BACK IN BEIRUT, The Divan, by Hafez, had become my wandering guide. A life companion, this little substitute for Iran that would never leave my side, there or elsewhere. It was lying on my bedside table, like a reflection of your memory, ready to supply a few keys to survival in moments of nostalgia. His verses cradled me. They cradled me in the same way as the song of spring, the sweet refrain of hope that inhabited my thoughts. Iranians have a unique tendency to abandon themselves to their destinies, to rely on oracles, imams, fortune-tellers, and poets to illuminate their foggy paths. I, too, had yielded to the charms of prophecy, in Shiraz. Borzou was confused by this. He was worried about my newfound optimism. He who had seen me collapse, six years earlier, under the effect of that Iran Fever, saw this as another recipe for disappointment. He found me too passionate. I accused him of excessive rationality.
Destiny ended up working in my favor. At first, at least. It was a morning in May 2009. In an email once again devoid of explanation, the Ministry of Culture announced its willingness to grant me a new press pass. Three years after the incident with the bus drivers, they were authorizing me to work in Iran again. This astonishing “miracle,” a new example of the contradictions of Iranian power, coincided once again with an upcoming presidential election. In a surge of generosity, the regime had handed out more than six hundred press visas to international journalists. Borzou was also on the list of newly accredited reporters. Excited by the news, we packed our bags in a mad rush, leaving behind all our past worries. We were over the moon. The country we so loved and feared was inviting us to return.
On May 29, we landed in Tehran as if in a waking dream. At passport control, the customary pang of anxiety quickly dissipated in an ocean of good feeling. Despite its fluorescent lights, the airport had lost its usual austerity. At baggage claim, some passengers were talking about how they had made the trip explicitly to vote. Behind the glass of the entrance hall, hordes of cousins were waiting for them, arms full of flowers. Outside, the capital was plastered with new posters. Not the usual ones of regime leaders, but posters of three rivals to Ahmadinejad, who was up for reelection. On the sidewalks, streetlights illuminated their smiles. There were lipstick-colored garlands on the trees, carpets of leaflets at each intersection. On the way, the taxi driver confided to us his relief at the mere idea that the warmonger president might be ousted from power: “Because of him, the West takes us for a band of fanatics. His successor, whoever that may be, can only be better.”
A strange wave was breaking over Tehran. An unexpected tremor, releasing a sense of revival, a festive air. In a few days, the wave turned green. The symbol of Islam. And of hope, too. Everywhere, green ribbons, green T-shirts, green headscarves, green nail polish … Green was the color of Mir-Hossein Mousavi. The primary adversary of the incumbent president had drawn the color by chance at the candidate lottery. Ahmadinejad had drawn red; Mehdi Karroubi, the former president of Parliament, white; Mohsen Rezaee, the former leader of the Revolutionary Guard, blue. Green, one more omen at the heart of what strangely resembled a new Iranian Spring?
June 3 brought a second “miracle.” It was around 11:30 p.m. We had just turned on our television. Ahmadinejad took up half the screen, Mir-Hossein Mousavi the other half. It was the first in a series of televised debates the likes of which we hadn’t seen in thirty years. To create a semblance of democracy, the Supreme Leader had made concessions to the media. A little hesitant, back hunched, Mousavi first struck me with his lack of charisma. Not much was known about the former prime minister from the ’80s, with his gray hair and dark suit. After staying out of politics for nearly twenty years, he had replaced Khatami in this election on short notice, after Khatami had declined to put himself on the ballot. A mediocre orator, Mousavi seemed almost lost, faced with a very aggressive Ahmadinejad. Faithful to his reputation as a provocateur, the president took advantage of the occasion to brandish an illegible document for the camera: “proof,” he said, that his adversary’s wife had cheated to get into university. Mousavi immediately transformed. He leapt from his chair. His eyes gleamed with anger. In one breath, he retorted, “You are turning this country into a dictatorship!” And then, in an unexpected surge of audacity, he accused Ahmadinejad, haphazardly, of recklessness, instability, extremism, and superstition.
When the duel was over, we went for a walk down Valiasr Street, near the national television studio where the debate had been broadcast live. The streets were packed with clusters of young people draped in green shouting their hopes for restored freedom. Breaking with the self-censorship of the times, a young woman chanted, “Potato government, we don’t want you anymore!” It was her way of denouncing the distribution of free potatoes by the pro-Ahmadinejad groups. Gathered around this brazen Iranian woman, the crowd took up the slogan in a chorus. Suddenly, four years of pent-up anger flooded the sidewalk. In unison, the onlookers started up: “Mousavi! Mousavi!” That night, a new hero was born.
While I was writing my report back at the house, Mamani called me from Paris. She was hungry to know more about the electoral campaign. In her voice, I heard her regret at not being in Tehran. But her political opinions hadn’t changed. “It’s not an election. It’s a selection,” she muttered. She meant that the ballot was fixed in advance. That the candidates, whoever they were, had to pass first through the filter of the Guardian Council and then be approved by the Supreme Leader. Therefore, there was no reason to get excited about this temporary craze. I knew her refrain by heart.
However, day after day, the wave swelled even higher. At nightfall, joyous bands of people inundated the streets with their slogans and festive shouts. And then one night, the wave flowed all the way to our place, right under our windows. Drawn by the brouhaha, I went down to the street. At the end of our cul-de-sac, Pasdaran Avenue was swarming with people. A discotheque in the open air. “Ahmadi-bye-bye! Ahmadi-bye-bye!” they crooned. I raised my eyes toward a sign dancing above their heads. “I Will Rebuild You, My Homeland,” read the slogan, inspired by a poem by the great Simin Behbahani. As I turned around, my gaze locked on the eyes of a person with a particularly familiar face. I rubbed my eyes to see better. Fatemeh, the Basiji’s wife! She was there, in the middle of that excited crowd, wearing her midnight-blue headscarf paired with a coat audaciously cinched at the waist. Pinned to her lapel, an Iranian flag and a photo of Mousavi.
“Khosh amadid! Welcome!” she hooted at me, squeezing me in her arms. We hadn’t seen each other since 2007. In truth, it wasn’t that surprising to find her there, given her transformation over the years. I asked her where Mahmoud was. She shrugged her shoulders with a jaded expression, then pointed her chin in the direction of the opposite sidewalk. Over on the other side of the street, I recognized her husband. He was standing in the front row of a mob as dense as ours. But their signs displayed the bearded face of Ahmadinejad. And the girls on their side were wearing more austere veils. Faithful to his idol, Mahmoud was wearing the same baggy jacket as him. “Tchiz! Tchiz! Tchiz!” he chanted in unison with the crowd, ridiculing the slight lisp of Ahmadinejad’s rival, Mousavi. From all around, people chanted the division of a country, one torn between a nationalist retreat and the desire for openness. Two opposite sides of the same coin. Two equal weights on the same scale. A few days from the election, Iran was cut in two (mirrored by this Basiji couple) and in all likelihood destined for a second round between the two main rivals.
And then, an unexpected turning point: all those Iranians—those disillusioned people, that silent mass so disappointed in the reforms, all those absent from the 2005 polls—renouncing their temptation to boycott the polls, started to speak up again. “It’s best to choose the lesser of two evils” was their new adage. Among them were many women, many young people, carried by a common desire to take their destiny back into their own hands. Each day, there were more of them marching in the streets, jumping from a human chain to a pro-Mousavi concert. They marched as if surprised by their own courage, children on their sh
oulders, brimming with smiles. They marched while inventing slogans, as if composing melodies. Often, their slogans took the form of jokes. One of them: “Why does Ahmadinejad part his hair down the middle?” “To separate the male fleas from the female fleas.” After four years of restraint, the public space had become an arena of so many possibilities.
On June 10, the last official day of the campaign, I briefly met Sepideh, my journalist friend, between two interviews. Since the start of the campaign, she had been racing between political meetings and street rallies. This new détente climate finally allowed her to write reports without having to self-censor. She exulted: “We’ve already won. It’s the happiest day of my life!” In her fit of laughter, I immediately recognized the same enthusiasm she had shown at the end of the ’90s, a hunger for life that had astonished me ever since we first met. Then she stopped and looked at her watch. “I have to go. I’m already running late with today’s article. Let’s see each other on the day of his victory! I’ll bring cakes!” she yelled, before kissing me good-bye. I was captivated by her bubbly energy, such a contrast to the doom and gloom of these last four years. It was a spring without equal, a season of brio. I was starting to believe it as much as the Iranians. After all, maybe Mousavi did have a good chance of winning in the first round.
But in the crowd, I noticed more and more cameras filming the marchers, bearded men on motorcycles zigzagging from one cluster of people to another. That very morning, a leader of the Revolutionary Guard had dared compare Mousavi’s campaign to a “velvet revolution.” But the magnitude of the joy had chased away all fear, and no one paid him any mind.
On June 12, Election Day, the same enthusiasm poured out as citizens cast their votes. Several times, the authorities had to postpone the closing time for polling stations. When voting came to an end at 10:00 p.m., the polls already showed a record participation rate of 85 percent. It was as if a new Iran were being born. Driven by the ambient euphoria, I went back to the apartment on Pasdaran Avenue. My taxi drove past the skyscrapers, windows open to the wind.
In a concert of honking, a car overtook us. I raised my head. Seated sidesaddle like an Amazon warrior across the rear door, a young woman mischievously waved her green headscarf into the night. Beneath the stars, her brown locks danced the farandole. Free, lighthearted, brazen. One last “click” capturing a city drunk with hope. One last vision to remember from that night, just before we crossed the threshold into the surreal.
“IT’S A COUP D’ÉTAT!”
On the phone, Sepideh was crying. It must have been around 10:30 p.m., that same June 12. Words garbled with tears, she added:
“Mousavi’s headquarters were attacked by the Basijis. It happened a few minutes ago. I was there. They broke the computers, tore the posters from the walls … The leaders were taken away by the police. We don’t know where they are now.”
Her voice was lost in a thick silence. I tried to call her back. Without success. Her phone rang and rang. A few minutes later, my phone vibrated. I picked up quickly. It was one of Mousavi’s representatives. An impromptu press conference was about to be held. He begged us to come as soon as possible. On the way, we made a flurry of calls. Well-informed friends confirmed Sepideh’s fears: in tomorrow’s paper, the conservative journal Kayhan, already going to press, was running a headline about Ahmadinejad’s victory.
“I won the election. This is electoral fraud!” Mousavi yelled from his improvised podium.
He had just begun his speech when we arrived. In the confines of this little office in the middle of Tehran, a crowd of journalists huddled around the reformist candidate. Statistics in hand, his advisers said they had proof of his victory. The massive turnout of the youth and women had clearly worked in his favor. Circles under his eyes, face lifeless, Mousavi added that he refused to concede defeat; he would fight to the end. And then he disappeared through a small hidden door. Outside, a leaden silence crushed the stunned city. On the way home, I called Sepideh. She finally picked up.
“This time, the Basijis attacked the building of Qalam-e Sabz [The Green Pen], Mousavi’s paper! I fear the worst,” she said.
Something alarming was happening. But we were completely incapable of gauging its scope.
* * *
The next morning, the shockwave had made its way through Tehran. On the radio, a presenter played on a loop the announcement of the landslide “reelection” of Ahmadinejad, while rumors were already going around about Mousavi’s house arrest, as well as those of other moderate candidates. In the street, shared taxis had transformed into places to let off steam. Borzou and I hailed one on the move. Once the door was closed, I turned on my recorder. The passengers were angry; they all wanted to talk. Beside himself, one of them started to tell us how campaign offices had been ransacked. A second affirmed that he had heard that activists were being arrested. He reported that he had also seen, the day before, with his own eyes, members of the reformist camp being held back from numerous polling stations. Another complained about no longer being able to send text messages, which were being completely blocked throughout the whole country. And then a collective lack of understanding: How can you claim a transparent election when the results are announced right after the polling stations close? “They didn’t even bother to count the votes!” the driver choked out with rage. “It was a fraud. I swear to you, a fraud! Write it in your papers! Ours are on the way to extinction,” one of the passengers added. He was wearing a green T-shirt with blue jeans, on which the letter mim, Mousavi’s initial, had been embroidered. He was enraged. He believed Khamenei was behind the fraud. That he had been overwhelmed by the extent of the pro-Mousavi excitement. That in the eyes of the Supreme Leader, the victory of the new “hero” put his own regime at risk. So he had blocked it. Just like that. No negotiation.
My telephone vibrated again. Another press conference was being held, this time at the headquarters of Ettela’at, the Persian-language daily. I asked the driver to take me there. Before I arrived, the police had already shut the place down. Along with Borzou and a few colleagues, I took refuge in a café on Valiasr Street. On the sidewalk, a young boy discreetly handed out leaflets. Calligraphy in black ink read, “Meet at Vanak Square to denounce the coup d’état.” We weren’t far from the rallying point. We rushed over.
* * *
“Where is my vote?” Fist held toward the sky, a young woman split the silence with a broken voice. Her words immediately ripped the tape from the closed lips of the first arrivals. “Where is my vote?” the crowd repeated in unison. Others took it a step further: “Death to the dictator!” “Death to the coup d’état!” There were hundreds of people gathered at Vanak Square. A swarm of disgruntled voters was growing rapidly. Men in overalls, disoriented students, old men in slippers. And then, suddenly, that metallic screech of chains lashed the cobblestones. Riding on their Hondas, the Basijis charged at the protesters. Someone yelled for everyone to disperse. Fast. We ran with the crowd. A dislocated, nonsensical movement that zigzagged between cars. The roar of the motorcycles followed us. Along Valiasr Street, the stores lowered their iron shutters at the same speed as our frantic race. By some miracle, we ended up in a bookstore. The owner closed the door behind us, turned off the lights. In the dark, I could make out only shadows. Fugitives were jammed like sardines among the books. Next to me, a woman burst into tears. She was wearing a long chador, as black as the bruise blooming around her right eye. She had just been hit with a baton. She was sobbing, saying the regime had “betrayed” her: “I was part of the revolution. I believed in Khomeini. I gave martyrs to this country: my husband, my brother … And see how they thank me! By attacking me because I defended my right to vote! The regime is devouring its children. The trust is broken.” I took a tissue out of my pocket. I handed it to her. Faced with her despair, it was the only gesture I could offer.
That night, I called Sepideh. I knew her fervor too well. I wanted to be sure that she was safe and sound. Her phone was off. Not
even a ringtone. And Mahmoud and Fatemeh? Where were they during all this? Did they feel like victims of a “betrayal” like that ex-partisan of the regime, who yelled her disappointment into the face of a system she had supported her entire life? Or were they among those enraged militiamen chasing protesters at breakneck speed? I called both their numbers several times. They never picked up.
A rash of insomnia kept all of Tehran awake that night. Around the city, hotbeds of protest had broken out. Borzou and I went back out in the street. For hours on end, we walked along the raging streets, through clouds of tear gas, avoiding flaming dumpsters. On a bridge, protesters and Basijis were fighting, throwing stones at one another. Real urban guerrilla warfare like I had never seen before in Iran. Farther on, police vans were taking wounded protesters to who knows where. At Mohseni Square, riot police, resembling RoboCop, were making the rounds. We skirted them by taking side streets. As we turned down a back alley, danger caught up with us. Twenty Basijis on motorcycles stormed into an intersection. Borzou pulled me by the sleeve, just in time for us to hide behind a double door. In the dark, I heard them strike the air with their iron chains, like lions let out of their cages, before taking off in pursuit of protesters.
Breathless, we walked to Jordan Avenue. Behind their wheels, hundreds of drivers were protesting by honking their horns. When the militiamen reappeared on their motorcycles, we jumped in the first taxi to escape their attacks. We rode north. Passing in front of the stone building that was the illustrious landmark of the intelligence service, I shuddered. Was Mr. Fingers at the window, mocking this assassinated spring?
And then, a few yards from there, something happened that I will never forget. A protester fell, unconscious, beneath a torrent of blows. There were ten militiamen, maybe more, pummeling the poor man. A female protester in a black headscarf who had come out of nowhere hurried toward the window of our taxi. She didn’t want our help; she just threw her bag on the backseat, begging us to look after it. And then she set out, head lowered, toward the group of Basijis, before collapsing in her turn beneath their blows. In the chaos, the taxi took off again. We could do nothing to save her.
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