A TIME TO BETRAY (9 page)

My mother got up and turned down the volume on the television. “I don’t know what to feel now. This is a treacherous act by the Americans. But what other choice have the mullahs left for them. The mullahs took innocent people hostage for no other reason than dirty political games. God help us all if these mullahs are always so lucky.” She did not wait to hear my thoughts, turning to go to bed.

The next night, Ayatollah Khomeini claimed that God had created the sandstorm to defeat the Great Satan and called upon the people to go to their rooftops and shout
“Allaho Akbar”
at the heavens. Quickly, the swell of voices rose joyously in every corner of the city.

My mother was not home that night, so I decided to go up on the rooftop to see what was going on. It was an eerie scene. I watched as some neighbors turned out their lights, pretending they were not home while the Khomeini followers screamed
“Allaho Akbar”
into the night, their homes ablaze with light.

The feelings of those on the rooftops were abundantly clear. I wondered about those who chose to cower in the dark, though. Were they wondering how this ayatollah was able to accomplish the impossible so consistently? Less than two years before, he’d ordered a king from his throne. Then he made President Carter scurry to appease him. Now he was calling forth sandstorms to defeat our enemies and protect our cities. What more proof did they need that God was on his side?

Meanwhile, Kazem and Naser still hadn’t spoken and the chances became dimmer that they ever would. In the months that followed, the clashes between Khomeini loyalists and the Mujahedin escalated to a terrifying pitch. Hezbollahi—“those from the Party of God”—attacked the meeting places and businesses of the Mujahedin, provoking just the sort of violence that the Guards needed to move in and violently pacify. At work I heard congratulatory talk among
my brothers of their rounding up Mujahedin members and taking them to the dreaded Evin Prison, where the shah’s SAVAK had once hosted torture sessions.

One day in June, I stopped by Kazem’s office to talk to him about a minor work-related issue. I’d barely sat down when he said, “I think it would be a good idea if you talk to Naser.”

“Naser?” I said, hoping he was asking me to broker a reunion.

“Tell him to stop hanging around people associated with the Mujahedin. He’s going to end up in Evin Prison.”

I swallowed. Kazem worked in the Intelligence Unit. He must have heard something. Was Naser’s name coming up during interrogations?

“You know how stubborn he is, Reza,” Kazem said, breaking through my skittish thoughts. “You need to talk some sense into him.”

“He’s just a sympathizer, Kazem. He’s not involved in any demonstrations or any of the violence.”

“You and I both know the authorities won’t make that distinction. If he’s arrested at a Mujahedin meeting, my brothers in the Intelligence Unit will treat him as any other betrayer.”

“But can’t you vouch for him?”

When Kazem broke eye contact, I detected worry in his voice. “He’ll listen to you, Reza.”

I rushed home, thankful that Kazem still treasured his friendship with Naser enough to give me this warning. I vowed that I would get through to Naser and make him rethink his actions. As soon as I got home, I called Naser and told him that I needed to see him.

He arrived at my mother’s condo a short while later. When he entered and saw the look on my face, he knew immediately why I’d asked him over. “Kazem said something to you, didn’t he?”

I motioned for him to sit down and sat across from him, leaning forward as I did so. “Kazem told me he still considers you a friend, Naser. He asked me to talk to you. You’re on a dangerous path with these guys. I respect that you believe what you believe. I admit that
some in the government are abusing their power. But the Mujahedin are not the answer, either. They are fighting for power, too.”

Naser’s eyes flashed anger. “Reza, have you forgotten what Shariati taught us? We must stand up for what’s right, even at the cost of our own lives. If you don’t say what you believe about this madman, you’re complicit in evil.”

I held out a hand, as though trying to reach through to him. “Look, this is not just about saving a friendship. Kazem works in the Intelligence Unit. He must have heard something specific—about you.”

Naser stood up and paced around my mother’s living room. “Look around, Reza. Everything is changing. Banning the opposition parties, shutting down the universities, attacking whoever disagrees with them. They’re taking our rights away. They’re arresting innocent people for nothing more than reading a flyer.”

I tried to calm him down, attempting to soothe my own rattled nerves at the same time. “We’re in a transition, and change is always difficult. Maybe you should be more careful. Things will get better, you’ll see.”

Naser took a moment before speaking again. When he did, there was pain in his voice. “I wish I felt the same way, Reza. I don’t want to argue with you, but if people don’t speak up now, it will only get worse.”

We didn’t say much to each other after that. It was obvious that I wasn’t going to be able to change his mind, and if that were the case, I couldn’t simply pass the time with him as though nothing was going on. An image of one of the carefree pranks we’d played as boys came into my head and tore at my heart.

Before he left that night, Naser smiled at me and said,
“Bi-khialesh.”
He was telling me to let it be. Naser’s courage, which I once admired, now seemed reckless. Writing letters in defiance of the shah’s censors was one thing. Being seen with rebels targeted for torture by the government was another.

My mother had stayed in the kitchen the entire time Naser was at
the apartment, not wanting to get in our way. Now she came into the living room with a cup of tea in her hand. She had a bitter smile on her face and she was shaking her head.

“Things will get better,” she said in a tone that mocked the conciliatory message I had tried to send Naser. “For who? For the mullahs?”

I didn’t say anything. The conversation with Naser had left me spent.

“I need to go to Agha Joon’s. Please take me there.”

I nodded, and we prepared to go. Before we left the apartment, my mother took a scarf and covered her hair. “A lifetime of freedom, and now I have to cover myself or be confronted by those Hezbollahi thugs,” she said darkly.

In the elevator, we ran into one of my mother’s neighbors. A retired teacher who once supported Khomeini, he looked at me with disgust because he knew I worked for the Guards. He smiled at my mother, though. “
Salam,
Mrs. Kahlili.” He looked at the scarf on my mom’s hair. “I hope to God that these mullahs will be kicked out of our country soon and we’ll all be free.”

Mom looked up and whispered, “Hope to God.”

It had been only one year and four months since a million devotees met Khomeini at the airport and already many Iranians were hoping for the overthrow of his regime. Brigadier General Ayat Mohagheghi, a highly decorated air force commander, tried to turn that hope into action but he instead served as another example of the omnipotence of the imam.

I first heard of the incident the way I heard about most things: from Kazem. The public would learn about it the next day. I walked into a hallway to see Guards rushing about excitedly and ran into Kazem.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

Kazem’s eyes shone. “The air force pilots tried to stage a coup. But Imam Khomeini found out and squashed it! God is great, Reza. The brothers moved in to arrest these traitors. I’ll keep you informed.”
He rushed off to attend to his intelligence business, leaving me stunned.

I pieced together the whole story from bits and snatches of gossip among my brothers in the Guards. Iran’s best fighter pilots and paratroopers, led by General Mohagheghi, planned to fly F-14 Tomcats from the Shahrokhi Air Base in Hamadan and bomb strategic military targets. They also planned to drop seven hundred and fifty pounds of cluster bombs on Ayatollah Khomeini’s home in Jamaran, which was only a six-minute flight from the air base. Another team of officers was to take over the radio/television building in Tehran and announce that a new Western-style democracy was in control. The night of the coup, Guards stormed the conspirators’ camps. Every officer arrested was tortured but refused to give the names of those few who escaped.

Khomeini was there to save the revolution once again. Later, the government radio station announced that the mother of one of the officers had turned them in, so loyal was she to the Islamic Republic.

The gathering at my grandparents’ house that week was limited to watching the trial of those officers. Naser and Davood were there, as well as my mother and many of my aunts and uncles. My relatives wanted to pull out their hair from frustration over what might have been. “How can this happen?” my grandfather said. “How can professional air force pilots and decorated generals be outwitted by these mullahs?”

The inquisitors brought Mohagheghi before the cameras freshly beaten. Hojatoleslam Reyshahri, a theologian and the chief judge of the Military Revolutionary Tribunal, questioned him. Despite the general’s unshaven face and haggard appearance, and though he faced torture the day before and the specter of execution the following day, he looked self-assured and movie-star handsome as he sat in a white short-sleeved summer shirt. Without shame, he explained why his duty compelled him to stage a coup.

“What right does this imbecile mullah have to act like the moral
superior to a general?” demanded Agha Joon. “This pervert married the daughter of Ayatollah Ali Meshkini when she was nine!”

Reyshahri wanted the officers to confess that they were mere puppets in a plot by Israel or the U.S. They each stated that they acted on their own initiative, not out of corruption by foreign agents, but out of their sacred oath to protect the Iranian people. “My decision to participate in the plot stemmed from my disillusionment in the face of what was happening to my family and country,” Mohagheghi said unwaveringly.

Those words resonated with me more than anything from Khomeini or even Shariati. Mohagheghi didn’t plan the coup to attain paradise. He didn’t do it to mimic Imam Hussein. He did it out of compassion for his people.

“Imagine,” said Davood, finally breaking our somber silence, “if we had awakened that morning and heard these men had taken our country back.”

“And killed the mullahs,” my mother spat.

When the camera panned back to show all the unshaved faces of the officers, Davood said, “I wonder which one of their mothers turned them in?” his voice dripping with loathing.

My grandfather waved his hand angrily at the television. “It’s the new propaganda these dogs are peddling, congratulating mothers who turn in their children and children who turn in their parents. Anyone who puts Khomeini above his own family is lauded as a hero.”

“They’ll even execute their own children if they’re associated with the Mujahedin,” Davood added.

I shot a glance at Naser, who was leaning back in his chair with his arms folded defiantly.

“It’s all nonsense,” Agha Joon grumbled. “No mother of an F-14 pilot would turn him in because she’s loyal to Khomeini. It must have been the British who informed the mullahs.”

“Here we go with the British again,” said Davood.

Davood and Agha Joon had a long tradition of reading between the lines of state-controlled newscasts in search of the real story. Kazem, Naser, and I had many times listened to their debates for entertainment.

“It behooves the British to keep the mullahs in power,” said Agha Joon, “so the country will go backward hundreds of years while they take advantage of our oil reserves. Keep people hypnotized with religion. Instill fear. You think the mullahs overthrew the shah by themselves?”

Davood shook his head. “It’s not always the British. We have new superpowers now. I think it’s the Russians. They always wanted to influence Iran, and they are one of the main causes of the shah’s downfall. Now they are trying to protect this new regime.”

Naser moved forward in his chair. “Why would the West—or even the East for that matter—want Iran to progress when they can take advantage of our oil while having stupid people rule the country? It’s up to us to protect our rights and control our own future.”

“The first step,” my mother said, “is to get rid of the mullahs.”

No one was addressing the elephant in the room: me. I was sitting on the couch, feeling sad for the officers, yet wearing a beard to show my commitment to traditional religious values and leaving for work every day as a member of the Revolutionary Guards. Every time my mother called those who still supported the revolution “donkeys,” “jackals,” “traitors,” and “imbeciles,” she was including me—whether she meant to or not—with those who supported the revolution. My mother was secular to the point of agnosticism. She did not pray. She was no fan of the shah, but she hated the mullahs. And there sat her only son, a sorry-ass symbol of tyranny.

Only Grandma had a smile on her face, walking in and out of the room serving food and then tea and dessert, telling everyone not to make themselves upset over politics. “This too shall pass,” she said. “As all things do.”

She was intervening on my behalf. Khanoom Bozorg was protective of me and gently inserted her kindness between her grandson
and her daughter-in-law without angering anyone. She was proud of my education and the fact that I still did my prayers just as she had taught me.

“Say a prayer that the pilots will not be executed,” she said, patting my cheek with her wrinkled hand. I remember smiling sadly at her kind face, knowing prayers of that sort were not answered anymore.

For the first time, I felt uncomfortable putting on my uniform the next morning. A beaming Kazem greeted me at work, eager to share the joy that God had stepped in to save Khomeini and vanquish the traitors. The rising confidence among my brothers in the Guards was palpable. They all knew they were going to heaven and they would be glad to die for Khomeini.

I sat amid the celebration vacillating between two forces—the invincibility of Khomeini and the humanity of my family—pulling my heart in different directions. Everyone I knew was committed to something. Only I was indecisive.