stricken, at the desk: my computer was gone. The hard drive, my portable memory, had also disappeared. All that was left of the camera was the bag. I turned toward the sofa. Laid out on the cushions were our wedding gifts, not a single piece of jewelry missing. Improbable survivors of a shipwreck. I was frozen to the spot. Incapable of even the slightest movement. In a few minutes, years of articles, interviews, photographs, and notes had evaporated. Immediately, I thought of the intelligence service. Were they sending me a final warning? Unless the paranoia gnawing away at me was setting off my imagination …
In a panic, I called my mother. My parents didn’t live far. I needed advice, a reassuring presence. When she arrived, she convinced me to give a statement to the police. We went on foot. At the station, the officer told me to sit down. In a robotic tone, he explained to me that the neighborhood was “infested” with thieves from Eastern Europe. Undocumented Romanians, experts at quick burglaries. Then he added that it would be best to forget about my computer. That there was no chance of seeing it again. The same speech he must give all victims of theft. Then he asked me where I normally lived. When he heard “Iran,” he leaped up from his chair. Within an hour, the judicial police were at the door of my studio. Three of them, two men and a woman, took fingerprints, studied the window opening, inspected every corner of the apartment. Like private investigators on the lookout for the tiniest clue. When they left, they assured me they would do everything they could to find the burglars. “If I were you, I’d say good-bye to Iran,” one of them whispered politely before leaving.
When they were gone, I collapsed on the sofa. That sentence consumed me. I repeated it to myself on a loop. The rest was smothered in a hazy cloud. The disappearance of my computer felt like a violation—of my thoughts, of my past. Public life, private life—for the “thieves,” there was no longer a border between the two. Our house was their house, if they so decided. In Tehran, in Paris. That day, in the confined space of my Parisian studio, I was faced with a reality I could no longer ignore: Iran wanted me out. Borzou was right: it was time for me to separate from your homeland.
THEY HAD STOLEN my memory; they wouldn’t steal my notebooks.
Before giving up Iran, I had to go back one final time. To save the last fragments I had left of the country I had discovered, the scraps of all those years spent winding along the thread of your history. A few days after the burglary in Paris, I took a plane to Tehran. Arriving in front of your building, number 12 + 1, on a street that intersected Pasdaran Avenue, I took the stairs two at a time. At the door to the apartment, I hastily turned the key in the lock. I felt a sense of foreboding; this was the deciding moment. Had some undesirable visitors already been there? I walked through the living room diagonally. Heart in a knot, I opened the d
oor to the office. Seeing my notebooks, I fell to my knees in relief. On a wooden bookshelf that took up an entire wall, there they were, lined up, numbered, arranged in chronological order, perfectly organized since my first trip to Iran, in 1997. My paper museum hadn’t budged.
“Salaaaam!”
I jumped, raising my head. Mamani was there, next to the door, observing my little circus. I hadn’t noticed her arrive. Despite her TV addiction and her tired legs, she had abandoned her TV screen to come up and greet me after hearing the creak of the front gate. She had no idea about all my troubles. I wanted to protect her, delay the moment when I would inform her of my departure.
She walked toward me.
“Look what I just found!”
In her hand was a pile of documents wrapped in cellophane. She said that she had unearthed them from the bottom of one of those old junk room cartons you left her. While I was packing my bags, she was reopening boxes. Her contradictory spirit had always contained something instinctive that never ceased to amaze me.
“Here. It’s for you,” she said.
I sneezed as I grabbed onto the plastic package. It gave off a strong odor of dust and mothballs. I opened it. It was full of letters: letters from when I was young, the ones I had sent to both of you. Me, in France. You, in Iran. I recognized them immediately. They were intact, meticulously stacked one on top of another. I opened them one by one. I analyzed everything: the paper, the words, the crayon markings. I laughed at my mania for reporting everything in detail: the facts, the dates, the ages. All those margins reserved for the doodles that innocently embellished my stories: the sandbox of the Parc Montsouris, our parents’ office, my sister’s new doll. All those little nothings that made up our daily life while you were stuck in Tehran during the Iran-Iraq War. In one of the letters, dated December 24, 1981, I had written, “Did Santa Claus bring something for you, too?” In these letters, I rediscovered my yearning to understand things. The pain of distance. The desire to know you. I said to myself: there are no coincidences in life. Just after your death, in 1997, I left for Iran as if in a dream, even if the dream ended up becoming a nightmare. After all, “Perhaps life is just that … a dream and a fear,” Joseph Conrad once wrote.
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