The summer of 1988 was the best summer of my life. The war was over and I was no longer afraid of falling bombs nor of being brainwashed to run through a field full of landmines. The Concours results had been declared and mine were good enough to secure me a seat at the prestigious Iran University of Medical Sciences.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That was also the summer that I met Maryam. Maryam was the sister of Mehdi, a schoolmate. That summer it seemed as if the world was opening up before us. I met Maryam at Mellat Park, Tehran\u2019s Hyde Park, and it was love at first sight for me. She was not looking for a boyfriend, however, and our relationship began with us being good friends. It was five years before we would realize that we loved one another and take our relationship more seriously. That summer, I began to take pains about my appearance again. I wanted to enjoy my life and there seemed to be no reason why I shouldn\u2019t: I was going to be a medical student, a dream come true for any teenager. And, most important, the war was over.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It wasn\u2019t long, though, before the Committee\u2019s 4WDs took to patrolling the streets again, arresting youngsters for flouting the restrictions governing the interactions between the sexes. No severe punishments were doled out to us, however, and we were let off with no more than warnings after a few of the girls burst into tears. Another day, we were on our way to the mountains when we were stopped by the police. Apparently my hairstyle was \u2018Western\u2019\u2014I simply hadn\u2019t cut it recently\u2014and I was to be given an immediate haircut. But only one side of my head was shaved! I looked like something out of a science fiction film, a creature from another galaxy! I was left with no option but to come back to town and shave the rest of my hair.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Nevertheless, these were mere pinpricks compared to events in the political sphere. New horrors were on their way: Khomeini was about to launch his last and bloodiest campaign.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
While we were enjoying ourselves in the parks, at our secret parties and in the mountains, the regime decided\u2014now that the external threats were taken care of\u2014to turn to internal security issues. Over the past eight years, thanks to the war and to the extreme national security measures, most of the internal opposition movements had been suppressed or rendered inactive. But in the summer of 1988, the People\u2019s Mujahideen, now a terrorist organization based in Iraq, launched a massive offensive against Iran. The Revolutionary Guard discovered the plot, however, and trapped and massacred the invading troops near the border.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A few years later, during my military service, we were taken by bus to that same spot. The commander enthusiastically explained how they had opened fire from the top of the mountain and slaughtered thousands in this very valley, where we had set up camp. Most of the dead, both boys and girls, had been barely 20. To set an example, he said, they hadn\u2019t spared a single life. Even those who tried to escape had been shot. No prisoners. No wounded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I couldn\u2019t help but imagine the field covered with the bodies of 18-year-olds. Most of those \u2018soldiers\u2019 had escaped Iran in search of freedom. The PMO had recruited them by holding out the false hope of overthrowing the Islamic Republic and then sent them off to fight alongside the Iraqi infantry. They had no access to any information about events in the outside world. Masoud Rajavi, their leader, was their only source of news, and they had been trained to worship him like a god. Trapped in yet another orgy of brainwashing, they were the burnt generation. A generation that was promised freedom but was given only death.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
This was the situation when Khomeini, trying to discourage the rise of any domestic rebels, declared that all those members of the opposition who were being detained in Iranian prisons, who still did not believe in the Islamic Republic of Iran or in the values of the Revolution, would be executed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The executions began in the summer. Between 3,000 and 30,000 political prisoners were executed and buried in mass graves at the Khavaran cemetery outside Tehran. The actual numbers were never revealed and perhaps never will be. Only the government has the figures and it has no plans for their disclosure. The Revolutionary Court set up branches across the prisons to try the political prisoners all over again. Those who convinced the judges that they had changed their attitude and repented were either released or allowed to continue with their sentences. Those who did not were executed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The prisoners were divided into two main groups: Moharebs (Warriors against God) and Mortads (Apostates). The Moharebs were mainly PMO members or affiliates and the Mortads mainly communists. The tribunal had a different set of questions for each group.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018The trials were short and decisive,\u2019 Dad\u2019s friend Hussein told us. \u2018No lawyers were allowed. We were tried, one by one.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Hussein was one of the few survivors and he told us all about it some months later, after his release. Though quite a few of Dad\u2019s friends had gathered at our home to welcome him back, there were still many missing, most notably Reza Company. He had not been as lucky as Hussein.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018We knew something horrible was going on but we had no idea of its scope. Inmates were summoned to the court in groups. Some of them returned. Most of them didn\u2019t. No one knew what happened to those who didn\u2019t. Having lived in the prison for the past few years, we knew we had to prepare ourselves for the worst.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n
No one dared mention Reza Company. But Hussein had not forgotten.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018Reza and I were summoned in the same group. Sitting outside the judge\u2019s room, we discussed our strategies. He said he was a true communist. And since he was already serving his sentence for that crime, there were no reasons to renounce his beliefs now. But I\u2019m a coward. I don\u2019t care about communism any more. I only wanted to see Heidi and my son one more time.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Heidi took his hand. No one said a word.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018Reza went into the room first. I could hear him shouting, that these questions were irrelevant and that this was like the Inquisition. He said he wouldn\u2019t answer. That, according to the Constitution, no one was allowed to enquire about anyone else\u2019s beliefs. Then, everything went silent . . . And a few minutes later, another name was called . . .\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He took a big gulp from the glass of water.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018You don\u2019t need to explain everything,\u2019 said Heidi.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018I want to. Or else I\u2019ll die,\u2019 he said. His hair had turned grey over the past few years and his \u2018four-square\u2019 moustache was now white. But what struck me most was the look in his eyes. I couldn\u2019t find a single sparkle of life in them anymore, in those eyes that had always shone with authority.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018By the time it was my turn, I had already made up my mind. I entered. They didn\u2019t let me sit. The judge, a middle-aged, man with a beard, calmly asked me my name, age, profession, conviction and the date for my release. Then it was time for the real questions.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018 \u201cAre you Muslim?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018 \u201cI was born a Muslim. I never renounced my religion.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018 \u201cBut you were a communist, weren\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018 \u201cI was a member of the Tudeh Party but I never renounced Islam.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018 \u201cAre you still a communist?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018 \u201cNo. I\u2019ve learnt a lot about my mistakes in prison.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018 \u201cDo you believe in the principles of the Islamic Republic and the values of the Revolution?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018 \u201cI do.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018 \u201cWhat will you do when you are released from prison?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018 \u201cI\u2019ll spend most of my time with my family. They have suffered a lot because of my involvement in politics. My son, who was only two when I was arrested, has been deprived of my presence during his childhood. I\u2019ll try to find a decent job. I\u2019ll never even think of getting involved in politics again.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018The prosecutor seemed pleased with my answers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018The room had three doors, including the one through which I had entered. While he finished writing his report, the man pointed to the left door and I assumed he meant I was supposed to leave the room through that door.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He found out later that the prisoners were divided into two groups: those who exited through the left and those who went through the right.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018Quite a few prisoners were standing outside in the corridor. No one knew what was going on. Most of them had told the prosecutor that they still believed in their original ideals, that they had not repented. I looked around for Reza but he wasn\u2019t there. Someone told me that they took prisoners away in groups of five to seven, and that they had already taken Reza away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018Finally, four other prisoners and I were taken out and made to board a lorry waiting outside. As soon as the lorry began to move, the officer accompanying us told us that we were going to be executed. And that we had better use the short time we had left to make peace with God.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018They took us to an open space, where the firing squad was waiting. The squad commander asked the officer for our death sentences. The officer said he had not yet received them. But he asked the commander to proceed with the executions. The orders would arrive in a few minutes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018But the commander protested and said that he would not proceed unless he had the official orders.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018 \u201cI have executed a hundred people today!\u201d he shouted, \u201cTwo I killed while I waited for their papers only to learn that they weren\u2019t supposed to die!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That commander had saved Hussein\u2019s life. When the papers arrived they realized that he was not meant to be there and so he was taken back to his cell.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018That was how Reza Company died.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Hussein kept his promise to the prosecutor: he stayed away from politics for the rest of his life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A few months later, Grand Ayatollah Hossein-Ali Montazeri, Khomeini\u2019s designated successor, resigned in protest against the arbitrary executions. Khomeini accepted his resignation immediately. Yet another coup was under way: the Constitution was changed and the post of Prime Minister dropped from the government. Absolute power was now vested in the Supreme Leader. Further, the Guardian Council, whose members were chosen by the Leader, was given the power to vet and veto any candidate seeking elected office.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Once Montazeri resigned, the jokes we had so enjoyed making at his expense ceased and he became one of the most popular clerics in Iran. He was put under house arrest in Qom for 10 years and banned from teaching or publishing in the national papers. Nevertheless, he managed to publish his memoirs online, exposing the scope of the regime\u2019s oppression and cruelty. He played a significant role in the post-election protests of 2009, mobilizing the religious sector of society in which he was held in high esteem. When he died later that year, millions of Iranian protesters attended his burial ceremony. It was a way of showing their opposition to Ahmadinejad\u2019s government at the same time as their solidarity with Montazeri and his views.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Montazeri was once asked by a reporter why he stood up to Khomeini, thereby giving the latter an excuse to remove him from power. He could just as easily have waited a few months for Khomeini\u2019s death. Then, as leader, he could have implemented his more liberal and democratic ideas.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018What if I died before that?\u2019 he replied. \u2018How would I explain my silence to Allah?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n
Going to medical school is\u2014or was, back in 1988\u2014a dream come true for so many young Iranians. Given how tough the competition was, securing a place meant that you ranked among the brightest and the best. On my way to enrolment I felt I was walking on air. As, I am sure, did the rest of my classmates. I was convinced of my future fame as the one who cured cancer or perhaps eradicated AIDS. Although after some thought, I decided what I really wanted to be was a psychiatrist and cure schizophrenia. The Nobel Prize didn\u2019t look so far off either . . . All the girls would fall in love with me . . . I was going to be rich and famous and respected . . .<\/p>\n\n\n\n
No more school, no more struggling with those irrelevant subjects, no more Islamic Department. I was finally free.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Our very first class brought us crashing back to earth. Although the medical college was co-ed, the boys sat on the left and the girls on the right. We were not allowed to speak to one another, even if it was about our studies. The canteens were separate as well.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The Islamic Association of Students had only one purpose: to spy on the students. The student rep, chosen by the Islamic Association\u2014voting was not an option\u2014had the same mission. The girls had their own student rep although she was subordinate to her male counterpart. If any of the boys wanted to communicate with any of the girls, he had to contact the male rep. The male rep would discuss the problem with the female rep and she would pass on the message to the girl. And vice versa.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A conversation between the male and female rep was certainly worth watching. They could not look into one another\u2019s eyes: that would lead to sexual thoughts and those would in turn lead them to sin. So they sat back to back and addressed the wall instead!<\/p>\n\n\n\n
This problem was solved over the next two or three years: the reps got married and thus resolved their conversational problems. The Islamic Association of Students was, in an ironic twist of fate, gradually integrated into the National Bureau for Enforcing the Unity of Students and began to advocate freedom of speech, secularism and democracy. By the time we graduated eight years later, in 1996, most of my hardliner, pro-government and religious classmates had turned into liberal advocates of democracy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I could tell I was a different person as soon as I began classes at university. I was no longer the coward I had turned into during high school. It was as if some invisible hand had turned on a \u2018liberty\u2019 switch in my head. I wore jeans and T-shirts while my classmates wore suits, carried Samsonite briefcases and practised calling one another \u2018Doctor\u2019. I let my hair grow\u2014which was going to create so much trouble for me later\u2014and decided to be as funny as I could, to make as many, boy and girl, friends as possible and to break all the rules.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
As it happened, university turned out to be worse than high school. The sanctions meant that we had minimal access to textbooks and the library had no money. We had no choice but to buy the books on the black market until some publishers identified the gap and decided to exploit the lack of copyright restrictions to their advantage. They began to reprint the textbooks and then sell them at a significantly lower price than the original editions. But these textbooks, once we managed to get a few, weren\u2019t really that useful since the lecturers tested us only on what they had said in class. If you walked into a lecture, you\u2019d find all the students with their heads bowed, taking down every single word uttered by the lecturer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My friend Mehdi and I decided to listen to the lectures and then read the relevant chapters from the textbooks. We were medical students, after all, and not scribes! But when we had our quarter-semester exams we found out the hard way that there was no beating this particular system.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was then that my first publishing idea struck me. Why not release the students from this burden of taking notes? I shared my idea with Mehdi and a few other friends and they all loved it: we would record the lectures and then divide them among the students for transcription. Then we could photocopy the transcripts for distribution.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And we did it. Mehdi and I acted as both editors and transcribers. Although it was not long before everyone grew fed up of my horrible handwriting and asked me to resign as transcriber and be content with being editor and publisher. Thus began my first step in the direction of my lifelong passion: publishing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But the problem lay in recording the lectures. Most of the lecturers preferred to see the students writing copious notes. It gave them a degree of deniability and hence they were loath to allow recordings. We needed to be particularly clever in choosing a spot for the tape recorder; close enough to be effective yet not obvious enough to court discovery. My friends transcribed the lectures and I edited them. This involved translating relevant portions from the textbooks and adding them in parentheses, then photocopying relevant images and, finally, putting together the pages. Mehdi would rewrite the entire lecture in his excellent handwriting and we\u2019d create an interesting cover for the handbook. Then we\u2019d make 200 photocopies and distribute them among those students who had registered to receive them. When I bought my IBM 80286 later that year\u2014sold at a subsidized price to my father as a university professor\u2014I began to type the lectures. I also taught myself page layouts and the basic principles of design.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We stopped taking notes and were able, instead, to pay attention to the lecturer. The handbooks became so popular that they remained in use over the next few years. So much so that when the lecturers decided to modify their lectures according to the revisions in the new editions of the textbooks, the next generation of students merely incorporated the changes in our handbooks instead of creating their own.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Thus passed the first year of medical school. I began to work and earned some money by being a private tutor to rich high-school students who wanted to pass the school examinations or the Concours but weren\u2019t smart enough to study and prepare themselves. I hated the job. These youngsters believed that hiring a private tutor meant they no longer needed to make any effort themselves. But it was good money and I couldn\u2019t afford to lose the job.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In the meantime, my hair grew longer and I grew bolder.<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n
2 June 1989. Mehdi and I were at his house. We were preparing for our anatomy exam the next day when he turned on the TV for a short break and we heard the news.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Our beloved Imam Khomeini\u2019s condition has deteriorated in the past few hours. Hereby we implore his followers and the whole nation to pray for him, asking God to cure him and keep his blessed existence for the Islamic Nation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He had been hospitalized a few days earlier because of cancer induced internal bleeding and no one had doubted his recovery. It wasn\u2019t the first time he had been hospitalized and the best doctors in the country tended him. We turned off the TV and thought nothing of the crowd around his house praying for his return. I was completely preoccupied with my own worries: the exam was hours away and I had a lot of ground to cover.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I was still in Mehdi\u2019s room at daybreak and far from confident. What the hell was Ligamentum arteriosum<\/em> and why did I need to know about it?<\/p>\n\n\n\n Suddenly Mehdi rushed in, clutching his dad\u2019s small radio.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018 Enna Lellah va Enna Elaiheh Raje\u2019oon…\u2019 (Truly! To All\u00e2h we belong and truly, to Him we shall return).<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ayatollah Rouhollah Khomeini was dead!<\/p>\n\n\n\n I threw aside my textbook, petrified by this simple but unbelievable piece of news. Everything was going to change. The Imam\u2019s earthly remains were to be kept at Tehran\u2019s Grand Musalla (prayer centre) prior to the burial so that his admirers could pay their last respects and bid him farewell. I knew I had to go. The number of people at an Iranian funeral is in some measure a reflection of the person\u2019s righteousness in life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I had doubts about whether Khomeini had been a good man but the millions who attended his funeral did not. I went to the Musalla early in the morning but couldn\u2019t get closer than three miles from the body. But I was patient, unlike the weeping thousands who jostled and trampled one another to get just an inch closer to their Imam. A dozen died over those three days, trampled under the feet of the multitudes thronging for a last glimpse of their leader. Their numbers swelled by the minute. As if all of Iran\u2019s 60 million had erupted in a spontaneous pilgrimage towards Tehran. The police couldn\u2019t control the mourners; it was the people themselves who took on the responsibility of maintaining order. Buffeted by the crowds, I kept asking myself what I was doing there. I wasn\u2019t an admirer, nor was I the sort who attended funerals unless it was absolutely imperative that I do so. Then why, instead of staying at home and watching events unfold on TV, had I risked my life in the midst of this teeming crowd?<\/p>\n\n\n\n Didn\u2019t I blame Khomeini for Ahmadreza\u2019s death? For Reza Company\u2019s? For Ebrahim\u2019s? Even for Mr Moradi\u2019s? Why was I there? I didn\u2019t try to get close to the coffin. Abandoning my fate in the hands of the crowd, I let it carry me towards my destiny. I seemed to be floating on the angry waves of a river in full spate. I was lifted by the flood and, often, my feet lost touch with the ground. Suddenly I found myself a few yards away from his lifeless body. The white shroud, the black turban kept on his chest, the glass coffin . . . Why had they put him on display like that? Those hands, those feet, those clothes, kissed and admired for 11 years . . . adored, respected, worshipped, feared . . . but never loved. And I knew, then, why I was there. I was the only one who had loved that man. I felt a lump in my throat. He had saved me when I most needed consolation. He had always been there for me, in my thoughts. His actions, his decisions, his vanity, his cruelty, had broken my heart. But can a child hate Santa Claus when he finds out he isn\u2019t real? The tyrant had reverted to my childhood guardian angel, the one who assured me with his deep, kind eyes that I needn\u2019t worry about Azadeh. I bade farewell to the last remnant of my childhood and made my way back through the crazed crowd, wondering what the future held in store. Nothing would be the same, that was certain. To everyone\u2019s surprise, the Council of Experts chose Ali Khamenei, President, as the Supreme Leader. He wasn\u2019t even an Ayatollah but was immediately granted the title.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Rafsanjani, who won the presidential election, was the one who convinced the Council of Experts to do so. Imam Khomeini, he claimed, had once told him that Khamenei was the best choice for the position of Supreme Leader. They believed him without asking him the obvious: if Khomeini intended to appoint Khamenei as his successor, why had he not announced it or discussed it with anyone but Rafsanjani?<\/p>\n\n\n\n Rafsanjani began rebuilding the country by trying to repair\u2019s Iran\u2019s relations with the world and by initiating serious industrial reconstruction. Loans were made to manufacturers to build new factories and to expand Iran\u2019s industrial base. That year, Agha-djoon, my grandfather, died.<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n Life took a dramatic turn during my third year at medical school. It was our last year at University. Clinical training at the hospitals would begin in the fourth year, then internships in the sixth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Three things happened at the same time. First, a difference of opinion broke out among the advocates of the Islamic Republic as did the first signs of a reformist movement. Dr Abdolkarim Soroush, a pharmacologist and theologian and one of the brains behind the Cultural Revolution, had undergone a startling metamorphosis. He claimed in an article that theology was not a science\u2014despite the government\u2019s insistence\u2014since it was based on predetermined principles. As a point of view, it was fiercely criticized by one of the clerics and lecturers in the religious school. This exchange of opinions took everyone by surprise, especially us students. We found it hard to believe that a free debate was possible in Iran\u2019s fundamentalist regime. Second, my hair: I had decided to let it grow as a protest against the \u2018doctor\u2019 stereotype. One could be a good doctor even if one had long hair and wore jeans. But the university didn\u2019t approve. I was summoned by the Disciplinary Committee and given a stern warning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Third, my lecture on \u2018the healthy personality\u2019. Some of my classmates and I had been invited to give a lecture on a medical topic of our choosing. I chose \u2018The Characteristics of a Healthy Personality\u2019. To my surprise, there were more than 500 people in the audience. I began my lecture with the seven contemporary icons of psychology: Gordon Allport, Carl Gustave Jung, Carl Rogers, Viktor Frankl, Abraham Maslow, Alfred Adler and Jean Piaget. I explained how Frankl developed his school of Logo therapy after surviving the concentration camps, and how Allport believed that a wholesome person always tries to push boundaries and step beyond the limits. I described Maslow\u2019s pyramid of needs and Jung\u2019s struggle to achieve self-realization.<\/p>\n\n\n\n While I was speaking, I heard a noise at the back of the hall and noticed a few members of the Islamic Association moving about. I carried on, describing how a wholesome person takes nothing for granted, how he or she always tries to achieve more and challenges any prescribed rules.<\/p>\n\n\n\n That was it. A student with a long beard and a white shirt handed me a slip of paper. \u2018Two minutes to wrap up,\u2019 it said. But why? I was supposed to speak for an hour and I was only halfway through. It was a mistake. I put it aside and continued. Exactly two minutes later, I received another note. \u2018Shut up! Or we will disconnect the microphone.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n I felt the old rage bubbling up. I tore up the note and continued talking about Frankl\u2019s experiences in the concentration camps, about how he set himself the task of ensuring that no one around him lost hope.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And then my microphone went dead.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Because of a technical problem,\u2019 I shouted, \u2018I can\u2019t use the microphone but I believe my voice is loud enough for you to hear me.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n It was another 15 minutes before I wrapped up my speech. The beards couldn\u2019t do anything else to stop me since there were professors and lecturers present. But the look in their eyes confirmed that I was in trouble indeed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I was suddenly afraid. Later that day, when I was once again hauled up before the Disciplinary Committee, I learnt that I had. First of all, I hadn\u2019t begun my lecture with the name of Allah and nor had I continued with a verse from the Holy Quran.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018I forgot!\u2019 I said, \u2018I was too nervous!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018You should have known that Allah\u2019s name would wipe away all fear.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n My second mistake was to have referred to the tragedy of the Jews in the Nazi concentration camps. This was long before the infamous denial of the Holocaust by Ahmadinejad.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Recent evidence as well as research shows that the entire story about the Jews in the concentration camps is a myth created by the Israelis.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n It was the first time I had heard about this \u2018research\u2019 but I said nothing other than \u2018I didn\u2019t know\u2019.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The last and most important accusation shook me to the core. \u2018The Holy Quran has explained clearly and completely what a wholesome personality is. But you made no mention of it. You went on and on about these Western psychologists, most of whom are Jews. We don\u2019t need their heretic theories.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n I felt sick to my stomach.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Aren\u2019t you a med. student, Hamid?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018I am,\u2019 my classmate answered, looking straight into my eyes, \u2018but psychology is not medicine.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018The Holy Quran talks about spiritual well-being,\u2019 I said. \u2018Psychology is the science of the behaviour of the human mind.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n He peered at me over his glasses, \u2018And are you implying that the human mind can exist without the soul?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n This wasn\u2019t a person with whom one could reason. \u2018So you cut short my speech because you disagree with my views?\u2019 I asked instead.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018We cut it short as a warning to you. Do your studies, cut your hair, choose clothes more appropriate for a doctor and don\u2019t try to give any more lectures. We have decided not to let you choose a specialization. If you do not cooperate, we will stop your classes altogether.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n Unknown to us, the transformation had already begun among members of the Islamic Association of Students. The further they went with real \u2018science\u2019, the more critical they became of their own fundamentalist ideas. Today, the Islamic Association of Students is one of the main opposition groups within the Islamic Republic.<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n Madar died in 1991, the same year that Dad finally managed to buy a small flat in Tehran and we moved out of our rented home. Madar\u2019s death was a most devastating blow. She was the purest person I had known and my dearest friend. She died alone, in her small room in Qom. We had been trying to persuade her to move to Tehran and live with us but she refused. She didn\u2019t want to lose her independence. And, she\u2019d said to me, if she died in Tehran then Dad wouldn\u2019t bury her in Qom, near the holy shrine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n According to her landlady, she suffered a heart attack during her sunset prayers. We received the news late at night and set off for Qom early in the morning. By the time we reached her rooms, the ambulance had already taken her body to the morgue. But her prayer chador and mat were still spread on the floor. Dad went to the morgue to take care of the paperwork while I sat in the middle of the room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I could not shed a single tear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I knew where she kept her most intimate things, and, when I opened the box, her will lay on top of everything else, including a shroud from Mecca and the deeds to the grave she had bought for herself in a Qom cemetery. She had instructed us explicitly not to spend any money for her wake.<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n Maryam and I were married in 1994, while we were still students. I had been working as a layout designer for the academic journal of the Iranian Foundry men\u2019s Society; Dad was still part of its Board. At the same time, between getting married, working at the hospital and my job at the journal, I wrote my first novel, The Grief of the Moon, about a doctor who has grown tired of challenging Death: it is an unfair battle which he always loses. Finally, he decides to embark on a quest, to find a weapon that can defeat Death. This quest, spanning 38 years, takes him to the border between reality and fantasy. There he discovers that it is not Death that he must defeat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then began the all too familiar adventure of submitting the manuscript, my first encounter with the Iranian publishing industry. I believed I was a new Dostoyevsky waiting to be discovered by the literary world. Unfortunately, none of the publishers were of the same opinion. Looking back after 14 years in publishing, I must confess that I, too, would have rejected my manuscript. Finally, I thought it best to publish The Grief of the Moon<\/em> myself. My two-year stint with journal production had made me familiar with the process. I submitted the manuscript to the Book Department of the Ministry of Culture and Islamic the gaze of the gazelle<\/p>\n\n\n\n Guidance\u2014yes, we have a ministry where people go to be \u2018guided\u2019\u2014to get prepublication permission.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Muhammad Khatami had just resigned from the Ministry of Culture, protesting the passing of a resolution in the Supreme Council of the Cultural Revolution which sanctioned prepublication censorship. A publisher\u2019s office had just been razed to the ground for publishing a novel about a gay cleric and the judiciary was already trying one of Khatami\u2019s deputies for permitting its publication. Another book, Women without Men by Shahrnoosh Parsipour, a prominent Iranian female writer, had been banned. The author was in jail and the official who had signed the prepublication permission had been summoned to court. Ali Larijani, later Speaker of the Majlis (parliament) was appointed in Khatami\u2019s place and he made sure that all the policies approved by the Supreme Council were implemented.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Although I feared that the controversial content of my book would encourage the censors to ban it, I received my prepublication permission without any trouble.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Printing 1,500 copies would cost around US$150: all my savings. But I was determined to go ahead. I did the cover design and typesetting myself and commissioned the printer at Dad\u2019s university to print and bind it. The day I laid my hands on the first copies, fresh off the press, was the best day of my life. I was sure that all the critics in the world would discover my literary genius . . . I would sell hundreds of thousands of copies . . . I would win every literary prize . . . I would become an icon of contemporary Persian literature . . .<\/p>\n\n\n\n But I hadn\u2019t thought about distribution! By the time I realized that publishing is nothing without effective distribution, it was too late. I had no money left for marketing. No distributor accepted my book. I was ready to give them any amount of discount but it wasn\u2019t about figures. They were sure they couldn\u2019t sell the book and warehouse space was too precious to be wasted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I kept all 1,500 in my room and began to sell them, one by one. I sold around 200 to my friends, family, family friends and classmates. Then I set out for the booksellers. Every day I\u2019d put 50 into my rucksack and go from one bookshop to another, trying to convince the booksellers to stock a few. Though I was mostly shown the door, I did manage to sell another 300. My main problem was that I was a medical intern: I had to work 90 hours a week because I needed to support Maryam and myself. I couldn\u2019t visit the bookshops regularly to replenish their stocks. The book sold relatively well given the difficulties, and I also received good reviews. But I could spare it no more thought over the next two years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I spent most of my time in the hospital. Back home, I worked some more. Sometimes I slept.<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n The two years I spent in the hospitals were among the worst years of my life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I was a happy man when I began my internship: no more memorizing thousands of pages of text, no more terrifying exams, no more Disciplinary Committee. I could finally help the suffering, I could finally save someone\u2019s life. I did not know then that I still had to read thousands of pages to keep myself updated. I still had to endure the scrutiny of the University\u2019s internal intelligence officers. And there wasn\u2019t much I could do to help the suffering.<\/p>\n\n\n\n We were in the hospital from 7.30 a.m. until 2 p.m. We had night shifts two or three times a week and we took turns to cover the weekends. That meant that we worked about 90 hours a week. But this two-year marathon wasn\u2019t my problem. My problem was the system itself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n University hospitals were public. One of the cornerstones of the Revolution\u2019s propaganda, one with which Khomeini had appeased the masses, was that education and health care should be free to all. Health care was not free\u2014anyone not covered by insurance of some kind had to pay\u2014and, to make things worse, we were duty-bound to turn away patients thought to be in a critical condition. How often we\u2019d have patients suffering from myocardial infarctions or serious crash injuries. They were brought in and then left unattended: their relatives were busy trying to get hold of some money. We were not allowed to approach the patients unless we received official approval from the accounts department. I couldn\u2019t believe this was true until I once put an IV line into a homeless patient who had been hit by a car and who was bleeding to death. He had no one; if I didn\u2019t try to replace the blood, he would be dead by the time the social service officer arrived to check if he was eligible for free treatment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I was severely reprimanded by the head of ER and charged for the equipment and the medication. I paid without a thought but I couldn\u2019t afford to do this on a regular basis. So I watched patients dying in ER despite knowing I could help. This was destroying my spirits; so I went to see my rich grandfather, to ask him to help with the fund I was trying to put together. He donated some money and that perhaps saved the lives of a few people but he refused to replenish the fund thereafter. And I realized that, while the present system was in place, one poor intern working 90 hours a week couldn\u2019t really make very much of a difference.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Something else that bothered me was the \u2018under-treatment\u2019 of patients by some of the consultants. They encouraged patients to visit their private clinics where they could charge much more than at the public hospital. In the public sector, the specialists worked for a fixed fee and a very small commission. There wasn\u2019t anything I could do about this but bully the consultants to pay my patients the attention they deserved. Understandably, this made me rather unpopular.<\/p>\n\n\n\n There were \u2018good\u2019 doctors, too, the very embodiment of the Hippocratic oath, who asked some of the underprivileged patients to visit them in their private practices. Not to charge them more but to treat them for free. But they were few and far between and not much liked by their colleagues.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Add to all of this the silence. Since the war and the mass execution of political prisoners in 1988, what one heard most was the sound of silence. Life went on, or seemed to . . . Children played in the streets, fans cheered their favourite teams, the streets thrummed with cars . . . but the eyes of the secret police were everywhere. Even up in the mountains, where the Iranians went every weekend in their cars and pretended to have a good time. This was also when the women began to push at their boundaries, to flout the more rigid constraints of the hijab. Following the decree of a collective unconscious, they began to pull back their headscarves, they began to show their hair and they wore shorter, tighter coats.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Neda would have been 12 or 13 then. She was growing up at a time when the invisible battle between the women and the system had just begun. Women were trying to gain their individual freedom by patiently insisting upon what they considered to be their rights, and the system was trying not to alienate them completely yet hoping to slow the change.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Silence and fear prevailed. No one dared say a word. Not even I, not even when I was beaten up by the Islamic goons.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I was supposed to pick up Mehdi from the main square in Yousef-Abad Street and then go to the university library to do some research for our theses. I was there at 2 p.m, in my battered second-hand Fiat 131, waiting for him, when the car\u2019s engine suddenly died. Shit, I thought, what am I supposed to do now? I got out of the car, opened the bonnet and began a check: oil, starter, petrol pump, coil, distributor . . . my face and arms were soon stained black with oil. Dammit, I thought, now I\u2019ll have to take the car to the garage instead of going to the library. I closed the bonnet and leaned on it, nervous, exhausted, sweating and furious, waiting for Mehdi to show up and help me move the car.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Leave!\u2019 barked an authoritative voice, from somewhere behind me. I turned to see who it was and found three huge men glaring at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Leave! Are you deaf?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Who the hell are you?\u2019 I asked, although I had the feeling I already knew. But I was too anxious to behave.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018None of your business. You can\u2019t stay here. The girl\u2019s school is going to give over soon and we\u2019re not having you here fooling around.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Girls? I haven\u2019t got anything to do with girls! My car\u2019s broken down.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018I don\u2019t care. If you don\u2019t leave now, we\u2019ll break your legs.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Can\u2019t you see? I\u2019m covered in mud and oil. Who would try to pick up girls like this?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018I am going to tell you one last time. Go away! Now!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n All of a sudden, the strain of the years of repression proved to be too much and I exploded. I was too angry to control myself. If I had said yes and left, nothing would have happened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Go to hell! I\u2019m not going anywhere! I\u2019m staying right here . . .\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n Before I could finish, I was hurled to the ground and beaten mercilessly. I tried to cover my face against the blows that landed on my stomach, while my attackers shouted, \u2018You wimp! Asshole! We didn\u2019t give our blood so that motherfuckers like you can walk the streets!\u2019 \u2018This one is for the martyrs!\u2019 another one yelled. As if I had killed the martyrs . . .<\/p>\n\n\n\n People passed by, ignoring the sight. No one turned around to see who was being ground under the feet of the three thugs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They finally grew tired, or perhaps thought it best to stop before they killed me. Blood was pouring out of my mouth and nose and I couldn\u2019t move my arms and legs. One of them grabbed me, put me on his motorbike and whisked me off to the police station. They threw me into a room where I stayed for a few hours until a conscript arrived and took me to the officer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018They\u2019ve complained that you were picking up girls in front of the high school.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Lieutenant, Sir,\u2019 I said, imploringly, \u2018I\u2019m a married man. A medical student. I was waiting for my friend to join me and then go to the library. My car broke down. I was trying to repair it when your men began to beat me to death.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n The officer looked at my arms, covered in oil, and shook his head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018They were not my men. They were the Basij.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018I thought the Basij were fighting our enemies.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Now that the war is over, the Basij is fighting our internal enemies.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018But I\u2019m not an enemy, Sir. I\u2019m only a student . . .\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018I understand,\u2019 he said, shaking his head in sympathy, \u2018and I believe you. But a complaint has been filed against you. So I have to detain you and send you to court tomorrow. The judge will decide what is to be done.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018But why? Will those Basijis come to the court as well? I want to file a complaint against them.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018You can\u2019t. No one can file a complaint against a member of the Basij.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018I can,\u2019 I lied, \u2018I have friends in high places. What if Ayatollah Rayshahri hears what you\u2019ve done to his best friend\u2019s son?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n I knew that Ayatollah Rayshahri, a powerful judge and cleric, was a friend of Hadj-Agha.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The officer\u2019s voice softened at the name.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018There is one thing I can do. If you sign this paper and promise that you regret disturbing the girls and will never do that again, I will let you go.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018I\u2019ll sign nothing. I want my lawyer.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018You\u2019ve been watching too many Hollywood films, my son,\u2019 he laughed, \u2018Who said you were entitled to a lawyer? Sign, or go to court.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018I want to make a phone call.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018No phone calls. Sign or go back to your cell.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018I\u2019ll go back to my cell.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n I knew he\u2019d release me if I signed the paper. He needed that piece of paper so that I couldn\u2019t file a complaint against the Basij. I had been beaten, offended, humiliated. I had nothing else to lose and I was determined not to give up. Unable to stay calm, I began to curse and shout.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The conscript opened the door and said, \u2018Shut up, man! Do you want them to beat you again?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n I felt he was sorry for me and that I could use the sympathy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Hey, man, can you call someone for me?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018What will you give me if I do?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018What do you want?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Cigarettes. You got any?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n I gave him my packet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Call this number for me. Tell him his son\u2019s here. Tell him to call Hadj-Agha and get in touch with Rayshahri.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n To my utmost surprise, Hadj-Agha accompanied Dad to the police station. He told them that if they didn\u2019t release me on the spot, then all of them would be tried the next day for unjustified violence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I was called from my cell and the same officer told me that I could go and that I didn\u2019t need to sign anything. But I was too furious.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018I want to complain against those men who beat me.\u2019 \u2018Don\u2019t overdo it,\u2019 muttered Hadj-Agha. \u2018Shut up and get out.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n Thus were my nerves shattered during my two-year internship. Hundreds of people died before my eyes. I could have saved some of them. As I recited the Islamic version of the Hippocratic oath during my graduation ceremony in the spring of 1996, I felt this was all a huge mistake.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Had I shown more perseverance, perhaps I would have been able to make more of a difference. But I hadn\u2019t known that corruption had permeated every aspect and every level of society.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I was going to practice medicine for another three years before I finally decided to give it up. When I decided to abandon my medical career, I could never have imagined that one day, years later, my name would appear among the top ten search results on Google when one typed in \u2018Iran\u2019 and \u2018doctor\u2019. Not because I was a good doctor but because I had failed to save the life of a young girl bleeding to death in the street.<\/p>\n\n\n\n How could I have imagined it, then?<\/p>\n\n\n\n Google was yet to be invented.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The audience realized that something was amiss, although I had done nothing wrong.<\/p>\n\n\n\n