Prisoner of Tehran: A Memoir (No Series) (30 page)

On Saturday morning, I said a brief good-bye to Andre without looking into his eyes. I didn’t want to hold him, because I knew I wouldn’t be able to let go. We had made a choice and had to stand by it. After all, I had known that it could come to this. My father drove me to the main gate of Evin; I had decided it was too dangerous for Andre to take me. My father was very quiet. I told him to leave right away and watched his car disappear around the corner. I wondered if they would torture me. But why would they? To them, I was a Muslim woman who had converted to Christianity and had married a Christian man, so I deserved to die. They didn’t want to extract information from me; this was about capital punishment. “I will die with dignity,” I thought, and only when this thought crossed my mind did I realize this was true as long as I did the right thing, as long as I followed my beliefs. And I had no doubt that no matter what was done to Taraneh, she had died with dignity, too.

Adjusting my chador, I went up to one of the guards standing in front of the gate and told him about the phone call. He asked my name and went inside. After a few minutes, he returned and told me to follow him. The heavy metal door closed behind me. We had entered a small room. He picked up a phone and dialed a number.

“She’s here,” was all he said.

This could be the last day of my life. Probably Hamehd was on his way to greet me. I promised myself to keep my head up. The door opened and Mohammad stepped in. I sighed with relief.

“Marina, it’s good to see you again. How have you been?” he said.

“Very well, thank you, and you?”

“Thanks to God, I’ve been fine. Follow me.”

I followed him. He didn’t tell me to put on a blindfold. There were flowers planted everywhere, which seemed completely out of place in Evin. He led me into a building and into a room that was furnished with a desk and five or six chairs. A picture of Khomeini decorated the wall.

“Please, sit down,” he said. “Tell me, what have you been doing since you got out of here?”

“Nothing much. I was studying most of the time and got my high school diploma.”

“That’s very good. Anything else?”

“Not really.”

He smiled and shook his head. “You’re in a lot of trouble again, and I think you know what I’m talking about, but you’re very lucky to have a few friends around here. Hamehd had plans for you, but we’ve been able to stop him.”

“What do you mean?”

“He found out about your second marriage and tried to have the Courts of Islamic Revolution condemn you to death. But you knew this could happen, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“And you still did it?”

“Yes.”

“Do you call this bravery or stupidity?”

“Neither. I just did what I believed was right.”

“Well, this time, luck was on your side. Hard-liners like Hamehd have been losing support in Evin. I think Ali’s assassination made people realize that hard-liners had gone too far. Ali had asked me to watch your back if anything happened to him, and although I’m against what you’ve done, I honored his wish. But I will not do this again. I asked you here to warn you to think a little before you act next time.”

“I appreciate that.”

“The Moosavis have been asking about you. I told them you’d be here today. They’re here to see you.”

The door opened, and they all walked in. I was glad to see them. Little Ali had grown; he was an adorable little toddler and stared at me suspiciously. Akram embraced me. We all sat down.

“I’m happy to see you well, Marina. Is everything okay with you?” asked Mr. Moosavi.

“Yes, thank you.”

“So, you have married again. Are you happy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re very stubborn. You could’ve been in a lot of trouble if we weren’t watching out for you.”

“I know, sir, and I thank you for it.”

“I haven’t touched your money, and if you want it, it’s yours.”

“No, thank you. I’m fine.”

“This is your Aunt Marina, Ali. Go and give her a kiss,” Akram said to her little boy. He slowly walked toward me.

“Come here, Ali,” I said. “You’re a big boy now!”

He came closer, kissed my cheek, and ran back to his mother.

Mrs. Moosavi was crying, and I embraced her. My life would have been very different if Ali hadn’t died. Then they would have remained my family, the way they had been for fifteen months. I never wanted Ali to be harmed in any way. I felt guilty for not loving him and for not hating him, but it was over, and there was nothing I could do. My feelings toward him had always been and would remain a combination of anger, frustration, fear, and uncertainty.

From Evin, I walked to the highway and waved down a cab. I had lived. It was as if death were trying to push me away, to protect me, and I couldn’t understand the reason why. The world moved and shimmered in front of my eyes. Why had I survived when so many had not? Sarah had not been released, and I should have asked Mr. Moosavi about her, but I had not been able to think straight. I wondered if he had been able to do anything for her.

At home, when I opened the door to the yard, I found myself in Andre’s arms. He squeezed me tight, trembling.

“Thank God, thank God! Are you okay? I can’t believe they let you go! What happened?”

I told him they were doing a routine check, the same way they did on everyone who had been in Evin.

“Did they ask if you had married?”

“No,” I lied. “They either don’t know, or they know and don’t really care.”

“Does this mean that they won’t bother us again?”

“I don’t know, but we should be okay at least for a little while. But don’t forget that they’re very unpredictable. It’s hard to say what they’ll do tomorrow.”

I knew that if hard-liners like Hamehd gained more power and support in Evin, my situation would change dramatically.

I was terrified of the war, not only because of the missile attacks but because, in a few months, Andre had to leave for his mandatory military service. Then we heard of a special government program that allowed those with a master’s degree to teach in universities in remote cities for three years instead of fulfilling their military duty. This was our only hope to keep Andre from the front; he had just received his master’s degree. He applied to the program and was accepted.

We had to move to Zahedan, a city located in southeastern Iran close to the borders of Pakistan and Afghanistan. Andre was to become a lecturer at the University of Sistan and Baluchestan. He had to make a trip to Zahedan about a month before his starting date to attend to the paperwork and make the necessary arrangements. We went together, because I had never been to that part of the country, and I was curious to see my future home.

The flight from Tehran to Zahedan took about an hour and a half. As the plane began its descent, I looked out of my little window. It looked as if the earth had been laid to rest, covered with a shroud of sand. I noticed a small, mildly green dot in the distance and watched it grow amid the serenity of the endless desert. Clay and brick buildings had sprouted out of the sand, reaching toward the precious shade of scarce trees.

The plane landed, and we took a cab to see the city. The sunlight, which wasn’t filtered by air pollution or humidity, was so intense it felt alien and hostile. The road connecting the airport to the city was in surprisingly good shape, splitting the flatness of the landscape like an old scar. In downtown Zahedan, small stores stood on both sides of narrow streets, and men and women wearing traditional garments—loose, baggy pants and long shirts for men, and ankle-length hand-embroidered dresses and loose scarves for women—filled the sidewalks. I had never seen a camel up close, and here, standing by the road, a camel was slowly and patiently chewing on something, watching the traffic with its large, bored eyes that seemed to have seen it all. In newer, more prosperous neighborhoods, large houses were built with high-quality bricks, but as we traveled north, buildings became smaller and were mainly made of mud bricks. At the northern borders of the city stood tall, rocky hills that seemed to have holes in them like openings to caves, and the cab driver told us that people had dug out those caves to live in them. I saw a group of barefoot boys running after a torn plastic ball under the sizzling sun, laughing. The cab driver asked us the reason for our visit, and Andre explained to him that he was to teach at the university.

“The shah built the university here,” the driver said, “and it has been very good for us. Now well-educated people come here from Tehran and other big cities to teach our kids and the other kids who come here from faraway places,” the driver said.

In March 1987, Andre and I put our belongings in our car and started our thousand-mile journey toward Zahedan. After a couple of hours, our small, yellow Renault 5 seemed to be alone in the world. Through the open windows, the hot wind whipped against my face. A sea of sand danced over the road in golden waves, and a little further toward the horizon, the earth vanished under the mirage of a quivering, silver ocean. For hours, the landscape didn’t change and the road didn’t curve. Sometimes, when we stopped to stretch our legs, I realized how quiet the desert was without the constant hum of the car. By the sea, even on a calm day, one could always hear the murmur of the water, and in a forest, even if all the animals had chosen not to make a sound, one could hear the leaves brushing against each other. But here, silence was absolute. At sunset, the sun dissolved into the sizzling, red end of the earth, and the night came slowly and silently, cooling the burning wind. I felt like I could touch the brilliant stars that filled the night sky with their tiny, pulsing bodies. Here, there were no reflections or echoes, a land so remote and forgotten that it seemed beyond the reach of time.

The University of Sistan and Baluchestan had built a residential area for its lecturers within its grounds. The houses were not luxurious but well built, comfortable, and clean. We had all the necessities of life. But here, tap water was heavy with minerals and wasn’t drinkable, so two or three times a week, we had to drive to the water purification plant, which was about ten minutes away, to fill up large containers with drinking water.

Andre was very busy with his job. He was either teaching, or when he was home, he was preparing for his classes and correcting papers. The solitude and silence of the desert helped me push my past away. All day, I did ordinary things like cleaning and cooking, and when the work was done, I did it all over again. I rarely listened to the radio and didn’t turn on the television or read any books. There weren’t any books left for me to read, but strangely, I didn’t miss them. I was simply exhausted, like a marathon runner who had run for hours, had managed to crawl through the finish line, and had finally collapsed. My mind only did the things it had to do. It reminded me to do my simple duties: the laundry was always done, the floors were spotless, and the food was on the table at the right time.

Andre had wonderful colleagues at the university. We sometimes got together with them and their families, and they were all very kind to us. They didn’t know anything about my past, and I could chat with them about new recipes and decorating ideas.

The war had not touched Zahedan, which was quite far from the Iran-Iraq border, but the missile attacks on Tehran and seven other cities continued. I called my mother almost every day to make sure they were okay. Although it was good to sleep through the night without random explosions threatening to blow you into pieces, I felt like a traitor. I begged my parents to come stay with us in Zahedan for a while, but my father refused, saying he had to go to work. I asked him to at least let my mother come, and he said there was no need to worry; Tehran was a very large city, and the chances of getting hit by a missile were very slim. Then, my mother called me one morning.

“Maman, you okay?”

“I’m fine. I came to stay with Marie for a few days. It’s safer here.”

Marie lived in a high-rise condo building, not too far from my parents’ apartment in Tehran. This didn’t make sense.

“Maman, what are you talking about? It’s safer
here
in Zahedan. Tehran is not safe, no matter where you are.”

“Trust me. It’s better here.”

“Maman, tell me what’s going on right now, or I’ll get on the next plane and come and find out for myself.”

“Our street was hit yesterday morning.”

My parents lived on a small court. If a missile had hit their street when my mother was home, I couldn’t understand how she wasn’t hurt.

“Where did it hit exactly?”

“First house on the corner.”

Four houses down the street, and she wasn’t hurt?

“Their house is gone. Now it’s just a big, dark hole as if it was never there. I didn’t really know them. They were quiet people, our age. The man was at work. His wife and his grandson were killed. Two people going by in a car were killed, too. A few of the neighbors were hurt but not seriously. There was hardly anyone home; people were either at work or had gone shopping.”

I tried to imagine the scene my mother had just described, but I couldn’t.

“The man came home, and his family was gone,” my mother continued. “There’s only a hole. Just a couple of minutes before it came, the siren sounded. I was in the kitchen on the phone with your Aunt Negar. She said, ‘There goes the siren. Hang up and go somewhere safe.’ I squeezed myself between the fridge and the cabinet. And it came. It was loud. Boom! I thought I had exploded. But then, it was dead quiet, like I had gone deaf. I came out. There was glass everywhere. Some of it had turned into crunchy dust. And the larger pieces were lodged in the walls like arrows. The house was standing, but it was a mess. I found pieces of your closet door in the front yard.”