A TIME TO BETRAY (14 page)

I knew I needed to do something, but I didn’t know what I could do or whom I could talk to for help. I knew only that my desire to act and my sense of helplessness were warring inside of me.

One rainy afternoon, I was sitting in my study looking out the window, staring at the sky, still hoping for an answer. I felt the raindrops were God’s way of telling me he was as devastated as I was. Somaya’s knock at the door interrupted my thoughts. She entered the room and placed a tray of food on my desk. She rearranged some books and papers to make room for the tray, picked up the tray from that morning that I’d left untouched, and said, “Reza
jon,
you should eat something. I am so worried.”

I had not spoken to her much in the days since Roya’s death, nor had I gone to work or left my room. Before she left with the tray, Somaya’s eyes went to the floor where my
sajadeh
lay. “Do you want me to fold your
sajadeh
and put it away, or do you still have to do your afternoon
namaz
?”

I looked down to where my prayer rug, my holy stone, and my
prayer beads lay. I had not done my
namaz
for days. I rubbed my eyes, looked at Somaya, and said, “No, dear, I was about to do my prayers.”

She smiled sweetly; the dimple on the side of her left lower cheek gave her perfect round face a delicate highlight. The sparkle in her eyes revealed the satisfaction of her attempt to bring me back to life. Before leaving, she said,
“Ghabool bashe.”
May God accept your prayers.

I let the blinds down and sat before my
sajadeh.
I moved the little rug a bit more toward
Ghebleh,
Mecca, and worked its corners to make sure it sat properly on the floor. Then I put the prayer beads on my side and I sat on the rug in front of the holy stone. I raised my arms toward the sky.

“God, tonight I am doing my prayer differently. I am not following the routine and rules of
namaz
. As much as these Arabic words sound gracious and comforting, I have to talk to you in my own language. I need to tell you about my true feelings. I believe in your power. You are my creator and I have felt your presence throughout my life, but I have to make a confession. If what I am seeing in my country is Islam, then I no longer believe Islam to be the religion of honesty and sacrifice. I feel what is happening in my country is wrong. I feel the killings and crimes happening in your name are unjust. How can I watch all these atrocities? How can I watch people being slaughtered and not be able to do anything? How can I forgive myself for not being able to deliver the promise I made to Naser, to rescue him and his brother and sister? I cannot witness Parvaneh, Roya, and thousands of girls like them being held behind bars, their hearts ripped to pieces, and do nothing. How can I believe Khanoom Bozorg’s stories anymore? I don’t believe that the Islam preached by Khomeini and his men represents true love and munificence. They kill for their own survival. They use you as a shield, an excuse. How can I stand by and watch while they demolish our proud history and civilization? We are a nation with a rich and vibrant culture. They are taking us back to an era where the
barbarous acts of Mongols left nothing but bloodshed throughout the land. God, I am scared. I can no longer remain quiet and watch my country disappear into a morass of evil.

“God, I admit I am helpless and am begging you for guidance, as you represent true love and justice and I believe in you and your power.”

I folded my
sajadeh
and put it away. Then I went back to my desk, opened the drawer, and reached for Roya’s letter, hidden with an old picture of Naser and me posing next to Davood and Agha Joon. I stared at the picture, unfolded Roya’s letter, put the picture inside it, and put it back in the drawer.

As I closed the drawer, a thought came to my mind that I’d never considered before. God had clearly put it there as an answer to my prayers. I realized with sudden clarity that there was only one thing I could do to honor the spirit of my lost friends and all of the other innocent victims. I needed to go back to America, to the one other place I’d ever called home. America was one of only two true superpowers in the world, and I was convinced that Americans didn’t really know what was happening inside of Iran—and that if they did, they would do what they could to free us. Someone needed to tell them about the atrocities.

I was that someone. I believed this now with every fiber of my being and I needed to act on it.

Feeling emboldened and feeling that I had to set things straight with the people I loved, I decided to make two visits I’d put off for too long. The first was to Davood, whom I had not seen since I dropped him off after our ill-fated trip to Evin Prison. On the way back that day, he barely spoke. But as he got out of the car, he turned his face away from me and stared into the distance. In a broken voice he said, “How can you wear the uniform of such a murderous regime, Reza?” He left without another word.

That question left a scar on my heart, a scar that grew more livid as I came to understand that I had no acceptable answer for it.

Mahin
khanoom,
Naser’s mother, opened the door for me when I arrived at the house. She was barefoot and dressed in black and she looked much older than her age. She showed me no sign of recognition, though when I asked her permission to enter and see Davood, she took me to his room.

Davood was lying on his bed. The lines on his face were deeper, longer, and more defined; his gray hair drooped over his forehead to one side. When he tried to smile to be polite, I could see that the effort nearly overwhelmed him. Had he forgotten how? Or did he now think of me as one of the enemy?

I bent toward him and kissed his wrinkled, warm, and fatherly hand. “Davood
jon,
I am here for your forgiveness. …” I was not sure if he was listening to me. He stared at a wall in front of him. But whether he was or not, I needed to tell him how I felt. “I am so deeply sorry. I wish I could change everything. I wish I could carry all your pain. I wish I had the power to bring back the peace you and your wife deserve. I wish I could bring back your children. Davood, I am not happy with who I have become. I am not happy with what has happened to us. Please forgive me,
pedar jon,
if I caused any pain to you. I am sorry, Davood
jon.
You are like my own father and I can’t see you like this.”

He hadn’t looked directly at me to this point, but when I spoke to him, calling him “dear father,” something he would never again hear from his own children, he turned slowly and made eye contact through his tears. His expression warmed. He put his hand over mine, tightly clasping it. As his sleepy brown eyes fixed onto mine, I felt the blessing under his fatherly touch. He then closed his eyes and, with a tender smile, fell asleep.

Davood died two days after my visit, his heart unable to bear the burden of so much grief.

A rage brewed inside me. I couldn’t tell Davood that I was going to use the uniform he despised to avenge his son’s unjust death in prison. I couldn’t tell him that with this uniform I was going to burn
and bury Parvaneh’s filthy murderers. His death was another sign from God that my mission was necessary. I needed to save other fathers from the misery that had killed Davood.

With new resolve, I approached Kazem, intent on involving him in helping me. I was going to give him a problem, and let him come up with the solution. Agha Joon had told me that doctors had diagnosed my aunt Giti with Parkinson’s disease, and that he wished a family member could attend to her during this difficult time. I now realized that I could use this event to take the dangerous steps I needed to take.

“Kazem, I just had a call from Agha Joon. My aunt Giti is in declining health and needs to go to a rest home. Agha Joon says it is time for me to pay back my dues. Since she provided for me during my stay in the U.S., it is my duty to go there and take care of her needs.” I shook my head. “He’s put me in a very awkward position.”

Kazem considered this for a moment. “I think you should help her, Reza. You owe her for all she did for you. We have to take care of our relatives.”

“But I am not sure how to go about it. I can’t just leave work. I have no idea how long I’ll need to stay there.”

“Don’t worry, Reza. I will talk to Rahim and take care of it.”

“You are a true friend, Kazem. You have always been there for me.” I swallowed my pride to be able to continue. “I never got to thank you for your efforts to rescue Naser. I knew you would if you could. Naser went a different way. You were always right that the Mujahedin manipulate our young people and that Naser did not see that.”

“It is sad what happens to these people. They are turning to these stupid opposition groups. For what? We have everything that God wants us to be in our Islamic government and they still allow themselves to fight against his rules!” He shook his head and said nothing more, never mentioning Naser by name or acknowledging the loss of our friend’s innocent siblings. I let that pass, as I needed him to help me with my travel plans.

I called Agha Joon first to let him know that I would be able to
travel to America. Then I went on the second trip I needed to make: to see my mother. The relationship between us had become strained and I had to fix that. The last time we talked was when she called me to let me know that Davood’s children had been arrested. It was no longer unusual for this much time to pass between conversations because it had become nearly impossible for us to talk without offending each other. My decision to join the Guards had driven a wedge between us. The last time we were in a room together, a discussion over the president at the time, Abolhassan Banisadr, turned into an ugly argument. Banisadr had been elected the first president of the Islamic Republic of Iran in January 1980 with almost 80 percent of the vote. He was a liberal counterpoint to the mullahs, someone Khomeini tolerated because he offered the illusion that the clerics hadn’t taken complete control of the country. More than a year after Banisadr’s election, people like my mom, who were so disappointed with the Islamic regime, saw him as the only hope for a free Iran. Although Khomeini had approved of this election as a concession to liberal powers in the country, Banisadr had taken to giving stirring speeches on the virtues of freedom and self-governance, criticizing the mullahs for their torture and execution of the opposition. He never directly challenged Khomeini, but incendiary slogans shouted by his crowds, such as “Free us from the mullahs!” were deemed acts against God.

My mother was among those who shouted this from the crowd. She participated in Banisadr’s rallies with much enthusiasm. I was secretly proud of her and I supported those courageous souls demonstrating on Banisadr’s behalf, but I did not want anything to happen to her. I tried to stop her from joining the rallies, especially after club-wielding Hezbollahi had beaten other demonstrators and the Guards had fired on the crowds—and especially after my best friend and his siblings lost their lives for doing less. She mistook my concern for her as being anti-Banisadr and our words became bitter.

With the hope that I could reconcile with my mother, and a wish that her motherly instinct would recognize the purity of my
intentions, I knocked on her door. When she opened it, she just glared at my beard and then left the door open and walked into the living room.

“I am going to Los Angeles to take care of Aunt Giti,” I said as I shut the door and followed her in. She turned up the television and sat on the couch.

“They are destroying our only hope,” she said as she stared at the TV. The broadcast showed a report about the rising opposition of the clergy against Banisadr.

“Things are not going to stay like this, Mom. I promise.” I was sure in my mind that I could make a difference with my plan. She glanced at me, got up, and turned off the television.

“Reza! I don’t know how someone like you, who never cared much about this religious nonsense, can suddenly come back from America and devote himself to a man like Khomeini. Do you even realize that what they are doing is inhumane? Do you see what is going on around you? Do you even care about Naser and what happened to him?”

Every accusation she had made carried a sting, but this one struck me right in the heart. I got up to leave.

“Your father and I had high hopes for you. We thought we raised a man.”

I slammed the door and left her house. For her safety, I had to bite my tongue and let my mother be ashamed of me. To tell her what I was about to do would put her at even greater risk. But now I was even more passionate about my mission.

I will prove it to you, Mom. I will prove it to you that you raised a man, not a coward.

I waited a few days for Kazem to get back to me about Rahim’s reaction to my travel plans. At that time, the government didn’t permit ordinary citizens to travel because of the war with Iraq, and I needed his approval to secure the necessary authorization. When Kazem called me into his office, I thought he was going to give me an answer.

“Come on in, Reza,” he said, motioning me to sit. He was behind his desk signing papers and reviewing some files. After putting the folders to the side, he looked up and said, “Thank God Imam Khomeini finally reclaimed the position of commander-in-chief from Banisadr. It’s about time. We can’t afford a president who is weak on war. This is a serious time in our movement. Our enemy, Saddam, is wreaking havoc on our soil and Banisadr is drawing up a truce and negotiating the terms to end the war.” He shook his head.

I knew then that Banisadr was in trouble. The mullahs did not intend to allow his verbal insurrection to continue. Nothing had so galvanized the population behind the mullahs as this war, and no one, not even the president, was going to interfere.

“Kazem, have you talked to Baradar Rahim yet?” I asked with hesitation.

“Is everything okay, Reza? You don’t seem to be yourself.”

“You know how Agha Joon is. He’s been calling me nonstop. He is so worried about his daughter.” I tried to compose myself. “He is afraid to lose her, too. He’s already lost his son and his wife. And now Aunt Giti is sick.”