The Gaze of the Gazelle – Arash Hejazi

Read the full text of The Gaze of the Gazelle by Arash Hejazi, online

Arash Hejazi — Wed, 24 Feb 2021 16:13:22 +0000

My memoir, published originally in 2011, is now available on this website for anyone who would like to read the full text. The Kindle edition is available via Amazon.

Read the story here

For the eyes of Neda (Per gli occhi di Neda) – L’espresso 23-06-2011

Arash Hejazi — Mon, 01 May 2017 10:48:05 +0000

Epilogue, October 2010

Arash Hejazi — Sat, 20 Feb 2016 10:00:00 +0000

Half the people on the Circle Line are reading the Evening Standard; a dozen are reading books and the rest are just staring into space. I try to spot someone looking at the others. No one. No one looks into the eyes of another. This stillness on the move is a constant feature of London when the working day comes to an end. People are exhausted. They’re looking forward to going home, taking a shower, chatting with the family, watching TV.

An earthquake in Haiti. A hundred thousand deaths. An ad asks you to donate £2 to the cause: help hundreds of thousands left homeless in the streets of Port-au-Prince. That’s how you can make your day worthwhile: help others, thousands of miles away. You don’t need to think about the fact that 80 per cent of your donation goes into administrative costs and that the Haitians will be lucky if they receive the remaining 20. You don’t need to look into the face of doom: it’s too far away from this train on the Circle Line. You’re a cavalier, donating £2 to humanitarian causes. You’ve got your problems, too, don’t forget, although you’re luckier than your friends who have been struggling to get a job for the past six months. You’re working hard. You wake up at 6 in the morning, try to catch the train on time. You make yourself felt at work so that your hard work and your skills are appreciated yet not too much: you don’t want to be unpopular with your colleagues. How many days until the weekend? You begin to plan: go out, meet friends, catch a glimpse of the sun and the blue sky. Have a few pints at the pub, watch some TV, spend some time with the family, perhaps run for an hour. Make sure you don’t look at other people. Although you have no trouble looking into the face of Steve Jobs as he holds his new invention across half a page of the Evening Standard, that famous sparkle of satisfaction in his eyes. A feeling you have longed for all your life but never even got close.

And there I am, in the crowd on the wagon, the only one looking at the rest. These are decent people, working hard to earn a living, securing the future for their children. They have their concerns, their pains, their joys. But how can I compare them to myself? I have been pulled out of my previous life and thrown onto this Circle Line on which I commute to work every day. I am Iranian. And I am not able to go back to my country because I witnessed the murder of a girl who became the symbol of Iranian suffering. My life that I had taken for granted has been taken away from me: I have lost my career, my country, my life’s achievements. I have to learn to settle down in the UK, to acquire the British way of life, to understand British values. Or I will turn into one of those hundreds of thousands of exiles who never go back to their countries while, in fact, they never left it. As my friend Paulo used to say, in every life there comes a moment when one has to leave.

I want to leave now. I have to understand this way of life. I have to teach myself to enjoy the Evening Standard, Metro, X Factor, Britain’s Got Talent, Rugby Union, Cricket, Tesco. And I have to learn how to satisfy my craving to change lives by donating £2 a month to a charity of my choice. I shall have to forget my love for international literature and let British crime stories or misery literature satisfy my yearning to read.

I am a writer, a publisher, a doctor. These are transferable skills. So what do I miss? What makes my heart so heavy that I can barely move on? You have to know what you are leaving behind before you can move on. It’s like the farewell kiss of a passionate couple who know they will never see each other again. Nothing in the world can replace that kiss; it will fill the void of nostalgia forever.

I never had a chance to say goodbye. So I cling to my past forever. I left Iran in a hurry, terrified of an arrest at the airport. I was so overwhelmed with fear and I had so much adrenalin pumping through my veins that I didn’t even stop to think that I might never see my country again. I didn’t realize that that was my last drive through the streets of Tehran, my birthplace. That I might never see the Sierra Alborz again. Nor the infinite scope of the Caspian Sea. Nor the everlasting blue of the Persian Gulf.

But I have heard that the mountains in Scotland look very much like the Alborz and I’m sure this ocean will inspire the same infinite joy as the Caspian Sea.

There’s something else I miss. Perhaps it’s the collective dream of a nation older than history itself.

In the UK, people complain about the unemployment rates, the corruption among politicians, the bad weather, the recession, Scotland Yard’s inefficiency in failing to find the murderer of a young woman whose body has been found by a lake in Kensington Gardens, the increase in travel fares, taxes, etc. But they ignore the fact that they have freedom of speech and individual freedom, that there is a system that actually prosecutes corruption among politicians, that the unemployed can receive job-seekers’ allowance and housing benefits, and that they can travel on their holidays to warm, beautiful places anywhere in the world. They ignore the fact that thousands of miles away there is a country, one of the richest in the world, that kills people when they ask for their votes to be counted, rapes them in the prisons and tortures them to death without accepting responsibility for any of its cruelties. A country that, despite possessing the world’s fourth largest oil reservoir and the second largest natural gas reserves, has people struggling to put bread on their tables every night.

Leaving this country infected with political corruption, tyranny, oppression, poverty and injustice shouldn’t be a bad thing; tasting freedom shouldn’t be so painful. Then why am I incapable of enjoying this freedom? Why is my heart away from me, afloat on the waves of the Green?

The people I see on the Tube every day are trying hard to kill their knowledge of death’s existence. They play at immortality, banishing death to a faraway land from where it can only manifest itself through fictional situations: an action film, a crime story, a bit of news. I guess that’s why the 47-second video of Neda’s death shocked the world in a matter of hours. She looked straight into its eyes before she died. I think most of the millions who watched her had never had such a close encounter with death. Neda was the testimony that everything can end here and now. The fact was overwhelming for a world that thought it had recovered from the horrors of the Second World War and the Cold War.

Maybe that’s what I miss. I decide there and then to tell this story. This is the story that may help me heal. It is also my farewell to my beloved mystical land, the land of Arash the Archer, the Land of Kay Khusro, the Land of Neda. It will also be a reminder to all the people on the Tube: don’t take what you have for granted. After reading my story they may embrace life with a little more enthusiasm and passion, living every moment as if it were the last.

Because this, too, shall pass.

PART VII: We are not dirt and dust, we are the nation of Iran

Arash Hejazi — Fri, 19 Feb 2016 09:59:00 +0000

(2009–2010)

The people who had been disappointed with Khatami in his last two years as President and who had therefore refused to vote in the next election were now excited. Experiencing the four years of terror under Ahmadinejad had brought most people to their senses, especially the younger generation looking for quick results. One thing was clear: they had been better off with Khatami. The four years of Ahmadinejad’s administration had taught them an important lesson: change should happen gradually.

When Khatami declared he would try for the presidency, I decided to do anything I could to support him. Mehdi Karroubi, another prominent reformist figure, had also announced his candidacy but I was sure that Khatami was the one we needed now. Apparently, millions of others had come to the same conclusion.

I followed the news obsessively, and regularly called home. However, a month later, Mir-Hussein Mousavi also announced his candidacy. Khatami pulled out immediately and chose to endorse Mousavi. Doubts were raised about this move. Mousavi had not been directly involved in politics for 20 years; the younger generation didn’t know him and he was said to be more conservative than Khatami.

On the other hand, there was a lot of discussion about exactly why he had stayed away from politics over the last 20 years: because he had stood up to Khamenei when he was Prime Minister and Khamenei was President. There were rumours that Mousavi had decided to try for the presidency several times but the Supreme Leader had said that, while he was alive, Mousavi would not be allowed any executive posts.

It was also said that this time Mousavi had decided to run regardless of Khamenei’s disapproval. The hardliners were certain he would be disqualified by the Guardian Council. But, after the unprecedented popularity he gained during the campaign, there was no way of disqualifying him without compromising the authenticity of the election in the eyes of the outside world.

The Green Wave began when, at an enormous gathering and in the presence of thousands of Khatami’s supporters, Khatami handed over a green scarf to Mousavi, showing his absolute support. The green scarf symbolized the fact that they were both descendants of Prophet Muhammad, that they were both Sayyeds. This symbolic act officially launched the Green Wave, which became the Green Movement after the election and was soon, most unusually, adopted by all classes in society thus changing the religious implications of the gesture and giving it the wider connotations of prosperity and peace.

The Supreme Leader was perhaps happy that Khatami had pulled out because he had a high chance of unseating Ahmadinejad. He approved of Mousavi’s candidacy based on the assumption that though he was a prominent reformist figure and his presence would help the election look more democratic, he had been out of politics for 20 years and the younger generation, most likely to determine the outcome of the election, was not familiar with him. Hence he didn’t stand a chance against Ahmadinejad’s populism.

What he didn’t know was that Khatami’s support would act as a trigger. He didn’t know the extent to which the people were fed up with Ahmadinejad. He was not aware of the new revolution that the youth of Iran were going to introduce, not only to Iran but also to the world: the social media revolution.

In less than a month, millions of people around the country were wearing the green symbol: a green shawl, scarf, headscarf or ribbon. This worked like a badge of belonging and people realized they were not alone—indeed, there were many who wanted the same. The Wave that began in Tehran then flowed through all the cities and small towns, even to the villages and beyond the borders. For the first time since the Revolution, hundreds of thousands of Iranian emigrants and exiles became involved and joined the Wave.

Facebook, Twitter, YouTube, blogs . . . The social media were taken over by the supporters of Mousavi. While Ahmadinejad enjoyed the unfair publicity provided by National TV which covered every move he made, every speech he gave, every campaign meeting he held and simply ignored the other three candidates, Mousavi was infiltrating cyberspace. He would give a speech at a meeting and a few minutes later it would appear on thousands of blogs and be shared by hundreds of thousands on Facebook and Twitter. Like a pebble dropped in a pool, sending out ripples to the four corners of the world. The polls began to reflect this: even those who had not voted during the past 30 years now decided to vote for Mousavi.

Mousavi changed his strategy when he realized he had already won the hearts of the hitherto silent part of society. He began to address Ahmadinejad’s supporters, the poorer classes who still thought that Ahmadinejad was genuinely trying to provide a better life for them through social equality. Mousavi began to expose all Ahmadinejad’s lies to the people, and soon proved that he, too, was a major contender. People knew that he had been most successful in abolishing poverty and bringing financial stability to the lower classes during the eight years of the war when he had been prime minister. He also uncovered the inconsistencies in the budget: US$1 billion were missing, unaccounted for. Ahmadinejad claimed that those who had checked the records had made a mistake; that nothing was missing. But the longer the scrutiny continued, the clearer it became that a lot of money was unaccounted for, and that the scope of the financial scandal was far greater than US$1 billion. Everyone in Iran knew where the money had gone: in support of Hamas and Hizbollah in Palestine and Lebanon, and in creating turmoil in Iraq and Afghanistan. The working class was outraged. While they had been struggling to support their families and provide them with basic necessities, the huge amount of money earned through the unprecedented increase in oil prices over the last four years was being pumped into Iran’s nuclear ambitions and controversial groups such as Hamas and Hizbollah.

On the other hand, those who were committed to the Revolution knew that Mousavi had enjoyed the full support of Imam Khomeini, even during the conflict between him and Khamenei. An endless sea of supporters, from different classes, backgrounds, religious beliefs and ethnicities closed ranks behind Mousavi, committed to unseating Ahmadinejad.

The President knew this, and it was then that he decided to display his favourite tactics: populism and lies, on TV, in a desperate attempt to humiliate his opponents. For the first time in the history of Iran, live debates between presidential candidates were scheduled.

Back in Oxford, I was glued to my computer. Iranian National TV’s website wasn’t working but there were people who were recording and uploading the debates on YouTube within minutes of the live debate. Maryam and I said not a word as we watched Mousavi and Ahmadinejad challenging one another while Kay played with his building blocks.

Ahmadinejad claimed that Mousavi had spread lies about him, and attacked Khatami and Rafsanjani as the powers behind the scene. Mousavi produced facts and figures showing how Ahmadinejad had ruined the economy. He criticized the censorship, Iran’s involvement in suspicious activities in the region, the lies and apocalyptic superstitions on which Ahmadinejad had based his administration . . .

Ahmadinejad, taken by surprise, began to defend himself with a barrage of blatant lies. When Mousavi was, for example, asked about the 15 British Navy personnel captured and detained by Iran, Ahmadinejad said, ‘Tony Blair sent an official apology for intruding into our waters. So I decided to release them.’

Everyone was aghast: this was an absolute lie. Tony Blair had sent no such apology but Ahmadinejad continued to insist that the letter was archived in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Mousavi simply smiled: it was too late. Now, even those who had no access to the Internet or satellite TV channels, and whose only source of information was National TV, knew that their President was nothing but a liar. Mousavi had won.

When I went back to Iran after the election, one of my friends said to me, ‘You should have been here, you should have seen it with your own eyes. I cried so many times. The Green Wave brought a new energy and rejuvenated society. People grew kinder, they held up their green banners as a sign of unity. People were happy, they felt that it was finally their turn . . .’

A few days before the election, the supporters of Mousavi held hands and formed a chain that extended 20 kilometres through Tehran. There was no doubt that Ahmadinejad stood no chance.

It was then that the Supreme Leader decided to intervene.

PART VI: I am the one, ask the Hidden Imam

Arash Hejazi — Fri, 19 Feb 2016 09:42:00 +0000

(2005–2008)

One of the most important stories in Iranian mythology is of Zahak or Azhidahak.

Thousands of years ago, the earth was ruled by a wise king called Jamshid. He was appointed by Ahura Mazda, God of Goodness and Light, to make life better for the people. Jamshid expanded Iranian territory, invented chariots, created medicine, developed writing, architecture, social classes, different professions. He ruled for 700 years until he fell prey to the most fatal sin: Pride. He claimed that he was God and not his messenger. This cracked the shell that protected the people from Evil during his reign and Ahura Mazda stripped him of his divine grace.

It was then that Ahriman, God of Evil and Darkness, introduced his greatest creation: Zahak.

Zahak, a prince in Babylonia, was born a good man. But in his quest to win power over the world he succumbed to Ahriman and let him kiss his shoulders. Two kisses turned him into a powerful Dragon-king. Two serpents, satiated only with a daily diet of human brains, grew out of his shoulders.

Zahak then attacked Jamshid’s realm of Iran which, at the time, covered most of the known world. The people, tired of Jamshid’s pride, didn’t try to stop Zahak’s invasion. He had promised them prosperity and abolition of the social classes and support for the poor. Jamshid’s army was thus easily crushed and he was pursued to the end of the world where Zahak finally slew him and then took over his kingdom.

Zahak ruled over Iran for a thousand years. Every day, his agents killed two young men and fed their brains to the serpents. Then Zahak had a nightmare: a hero knocked him down with his mace and then took him to a high mountain. The dream readers said it was a sign of Zahak’s downfall at the hands of Fereydun, a prince from Jamshid’s bloodline.

Horrified, Zahak decided to consolidate his reign. He called an assembly of the patriarchs and forced them to sign a document testifying to his righteousness. Thus, no one could have any excuse for rebellion. But a blacksmith named Kaveh, who had lost 10 sons to the serpents of Zahak, spoke out against this charade and tore up the document. Then he left the court and raised his leather apron as his standard. People gathered around him and followed him to the Alborz Mountains. There they found the righteous King Fereydun and began their resistance. Fereydun defeated Zahak but Ahura Mazda did not allow him to execute the demon; instead, Fereydun was commanded to chain him in a cave, deep in the bowels of Mount Damavand.

According to the apocalyptic lore of Iran, Zahak will be released from his prison at the end of time and will destroy one third of those living on earth. At that time, Garshaseb, the Iranian hero, supported by Kay Khusro, the legendary king, will emerge and kill the dragon once and for all with his legendary mace.

The Avestan texts hold that Zahak is the greatest lie that Ahriman created.

This story ran through my mind when Ahmadinejad won the election. He came to power by promising people that he would destroy the gap between rich and poor and bring glory back to Iran. Because of the corruption that had infiltrated all layers of the government, people were looking for someone who could bring good health back to the administration and who would support the poor. I believe the election wasn’t rigged the first time Ahmadinejad came to power. He won fairly against Rafsanjani who had been in power for a long time and who had become associated with corruption.

But we knew that this was only the surface. Ahmadinejad was an ambitious and deluded man who would do anything to increase his power. The Supreme Leader and the Revolutionary Guard, who were losing control during Khatami’s presidency, wanted to come up with a new face to regain their power. Ahmadinejad was just such a face, a manifestation of all the lies. The real Zahak was the Supreme Leader himself, a good man who sold his soul to Ahriman in his lust for power.

Lying is what defines Ahmadinejad. He thrives on lying and lying is his only weapon. The number of lies he has spouted during the past six years could fill a book. The world knows about his denial of the Holocaust, his claim that there are no homosexuals in Iran and that Iran is the freest and most democratic country in the world. But these are just a few. The Iranians needed only a few months to discover that their popular President was nothing but a liar. But it was too late.

The most dangerous aspect of Ahmadinejad’s administration was his alleged relationship with the idea of the emergence of the Hidden Imam. There were rumours that he was part of a messianic Shia sect, led by the cleric Ayatollah Mesbah Yazdi.

According to Shia lore, the Hidden Imam had disappeared into a well in Basra in present-day Iraq, and it is from there that he will emerge when the time is right. Ahmadinejad, as a devoted disciple of Ayatollah Mesbah Yazdi, took these stories literally.

From the news leaked out of government circles, we learnt that Ahmadinejad was a puppet in the hands of this dangerous messianic sect that had gradually infiltrated all the centres of power in the regime, especially the Revolutionary Guard’s Army. Ahmadinejad was apparently preparing for Armageddon. And he was planning to build a road from Basra to Tehran. When the Hidden Imam emerged, he could come directly to Tehran to establish his headquarters and wage war on all the world’s infidels. Ahmadinejad was also rumoured to be consulting someone very often, someone who claimed to be in direct contact with the Hidden Imam. Someone who claimed that the Hidden Imam had asked him to seal the pact between Ahmadinejad and his cabinet, most of whom had backgrounds in the Revolutionary Guard’s Army.

All of this may seem ridiculous to someone unfamiliar with Shia messianic lore. But the belief that the Hidden Imam will emerge is very much alive in Iran; and, as Islam is a highly political religion, the idea has overtaken the regime. If you review Ahmadinejad’s behaviour over the past five years, signs of his belief in being the Chosen One preparing the ground for the Imam’s reappearance become clear.

According to the lore, the world will be in a state of chaos just before the Hidden Imam appears; Christian rule will be dominant; a Sunni leader will emerge from the Middle East and will be engaged in a war with the Christians. There will be a dispute over who has won the war, the Christians or the Muslims, until a big battle ensues in which the Sunni ruler will be killed. The First and Second Gulf Wars between Saddam Hussein and the US and its allies were interpreted by this sect as the sign that Saddam Hussein was the Sunni ruler defeated by the Christians.

The red and the white death will arrive before the Hidden Imam’s coming. The red death is the sword and the white death is the plague. There will be a great conflict in the land of Greater Syria—present-day Syria, Lebanon, Palestine, Israel and Jordan—will result in its destruction. Death and fear will afflict the people of Baghdad and Iraq. A fire will appear in the sky and envelop them in a cloud of red. Adultery and fornication—and children born out of such alliances—will be rampant as will the consumption of alcohol; women will outnumber men; the Muslims will be riven with internal conflict; the nations will gather against the Muslims; acid rain will fall; the rich will get richer and the poor poorer; men will obey their wives and disobey their mothers; people will walk in the marketplace with their thighs exposed; great distances will be traversed in short spans of time; the people of Iraq will receive no food and no money because of the oppression of the Romans (the Westerners); people will leap from cloud to earth and back; female singers and musical instruments will become popular; people will dance late into the night; smog will appear over cities because of the sin of the people; earthquakes will increase; there will be attempts to make the deserts green; false messengers will appear; women will appear naked in spite of being dressed; India will be conquered by the Muslims; people will begin to compete to construct the tallest buildings; bearing false witness will become widespread; men will lie with men and women with women; trade will become so widespread that a woman will be forced to help her husband in business; women will enter the work force out of love for this world; family ties will be severed; there will be many women of child-bearing age who will no longer give birth; and men will begin to look like women and women like men.

An army bearing black signs, created by a man from Khorasan and led by his general Sho’aib Bin Saleh or Mansour (the victorious) will come to prepare the people for the Hidden Imam. This army, on their way to conquer Jerusalem, will kill many infidels. No power will be able to stop them and they will eventually reach and conquer Jerusalem where they will erect their flags. When the black flags of the Army of Khorasan appear on the dome of the Al-Aqsa mosque in Jerusalem, the Hidden Imam will show himself.

Rumour has it that each of these signs had been traced and interpreted by the sect. And the Coming was believed to be imminent.

Ali Khamenei, the current Supreme Leader, grew up in Khorasan, a province in north-east Iran. The idea of the Supreme Leader as the vicar of the Hidden Imam and the Rule of the Jurisprudent is compatible with the prophecy of the man who, immediately before the Coming, will rule the Muslims and conquer Israel and defeat the Jews. In this Shia apocalypse, the Jews are the main enemy who must be wiped out before the appearance of the Saviour.

Ahmadinejad publicly announced that Israel should be ‘wiped off the map’; and if you count the number of times he has mentioned the word ‘victory’ in his speeches, you may be left with the feeling that he doesn’t mind being called ‘the Victorious’.

The Army of Khorasan will help the Hidden Imam when he emerges and together they will conquer the world. They will fight the Jews and kill them all. Ahmadinejad has said that the main reason for the US attack on Iraq was that it knew that a descendant of the Prophet Muhammad would emerge from Iraq to destroy all the oppressors in the world. According to Ahmadinejad, the US attacked Iraq to prevent the emergence of the Hidden Imam. He has also claimed that he was surrounded by a halo during his speech at the UN.

It was obvious since the beginning of Ahmadinejad’s presidency that he was not looking at it as a political position but as a ‘mission’ assigned to him by God. Israel should be destroyed before the Hidden Imam can emerge. What the Western countries don’t understand is that someone who lives under the delusion of being the Chosen One cannot be reasoned with. He will not give up his mission because he is convinced that he will be victorious.

There is yet another important element in this doctrine: taqiyya. This refers to a dispensation allowing Shia Muslims to conceal or disguise their beliefs, convictions, ideas, feelings, opinions or strategies at a time of imminent danger. In other words, lying is sanctioned. This doctrine has been widely used by Ahmadinejad’s administration.

PART V: Dialogue among civilizations, but not among ourselves

Arash Hejazi — Thu, 18 Feb 2016 09:28:00 +0000

(2000–2005)

Paulo’s book was a huge hit. We sold 10,000 copies in the first two months and demand for it spiralled. Distributors came to us, begging to take on the title and bookstores called us incessantly to order more copies. My publishing career had finally taken off. In the first year, we published 10 titles and our marketing campaigns, unprecedented in the history of Iranian publishing, attracted massive attention. Then I received an email from Paulo in which he mentioned his interest in visiting Iran.

Given the political context, we decided we couldn’t invite him on our own. If he visited Iran, he would be the first non-Muslim Western author to do so since the 1979 Revolution. So I decided to consult both the Ministry of Culture and the International Centre of Dialogue among Civilizations, an organization founded by Khatami to promote dialogue between Iran and Western countries. I wrote letters to both, and they both responded by saying they would do everything they could to welcome this prominent Brazilian author—though they couldn’t pay for the costs of the visit! I wrote to Paulo and we decided to share the costs: he would pay for his flight and hotel and we would pay for everything else.

Paulo requested his visa be sent to the Embassy of Iran in Warsaw. He was visiting Poland before travelling to Iran.

We began to plan: the places he had to visit, his conferences in Shiraz and Tehran, the book-signing session in one of Tehran’s best bookstores and the press conference. We sent out press releases announcing his arrival at Mehrabad Airport on the evening of 25 May 2000. Moreover, during the Tehran International Book Fair, we began to register the names of participants for his conference in Tehran’s former Opera House. In only a few days we had 5,000 names.

But then, a mere two weeks before he was due to fly to Tehran, Paulo called. ‘Hi Arash, I’m just on my way back from the Embassy of Iran in Warsaw. I asked them for my visa but they said they had no idea what I was talking about.’

I said I’d check with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. When I called them, they said they needed four more weeks to process the request. I said that was out of question, that everything was already planned, that the Ministry of Culture and the Centre for Dialogue among Civilizations were involved, that thousands of people were waiting for him. But their only answer was, ‘Sorry, we need four more weeks.’

I called Paulo and explained everything. He remained silent for a few seconds, and then said: ‘I am very upset, Arash. And this will not go unnoticed. I am a supporter of President Khatami, I believe he is doing really well. All I wanted to do was to visit Iran and see with my own eyes that this change and dialogue was real. I was planning to let the world know that they need to put aside their prejudices against Iran and accept it into the international community . . .’

‘Perhaps we can reschedule the visit . . .’

‘There will be no rescheduling, Arash. And I will let the world know how the government of Iran treated me.’ the gaze of the gazelle

Then, after a pause, he continued. ‘I will go back to the Embassy the day after tomorrow. If my visa is ready by then, I will happily come to Iran. Otherwise this visit will never happen and I will not remain silent.’ And he hung up.

I threw myself into a chair, desperate to find a way out of this mess. When I had announced that Paulo Coelho was visiting Iran, the media had received the news with scepticism; they couldn’t believe that a small publishing house was able to pull of an event of such magnitude. If the trip was cancelled, they would never believe I had been telling the truth. This would discredit Caravan and the prestige and popularity that it had built up over the past year. Our reputation as the first publisher to respect international copyright and acquire the rights of an international author, the first publisher to modernize book marketing and promotion in Iran, and the first publisher to invite an international writer, would be destroyed in a minute.

But I knew there was nothing I could do. I simply sat and stared at the wall in front of me. Exactly five minutes later, my assistant opened the door. ‘I’ve just received a call from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs!’

‘OK, put them through.’

‘They hung up but they left a message for you.’ ‘And?’

‘They said that Mr Coelho’s visa is ready at the Embassy of

Iran in Warsaw and he can collect it tomorrow.’

What?! I couldn’t understand what had happened but I didn’t need to. I called Paulo immediately and gave him the good news. He laughed and said, ‘OK, then everything is all right and I am very excited. Thank the government of Iran for me.’

Then I began to give him guidelines about what he and his wife could and could not do in Iran. His wife would have to cover her hair and remember to never shake hands with men. Also, that they couldn’t drink alcohol.

‘I don’t mind not drinking but I’m a smoker. I hope that’s not going to be a problem.’

No, it wasn’t a problem. Everyone smokes in Iran, I explained. Later, when we met, he told me that his harsh tone on the phone from Poland had been deliberate. He was sure our conversation was being overheard by the authorities and that short speech had convinced the Ministry to change its mind and issue the visa.

PART IV: Lie if you want to survive

Arash Hejazi — Wed, 17 Feb 2016 17:49:00 +0000

(1995–1999)

The smell of formalin, the sleepless nights, the strain of supporting Maryam and myself, the ongoing persecution of our generation which never had a chance to enjoy life, see the world or spend time with friends without fear of arrests, was not all that defined my life in those years. Iranian society, too, was undergoing significant changes and upheavals. The rulers of the Islamic Republic were clearly splitting into two. Rafsanjani had set up a new political party called Kargozaran-e Sazandegi (Executives of Construction) and had as its objective the reestablishment of capitalism. Apparently, as the most powerful man in Iran at the time, he had realized that capitalism was what would help rebuild the economic infrastructure destroyed during the war. In order to achieve this, he called for a more liberal approach. He was not aiming at political reform or the creation of a democracy but he was clearly advocating greater individual freedom. I remember the day when he announced that the Guards and the police should no longer harass young boys and girls if they were seen walking together. We were all amazed— and delighted—that the great taboo on the interaction of the sexes was finally done away with. It was some time before we noticed the disappearance of the 4WDs from the streets. Rafsanjani even tried to re-introduce the practice of provisional marriage or sigheh, the fixed-term marriage in Shi’a Islam. The duration of such a marriage is fixed at its inception and then automatically dissolved upon completion of its term. An attempt to legitimize civil partnerships, it met with limited success.

On the other hand, the political environment was growing even more oppressive. Khamenei announced that the universities had to be ‘Islamized’. This time the problem was not with the students since they had established several filtering mechanisms to ensure that no controversial student entered the universities; if they did, they were severely controlled. Once again, it was the lecturers and professors who were targeted and the Minister of Higher Education was assigned to carry out the plan.

In the course of a year, hundreds of professors with liberal, Western ideas were judged disloyal to the Revolution and forcibly retired, including Dad, who had been promoted to Professor a few years earlier and received the highest scientific honour in Iran. This broke his heart and he never recovered from the impact of not being able to teach any more. He, along with a few of his colleagues and former students, set up a research centre which, supported by the strength of his reputation, went on to become very successful. He was also appointed a member of the Iranian Academy of Science. But none of this could make up for the fact that he had been deprived of his only ambition in life: to die on the job, in the classroom.

Dad was no longer the same after his retirement. He lost the sparkle in his eyes although he became kinder, less autocratic and more outgoing. I couldn’t help but feel a certain sorrow whenever I saw him groping for a new meaning to his life. He was never commercially astute and his position as managing director of a company that needed to be profitable bothered him. He simply wanted to research, whereas now he had to worry about negotiations and competition from rival companies.

Mum, on the other hand, began work as a nurse after she graduated but she gave it up a year later and returned to teaching at high school, once again as a librarian.

I decided I didn’t want to follow in Dad’s footsteps by putting all my eggs in one basket. So I began to think about a second career: publishing. My work with the scientific journal plus publishing my book and my bookselling background seemed to me enough preparation for founding a publishing house. I wanted to try and fill the gap in the market for a publisher who would ‘think globally but act locally’. Most of the publishers I knew were stuck in the past: none of them seemed to have thought of bringing the industry up to international standards. I didn’t have a business plan, I didn’t have the money and I didn’t have any experience in management. But I had an idea and a passionate desire to see it fulfilled.

I already knew that I would not be allowed to pursue my medical studies into any area of specialization. And in Iran, if one is not a specialist then one is highly unlikely to become a successful doctor. In the absence of a national health service, people turn immediately to a private consultant. If they have a stomach ache, they’ll consult a gastroenterologist rather than a GP. There are tens of thousands of unemployed GPs in Iran who wander about the country for a few years before they decide to give up the profession and move into other careers. I knew that this would happen to me and I decided to pre-empt it.

What I didn’t know was that setting up a publishing company wasn’t as easy as it seemed and that the problems had nothing to do with the business aspects: they lay entirely in government-imposed regulation. Before I could do anything, I needed a Publishing Licence from the Ministry of Culture. No one is allowed to register a publishing company and begin publishing books or periodicals without it; and not everyone is considered eligible to even put in an application for it.

In the first place, all applicants had to prove that they were reputable Iranian citizens, at least 27 years old, with sufficient knowledge of publishing and at least a Bachelor’s degree. At the time, being married was another precondition but this absurdity was done away with soon after. Applicants needed to have completed military service and have no criminal record or history of bankruptcy.

Once the forms were filled, the application was sent to the Security Department for a background check. If no deviant political, religious or moral activity was detected, the application was then scrutinized by a special committee. If, and only if, all these hurdles were surmounted, a provisional Publishing Licence was issued in the name of the ‘Responsible Manager’ of the publishing house. Licences were usually valid for a year and could be extended.

When I was thinking of setting up a publishing house, I was neither 27 nor had I done my military service. So I persuaded Dad to apply for the Licence. He was a reputable man, the author of several books and articles, the editor-in-chief of a leading journal and a member of the Academy of Sciences. I believed that the authorities would approve his application on the spot.

Dad was reluctant to apply but I insisted and reminded him that I hadn’t really asked him for anything ever since the video player. He was not entirely convinced about my decision; he believed I needed to concentrate on my studies. I had to promise to see through my graduation before I began any publishing to finally win him over to my side.

We applied in 1994. Dad introduced me as his representative and then the marathon began. I went to the Ministry every two weeks to see how things were progressing and to check if I needed to supply any more documentation. I did, every time: his qualifications, evidence of his prominence in international circles, proof that he was a writer, police check, etc.

Finally, after nine months, his file was deemed complete and then sent off for a background check. The official told me that he’d call me if there was any news.

A year went by. I was about to graduate but there was still no news of Dad’s file. I decided to go to the Ministry and see for myself.

It was almost three hours before I was let in.

‘What do you want?’

‘Has there been any development in the Publishing License application of my father, Dr Jalal Hejazi?

He looked into his files. ‘Well, yes,’ he said, smiling, ‘we had a response a while ago. But I must have been too busy to call.’

I leaned forward in my chair, ‘And?’

‘Unfortunately your father has not been approved. His background shows that he is not very loyal to the Revolution. It is not the end of the world, though. Ask him to come and see me. If he signs a statement that he regrets whatever he has done, the Security Office might reconsider . . .’

I left the Ministry in despair. Dad would never sign such a statement. I talked to him and I wasn’t surprised when he simply smiled and said, ‘Never!’

My dreams of becoming a publisher were dashed to the ground. I began to prepare for military service. I got my papers from the conscription office in April 1996 and was called very soon after.

Another two years of my life. Another two years wasted.

PART III: You rebuild the country, I will rebuild my pocket

Arash Hejazi — Tue, 16 Feb 2016 17:42:00 +0000

(Summer 1988–1998)

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.

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’s 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’t: I was going to be a medical student, a dream come true for any teenager. And, most important, the war was over.

It wasn’t long, though, before the Committee’s 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 ‘Western’—I simply hadn’t cut it recently—and 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.

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.

While we were enjoying ourselves in the parks, at our secret parties and in the mountains, the regime decided—now that the external threats were taken care of—to 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’s 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.

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’t spared a single life. Even those who tried to escape had been shot. No prisoners. No wounded.

I couldn’t help but imagine the field covered with the bodies of 18-year-olds. Most of those ‘soldiers’ 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.

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.

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.

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.

‘The trials were short and decisive,’ Dad’s friend Hussein told us. ‘No lawyers were allowed. We were tried, one by one.’

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’s 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.

‘We 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’t. No one knew what happened to those who didn’t. Having lived in the prison for the past few years, we knew we had to prepare ourselves for the worst.’

No one dared mention Reza Company. But Hussein had not forgotten.

‘Reza and I were summoned in the same group. Sitting outside the judge’s 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’m a coward. I don’t care about communism any more. I only wanted to see Heidi and my son one more time.’

Heidi took his hand. No one said a word.

‘Reza 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’t answer. That, according to the Constitution, no one was allowed to enquire about anyone else’s beliefs. Then, everything went silent . . . And a few minutes later, another name was called . . .’

He took a big gulp from the glass of water.

‘You don’t need to explain everything,’ said Heidi.

‘I want to. Or else I’ll die,’ he said. His hair had turned grey over the past few years and his ‘four-square’ moustache was now white. But what struck me most was the look in his eyes. I couldn’t find a single sparkle of life in them anymore, in those eyes that had always shone with authority.

‘By the time it was my turn, I had already made up my mind. I entered. They didn’t 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.

‘ “Are you Muslim?”

‘ “I was born a Muslim. I never renounced my religion.”

‘ “But you were a communist, weren’t you?”

‘ “I was a member of the Tudeh Party but I never renounced Islam.”

‘ “Are you still a communist?”

‘ “No. I’ve learnt a lot about my mistakes in prison.”

‘ “Do you believe in the principles of the Islamic Republic and the values of the Revolution?”

‘ “I do.”

‘ “What will you do when you are released from prison?”

‘ “I’ll 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’ll try to find a decent job. I’ll never even think of getting involved in politics again.”

‘The prosecutor seemed pleased with my answers.

‘The 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.’

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.

‘Quite 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’t there. Someone told me that they took prisoners away in groups of five to seven, and that they had already taken Reza away.

‘Finally, 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.

‘They 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.

‘But the commander protested and said that he would not proceed unless he had the official orders.

‘ “I have executed a hundred people today!” he shouted, “Two I killed while I waited for their papers only to learn that they weren’t supposed to die!”

That commander had saved Hussein’s life. When the papers arrived they realized that he was not meant to be there and so he was taken back to his cell.

‘That was how Reza Company died.’

Hussein kept his promise to the prosecutor: he stayed away from politics for the rest of his life.

A few months later, Grand Ayatollah Hossein-Ali Montazeri, Khomeini’s 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.

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’s 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’s government at the same time as their solidarity with Montazeri and his views.

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’s death. Then, as leader, he could have implemented his more liberal and democratic ideas.

‘What if I died before that?’ he replied. ‘How would I explain my silence to Allah?’

PART II: If you want the ultimate pleasure step on a landmine

Arash Hejazi — Mon, 15 Feb 2016 17:08:00 +0000

(Autumn 1980–Summer 1988)

Autumn 1980

A dog runs to fetch his bone. Suddenly, he freezes. The screen goes blank, and then across it appear a few words in the largest possible typeface accompanied by the threatening voice of the narrator. ‘Dear citizens, the sound that you are about to hear is the Red Alarm, meaning that we are being attacked by air. You should turn off the lights and begin moving towards your shelters NOW!’ Then the alarm began, deafening and continuous, and our hearts leapt into our mouths. Mum clutched little Golnar, grabbed the torch and began to run towards the stairs. Dad leapt up to turn off the lights while Madar pulled me by the hand towards the cellar, whispering prayers in Arabic. The blasts began before I could reach the stairs; the sound made my knees tremble and slowed my reflexes. It was the anti-aircraft missiles shooting in the air at random to keep away the Iraqi planes. Dad joined us, took my other hand and shouted angrily, ‘Be a man, Arash! Your sister needs you downstairs!’

I tried, I tried very hard to overcome the invincible fear within me, I tried hard to be the man Dad expected me to be but I couldn’t. I felt like throwing up. I didn’t want to die under tons of rubble: I was only 10. I was not supposed to be running for my life: I was supposed to wait and see if the dog finally got his bone.

Once we were in the cellar, the fear was replaced by a sense of expectation. We were in the dark; I couldn’t see but I could hear. I heard Dad struggling to light the candles we had been stocking in the cellar since the air raids began. I could hear Madar whispering in Arabic: ‘Allah is the protecting guardian of those who believe. He bringeth them out of darkness into light . . .’ I could hear Golnar sobbing and Mum trying to catch her breath. Through the thick walls of the cellar I could also hear the muffled sound of the blasts. Above all, I could hear the pounding of my heart.

Dad managed to light the candles and turn on his radio. We listened to military marches while we waited for the threat to pass. The war was not ‘cool’, not like those films which hailed it as an opportunity for the valiant to prove themselves and which always ended with the death of the bad guys. I wasn’t feeling valiant at all. My knees wouldn’t stop trembling.

Dad decided to distract us with a game, a traditional one. The first person recites a verse from a Persian poet and the second has to recite another that begins with the last letter of the previous one.

Dad: ‘I wish there was a place for me to unload / Or a final ending to this longest road’ (Khayyam).

Mum: ‘Dead is whoever does not live by love / Bury him by my command even if he breathes’ (Hafiz)

I: ‘Seek no kindness of those full of hate / People of the mosque with the church debate’ (Hafiz).

This took my mind off the crisis but it didn’t help four-year-old Golnar; she didn’t know any poetry and found it hard to stop crying.

Finally, after what seemed an age, the narrator’s voice interrupted the military marches on the radio. ‘Dear citizens, we are happy to announce that the threat has passed and the sound you are about to hear is the White Alarm. You can now leave your shelters and return to your habitations.’ We heaved a sigh of relief. We would live another night.

The Iranian Army was considerably weakened and most of its experienced commanders had been executed. Hence, Saddam Hussein considered this an opportune moment to attack Iran and seize control of the Persian Gulf. Casting aside the 1975 agreement between Iran and Iraq that had ended the war between them and resolved their border disputes, he declared war. Announcing that the Iraqi army would reach Tehran in three days, he launched a full-scale attack. Iran, caught by surprise, couldn’t react quickly enough and several cities in the southwest were captured, most notably Khorramshahr, one of the most strategic sites in the war.

Khomeini retaliated by appointing Bani-Sadr as his Commander-in-Chief and declaring that there was no shortage of manpower in Iran. The people were asked to join the Basij and fight against the invaders: ‘A country that has 20 million young people has 20 million soldiers.’ This was the beginning of the institutionalization of the Basij, an army of volunteer militiamen formed a year ago.

Hundreds of thousands enrolled; after two weeks of training, they were sent to the front to stop the Iraqi advance. Although the newly formed Basij and the Revolutionary Guards had very little training, they surprised Saddam Hussein with their courage. Thousands of them died in the first weeks, fighting heavily armed Iraqis with their bare hands, among them a 13-year-old boy who tied several grenades to his body and ran under a tank as it rolled into the city. The tank exploded and blocked the way for other tanks for a while. It was then that Khomeini called upon the nation to follow the young martyr’s example. ‘Our leader is this 13-year-old child who, with his little heart that is worth more than hundreds of tongues and pens, threw himself with his grenades under the tank of the enemy and destroyed it, and drank from the chalice of martyrdom.’

Suddenly, disputes over the structure of the government faded away as the war took over the nation. Saddam didn’t expect such a firm resistance and the war that was expected to last only three days turned into eight bitter years of incessant fighting and destroyed the resources of both countries.

PART I – Since your love became my calling

Arash Hejazi — Sat, 13 Feb 2016 13:57:38 +0000

(Autumn 1978–Summer 1980)

‘Who is this Ayatollah Khomeini?’ I asked Madar, my paternal grandmother. I had heard his name over and over but I didn’t know who he was. Every night people went to the rooftops to see his face etched upon the full moon and I really wanted to know what he was doing there.

‘He is the vicar of the Hidden Imam,’ Madar explained, trying to fit her cigarette into its holder. ‘While the Hidden Imam is in Occultation, the vicar is in charge of the Muslims’ faith,’ she continued, then lit her cigarette. ‘He is our saviour.’

‘And why is his face on the moon?’

‘God has etched his face on the full moon as a sign,’ she said with a smile that heightened her mystic aura as she sat cross-legged on the floor, ‘so that people will know he is the Chosen One.’

The more I looked at the moon, the better I could identify a shape. But it wasn’t the face of a man; clearly not of a holy man. It seemed, rather, very much like a rabbit—very much like Bugs Bunny, in fact.

Madar believed I wasn’t ready yet.

According to Twelver Shia Islam, the official religion of Iran, the Hidden Imam or Mahdi is the Twelfth Imam, an offspring of Prophet Muhammad who went into Occultation in Ad 874 when he was only five years old. He is still alive—but in hiding—and will emerge at the end of time as our saviour; he will bring peace and justice to the world and re-establish Islam as the only righteous path. I still couldn’t figure out why he needed a vicar, though. The argument seemed to me illogical. If he were supposed to wait in hiding until the right time to save the world, why would he send someone else to save the world earlier? And if it were time to save the world, why didn’t he show up himself?

‘don’t be silly,’ Madar said. ‘We’re not supposed to question God’s plans.’

It wasn’t the first time I’d asked that question. Ever since I had heard Khomeini’s name whispered by my parents and their friends, by my classmates (with the utmost respect) and sometimes on the BBC Persian Service that my parents listened to secretly every night, I had been asking the same question, hoping to receive two answers that matched up. Madar’s answer was not the one I’d had from dad.

‘He’s a cleric, son, a mullah. He was exiled from Iran 15 years ago because of his protests against the Shah’s tyranny. He has now become politically active again and gained a huge following among the people.’

This long speech may seem a little too sophisticated for an eight-year-old but, luckily, it was the kind of language with which I was familiar. Sadly, I was not quite the genius that my father assumed. I learnt to read at four, could write by the time I was five— both in Persian and English—and read my first ‘serious’ book at six, a 200-page novel on the life of Thomas Edison. Dad had given it to me hoping I’d choose Edison as my role model. I did—only until I discovered Peter Pan and Superman.

I was born on 17 February 1971 in Tehran, the same year that Apollo 14 landed on the moon, Pablo Neruda won the Nobel Prize for Literature and Nikita Khrushchev and Jim Morrison died. When I was a year old, we moved to England so that dad could study for his PhD at the University of Birmingham. My most prominent memory of the four years we spent there, apart from the ordinary ones of an ordinary child living in the UK— of friends, school, games and constant complaints about the weather—has been carved upon my mind with the help of a photograph: dad, in his gown and mortarboard in front of the main building of the University on his graduation day. Thirty-four then, he’s holding his degree certificate, his eyes shining with joy and hope and his serious expression not quite concealing his smile of infinite happiness.

Having known him for many years now, I can imagine what he is thinking about in that photograph: his imminent return to Iran; teaching; executing his plans for reforming Iran’s higher education system; and, being an authentic genius unlike me, beginning his research in the field of material sciences.

Exactly 34 years later, in August 2009, when Mum and he had come to England to visit me after Neda’s death, we rented a car and went to the University of Birmingham again. I asked him to stand in front of the main building on the precise spot on which he had been photographed on his graduation day. But when I held the camera in front of my eyes, I had to wait for a few seconds before pressing the button, until the tears that blurred my vision had cleared. We had been on such a long journey since then. So many things had been turned upside down: his hair had gone completely white and he was no longer possessed of the vitality of a 34-year-old but the main change lay in his face. He was smiling this time, too, but the smile was trying in vain to conceal the deep sorrow that stemmed from the shattered hopes of a man still in love with a dream that no longer exists.

We returned to Iran in 1975 and my sister Golnar was born. Dad began teaching as a senior lecturer in metallurgical engineering. Mum decided to study and get her diploma and then take the National University entrance exam for a nursing course. And I went to nursery school. We rented a small flat in central Tehran and dad managed to buy a colour TV. This introduced me to the world of Charlie Chaplin and, of course, the superheroes: Superman, Batman, Aqua man, the Fantastic Four and Spiderman. It was through these characters that I realized that a name should mean something and I decided to ask dad why I had been named Arash.

‘Arash means “bright” in Avestan, one of the ancient Iranian languages,’ dad explained, ‘but that isn’t why I chose this name for you,’ and he went on to tell me the legend of Arash the Archer.

‘Four thousand years ago, when the wars began between Iran and the neighbouring country of Turan, Arash was an ordinary archer in the Iranian army. The Turanians defeated the Iranians and laid siege to the capital. Then, to humiliate the defeated Iranians, they forced the Iranian king to an agreement. An Iranian archer would shoot an arrow from Iran. Wherever the arrow landed would determine the new border between Iran and Turan.

‘No archer dared volunteer for this task. Even the best of them could not shoot an arrow farther than a league. This agreement meant losing most of the Iranian territories to the enemy and no one wanted to be responsible for that.

‘But Arash stepped forward and declared he was ready to shoot the arrow. As there were no other candidates, the king had to accept his offer. Arash climbed the Alborz Mountains and shot his only arrow. But before releasing the string, he put his life in that arrow.

‘The arrow flew for three days. The horsemen who followed it found it on the third day embedded in a walnut tree at the original border between Iran and Turan. Peace was restored and the war was over. The Turanians were forced to retreat to their own lands and happiness and prosperity returned to Iran.

‘But Arash had disappeared. He had put his life into his arrow and died instantly. However, the legend says he is still there, on Mount Damavand in the Sierra Alborz—more commonly known as the Alborz Mountains—helping those who have lost their way along the misty mountain paths if they call his name.’

Dad believed that Arash’s sacrifice was more important than any American superhero’s stunts. Arash shot an arrow that brought an end to the war without killing anyone. And he gave up his life for that.

This story, mingling with the superhero adventures, inflamed my love of tales and legends, and it was then that Madar stepped in and quenched my thirst. She knew hundreds of tales. Mum told me fairy tales by the Brothers Grimm, while dad recounted the lives of historical figures and famous Iranian scientists such as Khayyam and al-Khwārizmī. But it was Madar, with her tales full of mysteries, magical gems and hidden treasures, as well as her accounts of the lives of Islamic saints and Imams, who created my passion for storytelling and the supernatural.

And that is why I had to ask her the question about Ayatollah Khomeini—the one I had already asked dad. For her answer was important. The only thing she had in common with Dad— apart from their familial bond—was a keen intelligence. Once I had both their answers to a question, I could shape my own perception of the truth, inevitably a mix of dad’s realism and Madar’s fantastic world.

Dad, a strong advocate of logic, would give me answers based on the facts and, in their absence, rational deduction. The more difficult my questions, the more excited he would become in his quest for the best possible answer. He would hold his chin with a grip that covered his mouth, leaving only his handlebar moustache visible while he talked me through the deductive process. Sometimes, when finding the right logical answer turned out to be harder than he had imagined, he would put his hand on his already balding pate and remain silent for a while. But explanations there always were, even for miracles such as Moses’ splitting of the sea or Prophet Muhammad’s splitting of the moon. Once, when I asked him how Jesus could have resurrected Lazarus, he simply answered, ‘Who knows, maybe he wasn’t dead in the first place.’

Madar, on the other hand, would react in a completely different way. She did her best to come up with answers but using her own particular form of rational deduction. Staring into the emptiness in front of her she, too, would answer my questions but with very complicated responses which were not always in harmony with the laws of nature.

She and dad, despite their different approaches, had something else in common: both believed that there was always an answer. Dad would justify the unanswered question with ‘Science will find out soon’ whereas Madar said. ‘God will reveal the answer in due course’.

Madar was a strange old woman and the love of my life. Born to a baker, she was forced to marry my grandfather when she was only 13 and he a widower with two daughters, one aged five and the other seven. Madar had to be their mother when she might more easily have been their sister. However, when my grandfather Agha-djoon chose to have two more wives and filled the house with 12 children in whom he took very little interest, Madar left him without ever looking back or even filing for divorce. Now she lived in the religious city of Qom, near the shrine of Holy Masoumah. She sustained herself by weaving fine high-quality lace for the dowry of brides-to-be and visited the holy shrine at least once a day.

Once I asked her why she had left Agha-djoon.

‘It was about time someone showed men that they didn’t own their wives. We’re human too.’ I liked to believe she was in her own way one of the first authentic feminists in Iran.

After analyzing both their answers to my Ayatollah Khomeini question, my personal interpretation turned out to be: ‘Khomeini is a very important person who is soon going to be even more important.’

There was one bit of prophecy missing from my conclusion which no one could have imagined at the time, neither my over-religious grandmother nor my secular father nor his leftist, rightist, moderate, reformist, nationalist, fundamentalist, Islamist, atheist friends who all hated the Shah. It took us a few years to discover what we had all overlooked: it was not so much that the Shah was corrupt but that absolute power corrupts absolutely, no matter who holds it.

I felt the tension for the first time at the beginning of September 1978 when we reached the Turko-Iranian border on our way home from our summer trip to the UK. We were travelling in dad’s brand-new dark-red Ford Taunus, the same car that had brought Mum, Aunt Marjaneh, my two-year-old sister Golnar and me all the way from the UK to Iran via France, Italy, Yugoslavia, Bulgaria and Turkey. My parents planned to go to the UK every summer so that I could keep practising my English and they could visit their friends. But this was not to be. Our first summer holiday in Europe was to be our last for many years to come. That summer was going to change many plans. The Islamic Revolution was on its way.

My parents had no way of knowing what was going on in Iran. The Internet, mobile phones and satellite TV were yet to be invented and there was no radio in our car. It was there, at the border, that we realized something was up. Dad returned to the car after talking to a young man in Customs, flushed with anxiety and rage. He bent to whisper to Mum: a cinema had burnt down in Abadan while screening the Iranian film The Deer and 300 people had burnt to death.

The journey from the border to my grandfather’s house in Tehran took two days through the mountains, fields and deserts of Iran. I hadn’t travelled much in Iran before and it was my first glimpse of the complete range of landscapes, from the high, cold mountain roads and the eternally green fields of the north to the burning desert sun of Qazvin. Dad drove all the way without stopping for a night’s sleep. We slept in the car while he drove and Mum and Aunt Marjaneh took turns during the night to keep Dad Company and make sure he didn’t fall asleep at the wheel. Mum insisted a few times that we pull over and sleep for a few hours in a hotel but dad refused. He was very concerned about the situation and wanted to get to Tehran as fast as possible. After weeks of living in the car, fed up with sleeping and eating in it, I wanted to get home too. Dad thought it would be a good experience for us to drive through all those countries but I didn’t find it interesting anymore; all I wanted was my own bed to sleep in. Eventually, dad stopped the car in front of Hadj-Agha’s house. He was my maternal grandfather and we were going to stay with him for a few days before moving into the new flat that dad had rented from friends.

No sooner had we arrived than we heard that Khomeini, in exile in Iraq, had issued a statement blaming the Shah for the tragedy in the cinema. I don’t remember how he related this incident to the Shah but people believed him; they always believed what a mullah said and, since the film was critical of the regime and advocated armed resistance against its tyranny, it seemed plausible enough. This incident was the trigger that ignited the rage of the nation against the regime, a rage that would accumulate over the next few months and explode with the sudden overthrow of 2,500 years of Iranian monarchy.

That was the first time I heard the name Ruhollah Khomeini. Twenty days later, something else happened. The police had opened fire against a demonstration in Tehran’s Jaleh Square and killed a great many people: some said 4,000, others 90,000. Everyone was enraged. Unfamiliar with the notion of death, I couldn’t understand why. But that state of innocence was soon to be lost. Only a few days later Mum took me to school to enrol me in the second grade and someone mentioned that Charlie Chaplin was dead. This was someone I knew, someone who made me laugh—and I understood death for the first time.

The next two months are a blur. My clearest memory is of the tension: the tension in the air, rank with a mixture of fear and bravado. And the red slogans on the walls: ‘death to the Shah!’ ‘Hail to Khomeini!’ And the twisted faces of the people who were afraid to speak to one another and who wondered how this drama was going to end.

Then, all of a sudden, the silence broke and the vibrations in the air turned into a storm . . . The main Bazaar, the heart of the Iranian economy, along with all the schools, universities and hundreds of shops and other businesses, went on a national strike. I didn’t fully appreciate what was going on except for the joy of not having to go to school any more. It was a second summer holiday, although it also meant that I was not going to see my very best friend, Azadeh. We sat beside one another, we studied together and we chatted between classes. I still remember her dark curly hair and her brilliant mathematical mind: she could do the most complicated sums in her head, without putting pen to paper. When the schools shut down I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye nor did I have her phone number. We took our time together for granted; when you are a child, everything seems eternal. I would discover all too soon just how wrong we were.

My father and his friends got together every night, endlessly discussing the changes over vodka and cigarettes. Sometimes, they listened to Khomeini’s fiery speeches, recorded on audiocassettes and smuggled into the country through Kuwait or Iraq. They were excited and happy, eager to be a part of what was happening. I remember some of them: Reza Company, an electrical engineer, and Hormoz, a lecturer in electronics, both members of the Tudeh (People) Communist Party; and Bahram, a nationalist like dad.

I found it hard to understand why everyone hated the Shah. At school we’d been taught that the Shah was our nation’s loving father; he cared about all his children and shed tears whenever he heard of a citizen in distress. We also sang the National Anthem every morning: ‘Long live our king of kings, for whose grace the country stands forever . . .’ But dad disagreed and finally expressed his contempt when he heard me humming the Anthem one day. I felt his hand on my shoulder and when I turned back I saw ‘the look’ in his eyes. He was very angry.

‘Arash, the Shah is bad!’ he said. ‘We don’t want him to live long! He has killed many young people, he doesn’t let people talk, he has sold our homeland to America, he has ruined the country. I don’t want my son to sing this cursed anthem.’

‘Then what should I sing, dad?’

It was then that he taught me ‘Oh, Iran’, a song by the poet Gol-e Golab, written during the Second World War when Iran was occupied by British and Russian forces. Although it never was, nor would ever become, the official anthem of Iran, it has always been considered so by the people.

Oh Iran, oh bejewelled land
Oh, your soil is the wellspring of the arts
Far from you may the thoughts of evil be
May you remain lasting and eternal
. . .
Since your love became my calling
My thoughts are never far from you

When I returned to England after Neda’s death in June 2009, to testify to her death and to finish the course in publishing I had begun in Oxford the previous year, my Italian friend Nina told me, ‘I can’t believe it! These Iranians on the streets are being killed, beaten, detained, tortured, but they’re not giving up!’

‘Yes, I know,’ I answered briefly, and left. Late for an appointment with my professor, I didn’t have time to explain that this was part of the package of being Iranian. I couldn’t tell her that Iran is not a mere country to Iranians but a concept that unites them regardless of ethnicity, dialect or religion. As an identity it is both a blessing and a curse; it is also a dream that has helped the nation endure a history full of struggles, the only dream worth dying for. Iran is a proud and stubborn nation. I couldn’t tell Nina that the Iranians were already ‘Irani’ when the Aryans began their long migration south from the frozen lands of Siberia 4,000 years ago. Some left for the Indian peninsula, some settled in the green lands of Central Asia and some others entered the plateau that is today called Iran, ‘the land of the Aryans’. This land has been invaded and destroyed several times over the past 2,500 years, yet throughout a succession of occupations by Assyrians, Greeks, Romans, Arabs, Mongols, Turks, British and Russians, the people have remained Iranians. Four hundred years after the Arab occupation they revived their language. When they realized that they could not resist the might of the Arabs and that they must either accept Islam or die, they transformed it into Shiism, a religion more compatible with their own Zoroastrian and Manichaean beliefs. Unlike many other ancient civilizations conquered by the Arabs, the Iranians never ‘became’ Arabs nor did they accept Arabic as their native language. Today, they speak the same language in which their beloved poets Roudaki, Firdowsi and Khayyam wrote their poems more than a millennium ago.

‘Iranian’ is not a nationality but a way of life. It would stretch Nina’s credibility if I told her that the Iranians, in keeping with Zarathustra’s 3,000-year-old teachings—that their only choice lay between being a Soldier of darkness or a Warrior of Light— still believed in the eternal battle between Good and Evil. They had to choose and their decisions would determine the outcome of the war. Dying on this battlefield is the highest honour for an Iranian. That is why, over the past century, Iran has witnessed at least four major uprisings and a war: the Constitutional Revolution of 1905–11; the uprising in defence of Prime Minister Mosadeq in 1953; the Islamic Revolution of 1979; the war with Iraq from 1980 to 1988 and the 2009 uprising against the fraudulent presidential election.