Then They Came For Me (35 page)

Mohsen Safaei Farahani was our fifth cellmate. Farahani had been a member of parliament, deputy minister, and the head of Iran’s football federation. When Safaei entered the room later that night, he gave me a sad smile. We had met on a few previous occasions, and he had also known my father. In fact, he was the revolutionary who’d replaced him as CEO of Mana Construction Company after the revolution. “How are you, Mr. Bahari?” Safaei asked. “I’m so sorry I didn’t call you after your father passed away.”

Safaei had gotten to know my father well after taking over his job. I remember him calling our house seeking my father’s help in managing the company’s ten thousand employees. Even though my father was bitter about getting kicked out of his job for no good reason, he still felt responsible for the company he had built from scratch. My father spent hours explaining the company’s operations and personnel.

Unlike other new revolutionary leaders, Safaei wanted to learn from the experience of others, and this impressed my father. But he was still surprised by the naïveté of Safaei and many of his generation, how they thought they could change the world within a few years.

“It’s going to take a few decades for them to learn,” my father would say after each call with Safaei.

In 2000, when Safaei was elected as a reformist member of the parliament and spoke out against the hard-liners in the government, my father said with a sad smile and even sadder cynicism, “It took the reformists two decades to learn from their mistakes, but I’m sure they will be forced out of the government and will be replaced by a new group of idiots.” My father’s prophecy came true in 2005, when Ahmadinejad came to power and stripped Safaei and other reformists of all official positions.

I sat next to Safaei on the carpeted floor. He held my hand in
his as he asked about my father, and I could sense his regret for dedicating his life to a government that had paid him back by putting him behind bars.

I asked him if he knew why we had all been transferred to a communal cell and, more importantly, why I had been put in the same cell with four politicians.

“They had a scenario that didn’t work,” Safaei said as he stretched his back. “We were all arrested according to a plan, a scenario. But their plan was too complicated for the Revolutionary Guards to execute, and it didn’t work.”

Over the next several hours, happy and relieved to have others to speak with, we talked incessantly about the circumstances behind our arrests. We eventually came to the shared conclusion that the Guards had been planning the arrests months in advance and the postelection turmoil had provided a perfect excuse to execute them. Trusting in Khamenei’s words to the very letter, the Guards leadership truly believed that the green movement was led by a few dozen reformists who were aided by the West. By arresting those reformists and those who connected them with the West, the Guards’ higher-ups thought, they could finish people’s demands for reforms and put a stop to the greens.

As we spoke, I came to understand that among the VIP prisoners, Safaei and I had suffered more physical abuse than the others. Some of my new cellmates had heard Rosewater’s screams and insults while he was interrogating me, and had wondered what was going on. Safaei’s physical torture was an anomaly among my cellmates; none of them had been beaten. They were all religious people, and their “religious” torturers had known how to put psychological pressure on them. They had threatened to harm the prisoners’ loved ones and friends and had even fabricated lies about the private lives of reformist leaders. Some interrogators had gone further and forced a number of women into making false confessions, swearing that
they’d had illicit sexual relations with the prisoners, a crime punishable by death.

·   ·   ·

One of the real luxuries of the communal cell was the small television which showed the six main state channels. On the second day in the new cell, I was watching football when Rosewater summoned me to the interrogation room. I wished I could ask him to wait. It was the first time in months—since even before my arrest—that I had had a chance to watch a game. This one was a repeat showing of my favorite team, Liverpool, playing against Chelsea, but I didn’t know the final score, so it felt as if I were watching it live.

Unfortunately, I had no choice in the matter. In the interrogation room, Rosewater sat me in the chair, opened the window, and asked, “Digestive or orange flavor?” Without waiting for my answer, he placed a cup of tea, a few sugar cubes, and a saucer holding some biscuits on the writing arm of my chair.

“To start with,” he said in his most baritone voice, “I’d like to apologize for everything that’s happened so far.”

Apologize?
I didn’t know what to say. I nodded politely.

“You know interrogation is a difficult process. This is the beginning of a new phase.” From beneath my blindfold I saw Rosewater take a biscuit from my plate. “May I?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said, my voice revealing the anticipation I felt that this nightmare might finally be coming to an end.

“Our think tanks and several of our colleagues have been investigating your case, and I’m glad to say that we now know you’re not a spy. And the holy Islamic system is going to treat you with kindness.”

I had thought that I’d feel elated when I finally heard these words; instead, all I felt was furious.
So, it’s all water under the bridge?
I thought.
You bloody bastard. All the beatings? All the insults?
I remained quiet.

“I hope you aren’t resentful, Mazi,” Rosewater said in a pseudoconcerned tone, as if he were talking to a child whose candies had been taken away from him. “In the past few months I’ve had the privilege of sharing your company. I learned a lot from you.”

I hope you rot in hell
, I thought. “You’re very kind, sir.”

“It was me who recommended a quick investigation into your case. As you know, this could have taken several more months, even years, otherwise. You know that, don’t you, Mazi?”

“Yes, sir, thank you very much,” I mumbled, knowing that he’d had nothing to do with it. This had to be because of Paola’s work, and the efforts of others.

“No problem. What I wanted to talk to you about today can determine whether you will be released or not.” He pulled a chair close to me and sat down. He took another biscuit from my plate. “Even though we know that you’re not a spy in the classical sense of the word, you’re a media spy.”

“What is a media spy?” I asked faintly.

“Well, Mazi, we haven’t found a clear definition for it,” Rosewater said as he moved his head closer to me. “That’s the beauty of it. We’re giving you a chance to work with us to find a definition for it, and help us defeat media espionage.”

I was utterly confused. “Sorry, sir—am I being charged with something that you don’t have a definition for?”

“Well, ‘charged’ may be too strong a word for it.” Rosewater had obviously been briefed about media espionage but hadn’t had time to familiarize himself with the idea. I heard him going through some notes.

“Maziar, what is a spy?”

“A person who passes secret information related to the national security of a country to another country.”

“What is a journalist?”

My patience was running thin, but I had to humor him to see
where this would ultimately lead. “Someone who reports about events for print media, TV, or radio or Internet sites or blogs,” I said as calculatingly as I could. “The difference between a spy and a journalist is that a spy works secretly against the national security of a country for another government, but a journalist works openly—even if he uses secret sources—to inform the public. With all due respect, I really don’t understand what a media spy is, sir.”

“Slow down, Mazi. Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Rosewater said curtly. “So both journalists and spies deal with information. Isn’t that right?”

“Different kinds of information.”

“Information, nonetheless.” He was getting annoyed with my noncompliance. “What if a journalist’s reports are used against the national security of a country? For example, you filmed the demonstrations after the election despite the government’s orders that you should not report anything. The enemies have used your footage and writing against our holy Islamic Republic. Should we just revoke your press card or should we charge you with something more?”

Just cancel my press card and let me go, you motherfucker!
“Just cancel my press card, sir.”

“Of course you’d say that. But we think that what you’ve done is an example of media espionage. Even if we still can’t offer a cohesive definition of media espionage.” He stood up and began to pace the room. “As I told you in the beginning, no one can make a decision about your fate except for us, the Revolutionary Guards Corps.” This was the first time he’d mentioned that he was part of the Guards. “Mazi, you’re very lucky that we would like you to be freed and to help the Islamic system.”

This was not the first time I’d been promised release in exchange for my cooperation, and I was reluctant to allow the hope I was beginning to feel to truly take hold. “I’m willing to
help any way I can,” I said. “I’m a filmmaker and a journalist, and I can offer you my services when I’m out of prison.”

“Of course you can,” Rosewater said. “But the gentleman who’s going to be here in a few minutes will tell you how else you can help us. He’s my boss, so be very careful when you talk to him.”

Rosewater had left the room to get more tea and biscuits when his boss walked in. The Boss sounded like an old man, and his strong and distinct accent betrayed that he was from the city of Isfahan. The Boss pulled a chair up next to mine and began to gently rub my back. “I hope you’ve had a pleasant time, Mr. Bahari.”

“Well, sir,” I said, “because of its nature, prison is a very difficult place to be.”

“Soon you’ll be out of here,” the Boss reassured me. I closed my eyes under the blindfold, trying to absorb his words. “But there are certain formalities that we have to go through before releasing you. I’m sure you know what I mean?”

“Not really, sir,” I said apologetically.

“Well, do you know why we’re releasing you?” the Boss asked.

“Because I’ve repented?”

“Yes, but what will the manifestations of this repentance be?”

“I’ll make films for you and write articles in defense of the Islamic Republic,” I offered.

“That’s very good, but we need you to cooperate with us in other ways.” The Boss got up from his chair and moved even closer to me. He had polished brown shoes and creased brown trousers. Rosewater walked in and put a fresh cup of tea and digestive biscuits on the arm of my chair.

“Would you like me to stay, sir?” Rosewater asked the Boss.

“Maybe it’s better if I have a private talk with Mr. Bahari,” the Boss answered. I heard Rosewater leave the room.

“He is a very devout soldier,” the Boss said about Rosewater. “He’s tough and a firm believer but you and I … we are intellectuals. I think we can work this out between ourselves. If not, I can just leave and ask your interrogator to carry on his duty.”

I was too afraid to say anything. I wanted to hear him tell me again that I would be released. Keeping my eyes closed, I quietly sipped my tea.

“I was really impressed with your first TV interview, and even then I thought,
Here’s a man we can work with
,” the Boss said as he tapped my shoulder. “You have many contacts in the West who are among the opposition to our holy regime. You also know the Western media inside out. So, Mr. Bahari, all we’re asking from you is to help us identify how the Americans and Zionists are using the media to wage a war against our government. And in doing so, Mr. Bahari, you will help us to defeat our enemies.”

He placed a list on my chair: dozens of names of journalists and opposition activists working inside and outside Iran, including many of my friends, as well as some people I’d never met.

“This is a partial list of people we would like you to monitor,” the Boss said. He then laid out his plan for me: after my release, I would provide them with a weekly report about anti-Iranian activities in the West. To accomplish this, I was to approach different journalists and politicians, become friends with them, and then report their activities to the Revolutionary Guards.

I accepted immediately and without hesitation. The Boss lifted my blindfold, and I reached for the pen he handed me and signed the letter of commitment on my desk:

As I saw it, I was not being asked to admit to any guilt. I was simply being forced to make a promise that I had no intention of keeping. This was a useless piece of paper—of course I would sign it. I was elated. There was a real possibility that I would be released in time to be with Paola for the birth of our baby daughter.

Rosewater reentered the room.

“Congratulations, sir,” the Boss said to Rosewater. “Because of your endeavor, Mr. Bahari seems to have learned about the might of our forces, sir. It’s an important achievement.”

“With your permission, sir,” Rosewater said, “I would like to remind Mazi—this is the term of endearment I use for Mr. Bahari, sir—that when he steps out of Evin Prison, he should not feel that he’s safe. The Revolutionary Guards Corps has allies all over the world. If Mr. Bahari ever decides to abuse our trust and act against us, we can always bring him back in a bag.”

“Mr. Bahari is a wise and intelligent man,” the Boss said. “He knows that we are his friends. Don’t you, Mr. Bahari?”

“Of course. When will I be released, sir?” I asked. “My wife is going to give birth in twenty days, on October twenty-sixth. Will I be able to see the birth of my child?”

“I think so,” said the Boss vaguely. “This letter of commitment means that you’ve trusted the Islamic system, and in return we’ll make sure that you don’t have to go through the bitter experience of the last three months for much longer.”