Then They Came For Me (8 page)

Although Amir opposed everything Khamenei stood for, he had several photos of himself and Khamenei on his desk at home. In one of the photographs, Amir was sitting next to Khamenei as he lay in a hospital bed.

Once, Amir saw me looking at the pictures.

“I’ve known Mr. Khamenei for more than forty years,” he said, taking the first photograph in his hand and cleaning the wooden frame with his index finger. “After the assassination attempt against him in June 1981, his right hand was paralyzed and he almost lost his life. Mr. Khamenei was like a brother to me then, and I visited him all the time in the hospital. You know, Maziar, he is a cultured man. He’s been reading a novel every week since I’ve known him. He’s a poet and likes traditional Iranian music. I don’t think he was so interested in power when he was made supreme leader in 1989.” Amir paused and picked up another photo. In it, Khamenei, Amir, and a group of other Islamic Republic officials were sitting on their knees in a circle around Ruhollah Khomeini. It didn’t look like a government meeting; it was more like a saint giving an audience to the faithful. “Leadership of the Islamic Republic was a cloak that fit Imam Khomeini,” Amir noted. “It looks too big on Mr. Khamenei. But power is even more addictive than heroin, and Mr. Khamenei is hooked on it now.”

Back in the office, Amir’s cell phone rang. He had to join Mousavi and a group of his advisers for evening prayers. “Amir
jaan
,” I said as I stood to leave. “You’re telling me Mousavi will win for sure but they are going to change the results?”

Amir held my hand in his. “The only chance of having a fair election is if Mr. Khamenei prevents the Ahmadinejad gang and
the Guards’ intelligence unit from rigging the votes. All we can do is pray that the supreme leader will make a wise decision.”

On my way home that evening, as I passed by murals of Khamenei on walls throughout the city, Amir’s words stayed with me. I hoped that Khamenei would consider saving his legitimacy not by helping Ahmadinejad steal the election but by listening to his people. Of course, I highly doubted he would do that. As Amir had said, Khamenei was intoxicated by his power and wanted to expand it by having an obsequious subordinate he could control. And that man was Mahmoud Ahmadinejad.

As I passed yet another group of young men and women dressed in green and holding Mousavi signs, I knew that the people of Iran, silent for so long, had finally found their voice. The question now was: Would Ali Khamenei choose to listen?

In Iran, the weekend is celebrated on Thursday and Friday, and Friday is called Jom’eh, which means “gathering.” On this day, Muslims are supposed to pray together. Many do but many others, if they can afford it, spend the weekend on the shores of the Caspian Sea, about three hundred miles north of Tehran. Others go hiking in the Elburz Mountains, in north Tehran. This is how I spent many of my weekends in Iran, and it was the only way I wanted to spend June 11, the day before the election.

I left my mother’s house at four
A.M.
with a plan to hike into the mountains for as long as I could and then descend by cable car. Every reporter prays for a chance to come across a life-changing story. Reporting the election was mine. I wanted to hike long enough to clear my head and put some distance between myself and politics, in the hope of keeping some perspective.

·   ·   ·

The music and fresh mountain air calmed me down. “My baby’s going to be born in four months’ time,” I hummed to myself as I hiked. “In four months’ time I will be a father.” The idea energized me, and as the sun rose over Tehran, I walked briskly.

By ten
A.M.
, I was hot and winded. I sat down to eat the dates I had packed. All of Tehran was spread out before me. As usual, a dark cloud of smog hung over the city. I poured a little of the tea I had brought and slowly ate my dates. The exhaustion of the last few days had settled in my body, but even so, I believed myself poised on the edge of so much possibility: a better future for my family; for my career; and, I prayed, for my country. I felt invigorated and happy.

After I packed my things and began the walk to the cable car, a sad, old voice, as thick as the smog covering the city, began to croon in my ears. It was Leonard Cohen, singing “Everybody Knows”:

Cohen’s words have an unrivaled ability to put a tunnel at the end of the light. While listening to Cohen, I remembered Amir’s words. The possibility of Khamenei making a wise decision was quite remote. After all, despots are hardly known for their inclination toward fairness.

When I returned, my cell phone rang. It was Amir. “Where’ve you been?” He sounded nervous. “I’ve been trying to call you all day. Come to my office as quickly as you can.”

An hour or so later, when I walked into his office, he immediately put his index finger to his lips, then asked me to sit down. “How is your mother, Maziar?” he asked, taking my cell phone. He turned it off and took out the battery. It was believed that Iranian security could eavesdrop on your conversations through your cell phone, even if the power was turned off.

“She’s well, thank you,” I said, feeling ill at ease as Amir handed me a piece of paper. “I’m so happy to hear that,” he said.

The paper was an open letter from Mousavi to Khamenei that would be made public in a few hours. Never before had a presidential candidate written such an irreverent letter to the supreme leader. In it, Mousavi expressed concern that members of the supervisory councils and election observers were acting in favor of Ahmadinejad and that Ministry of Interior officials were creating obstacles for Mousavi’s representatives who were supposed to supervise the preparation of ballot boxes and the counting procedures.

Mousavi also complained about the interference of the Revolutionary Guards and the Basij in the electoral process. He said that Ahmadinejad was illegally using government money and government offices for campaign purposes. In his letter, Mousavi also warned the supreme leader that some groups were trying to tamper with people’s votes. None of these accusations were new—at least not to the voters—but it was important that a candidate had taken a bold step and was voicing the people’s concerns.

“Please be sure to tell your mother that I was asking about her,” Amir said, sliding another piece of paper slowly across the desk.

The page contained a phone number and a message: “Call me on this number from a public telephone tomorrow. Don’t give it out to anyone. I think we’re being watched.”

All day on Friday, I thought about Amir’s warning, but I didn’t know what to do. I was sure that the Guards and Ministry of Intelligence agents were watching some reporters, but there was no way for me to know if I was one of them. My father had always said that in a dictatorship, the fear that the rulers want to instill in the people is more important than what they can actually do. “They can’t assign a secret agent for every citizen,” my father used to say. “But they try their best to make you believe that you’re being watched all the time.”

I was mindful of Amir’s warning but decided to carry on reporting. The day of the election was cooler than normal. Rather than the typical ninety-degree June weather, the temperature hovered in the high seventies. I was happy for the relief from the heat. My body ached from the previous day’s hike, and I couldn’t bear the idea of spending hours on the back of Davood’s motorcycle. I called Mr. Roosta instead. Ershad, the Ministry of Culture, had asked the foreign press to report from one specific polling station, but I had never thought of myself as part of the foreign press. I was an Iranian, so I planned to visit as many polling stations as I could. At ten
A.M.
, as I waited for Mr. Roosta’s cab to arrive, I called Amir on the number he had given me. I didn’t recognize the voice of the man who answered.

“He’s not here.”

“Could you tell me at what time he’ll be there?” I asked.

“And you are?”

“A friend of his.”

“Mr.—?”

I hung up.

I became worried about Amir. I knew that he had been threatened several times by the Guards and that its leaders were trying to find any excuse to put him behind bars. I climbed into Mr. Roosta’s car and decided to call Amir later; I had work to do. My first visit was to polling stations in the Qeytariyeh area, in north Tehran, where Mousavi’s campaign headquarters was located. Hundreds of people waited in line outside of every venue. I found the same thing at the polling stations in Robat Karim and other southern suburbs. In some places, people had to wait more than two hours for their turn to vote. Many of the people I spoke with were voting for the first time in their lives. They were excited and impatient and passed the time in heated political discussions.

Visitors to Iran are often surprised to find that, unlike in most Middle Eastern dictatorships, there are not that many uniformed policemen or army officers in Iranian cities. That is true until you take out your video camera or try to interview people—then you are surrounded within a few minutes by undercover and uniformed police.

I managed to interview just two or three people at each of the first five polling stations before I was asked to leave by security agents in civilian clothes. They never introduced themselves, but I later learned that they reported to the Ministry of Intelligence. I’d expected that it would be like this throughout the day, so I wasn’t surprised when a uniformed policeman hastily dismounting a motorcycle stopped me as I left a polling station on Gisha Street, in west Tehran, where I’d just cast my vote for Mousavi.

Apparently, an undercover agent at the station had called the police.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

From the single-striped badge on his dark green jacket, which he had awkwardly tucked into his trousers, I gathered that he was a second lieutenant in the Tehran police force. Unlike the Revolutionary Guards and the Basij, the police are less indoctrinated, and concerned mostly with matters of general security.

The second lieutenant’s thin mustache and stubble were covered with sweat, as if he had rushed to the station in a hurry. I showed him my press card and said I was a reporter and cameraman for
Newsweek
magazine and its website. He called his superior officer on his two-way radio receiver. “Sir, there’s a man who interviews people for New Zealand.”

“Newsweek,”
I corrected him.

“Shut up!” he yelled, pushing me around and telling me to face the wall. “He is
interviewing
people!” He said the word “interviewing” as if it were a capital crime. “Should I arrest him?”

This was not the first time I had been stopped by a policeman. Usually when it happened, they would call someone from Ershad and I would be let go within minutes or, much more rarely, a few hours. As any journalist in Iran can attest to, 80 percent of your time is spent dealing with officials, and only 20 percent working. I had long ago accepted this reality, so I faced the wall obediently and waited for the verdict.

“I don’t know, sir,” I heard him say. “He looks Iranian, but he says from New Zealand.” He came closer to me. “Hey, you! Do you speak Farsi?”

“Yes, sir. I do,” I replied politely. “I’m an Iranian citizen. I just voted.”

“Come here, Mr. Colonel wants to talk to you,” he said curtly.

“Hello, sir. This is Maziar Bahari from
Newsweek
,” I began. “My accreditation was issued by Ershad. I came here to conduct interviews about the election, but I was asked to leave. I was doing exactly that when the officer stopped me.”

Mr. Colonel explained that because of security threats, police officers were being more vigilant that day. The colonel then apologized for the inconvenience and asked me to pass the walkie-talkie to the policeman.

“Yes, sir! Should I arrest him, sir?” the second lieutenant asked eagerly. He looked uncomfortable with his boss’s reply and turned his back to me. “Yes, sir!” He put the walkie-talkie on his belt, next to his gun, and asked me, “Do you know Mr. Colonel? He sounded angry with me.” Then he looked at me apologetically. “I just follow orders. They called and said that you were doing interviews. Sorry to bother you.”

“No problem, sir. You’re just doing your job,” I said. “At least it’s a nice cool day for the election. So who will you be voting for?”

He gave me a surprised look. “Now you’re interviewing me?!”

“No. I’m just asking. Have you voted already?”

“I think Ahmadinejad.”

“You think? You have to vote today. You must’ve made your mind up already.”

“Yeah, I’ve already voted for Ahmadinejad. They say the other guys are going to stop the subsidies and are going to fire a lot of policemen.”

“Who says that?”

“Aghidati-Siasi,” he said, referring to the ideological and political bureau. Every base of every branch of the Iranian armed forces, which includes the national army, navy, and air force, the Revolutionary Guards, and the police, has an Aghidati-Siasi office. The office is in charge of religious indoctrination of the
armed forces personnel. The supreme leader chooses the director of Aghidati-Siasi, who is expected to act as the leader’s eyes and ears in the military. Aghidati-Siasi branch officers are usually junior clerics who give the armed forces officers religious training and make sure that everyone prays and fasts. Aghidati-Siasi also works closely with army intelligence units to spot “undesirable elements” in the military.

“We had a few sessions with Aghidati-Siasi—they talked about different candidates and they told us that Mr. Ahmadinejad is the best candidate.” He looked worriedly at my voice recorder and walked toward his motorcycle. “I hope you don’t get me into trouble, sir. I can lose my job for talking to you.”

After I got into Mr. Roosta’s car, I tried Amir again. He answered the phone, but didn’t want to stay on too long.