Hot Spot

by Jim Carroll

  I had never before interpreted a dream, other than my own to myself, but this would not be the last time. The meaning of the dream and its repetition were all too clear. Iran, as I was to discover, was a tempestuous sea of dreams — dreams that would entangle me, just as they had ensnared Joseph, my biblical namesake.

  Meanwhile, the controversy over Iranian nuclear power continued in the news. Western governments, with the U.S. in the lead, continued stopgap measures to ramp up economic sanctions against Iran. Iran began enriching uranium at its underground Fordow plant, and the Western sanctions against Iran had no effect on their nuclear progress. Iran had already begun loading fuel into the Bushehr power plant. The Persians were too smart: This should have been clear to the West. United Nations’ inspectors found uranium at the Fordow plant enriched to twenty-seven percent, a level greater than required for energy production but still far from that essential for a nuclear weapon. In the middle of this ongoing nuclear controversy, the international sanctions had a significant effect on Iran’s economy with the rial losing eighty percent of its value. Tehran currency traders rioted.

  When the semester ended, it was time to leave the Khorasani family. The mother and father both cried as we parted. They had accepted me as a surrogate son, and had treated me as one of their own. Leila said, “You must promise to return as soon as you can.” My most difficult parting was with Afsin. In helping him convert, I had betrayed the family’s trust. We had a secret we couldn’t share – not with anyone.

  By the time I left, Afsin was silently a strong brother in Christ. I had been able to obtain a Farsi translation of the New Testament for him. “You must keep it hidden from your parents,” I told him. I felt guilty about the deception, but we had no choice; to do otherwise would have been dangerous for Afsin, me, and for his family.

  In my last semester at King’s College I dived into my courses and completed the required senior thesis. I chose the economic markets that remained open to Iran during the Western sanctions as my topic. My time in Isfahan had allowed association with Dr. Davoud Al Madani, an economics professor at the university. We met many times at one of the many coffeehouses around the school. “Yusef,” he had counseled me, “this is what we must do. You use your family influence to return to Iran, and I will set up the necessary contacts here in Isfahan with companies in those countries not controlled by the sanctions. The U.S. has totally ignored Asia, Africa, and the little countries of the Far East. They always have, and now these countries have developed ways of getting around their sanctions. The U.S has actually issued thousands of exceptions for those with close relationships with your president. And with your talents, we can make a fortune.” There were, indeed, considerable opportunities in the unaffected markets. I saw this phenomenon as an opening for myself. My plan for the future remained intact.

  I graduated with honors and received the Holbart Prize for the most innovative senior thesis. The reviewers were not pro-American.

  By then I was reading the Tehran Times regularly online. A small post mentioned the name Esau Allison, a so-called Kuwaiti investor, named as a principal in an arms deal with Yemen. How odd. Why was he involved with Persian business dealings? Wasn’t little Kuwait enough for him? Surely he wouldn’t be on my doorstep here. But if he turned up, I was going to be ready.

  I returned to Kuwait in the summer of 2013 after my graduation. After passing through the passport check station for Kuwaiti citizens, which was always quick for men, I picked up my luggage and proceeded through the baggage inspection area without being stopped. Meanwhile, a Kuwaiti woman with three small children and ten bags was halted, all ten bags opened and their contents, underwear and all, were strewn on the inspection table. So much for Hibah’s “women’s rights,” I mused.

  My father met me in the high-ceilinged greeting area, and the bright lights and huge crowd overwhelmed me for a moment. Oddly, my legs buckled. I recovered promptly before my father saw me. We went out into the choking heat, he in his white dishdasha and me in my blue polo shirt and cream slacks. The weather change between London and Kuwait was always shocking, but the Mercedes AC managed the heat.

  I had come at the request of my father who was 75. When I saw he was more relaxed than I had ever seen him, I was comforted. He smiled at me, and I thanked the Lord. He had finally recovered from the social rejection he had experienced as a consequence of his fleeing Kuwait during the first Iraq war in 1990. He was reintegrated in the community, and our family reputation was intact again. Binyamin, now ten years old had accompanied him, and he squeezed me around the waist, burying his face in my trousers, laughing all the while.

  We proceeded down the Magwa Road to Ahmadi. “Yusef, you won’t believe the progress of the Christian movement among Kuwaitis. It’s surpassed anything I’d hoped for. My greatest sadness is the death of Dhuwahi last year. He finally couldn’t breathe anymore. And for some reason, I’ve been made leader of the group. Hibah says otherwise, but I think it’s only because I’m old.”

  Surely the numbers had not increased all that much. They still operated sub rosa. “Papa, how many Arab believers are there now?” The traffic slowed and formed a line as five camels crossed the road from left to right.

  “We meet in more than twenty-five homes in cells of six men. The cells choose different days of the week to meet to avoid an obvious pattern. My old friend John Friedecker advises the whole group. He’s been in Kuwait for so many years no one suspects his involvement in anything organized. He also distances himself from the details for his safety and ours.”

  Four more camels waited their turn on the left side of the road and then proceeded as one driver honked and waved. The little boy herding the camels whacked the last one on the rump and the parade was over. If camels still crossed major highways, how could anything else in Kuwait change very fast? The mix of past and present persisted.

  “John has given us several rules, which he says are working in other Arab countries. We continue to attend Friday mosque. It’s not the long-term plan, but it’s safest for this time. We can’t meet together for active worship. No new members can be brought in without the recommendation of two current members, and they can’t inform their extended families. And finally, multiple wives are discouraged unless they’re already present prior to entry into the group.”

  I asked, “What about the women? What are they told?”

  “We leave this up to each man. It is, however, encouraged that all male believers try to bring their wives to Jesus and then work through the Scriptures with them.” My father continued his description as he gestured with both hands, still driving. I was apprehensive about our safety. “The number of Kuwaiti believers is about 150 men. We’re thankful that so far there is no mention of us in the news, and the Kuwaiti secret police are either uninformed or uninterested. They have more serious threats. There are terrorist elements in the community who see it as their mission to overthrow the monarchy.” My father had lost his fear of the secret police. “My real concern is still Esau. He’s onto us and our plans.”

  “What’s the next step? What will happen as the number of men grows? When do you think their existence will become known?” I was more worried than my father.

  “The Lord knows the answer to those questions. It’s not one of the burdens I carry. I think it’ll be years that we must remain in secret – unless something happens to change the whole makeup of the society. I’m tired. I’ve been through more than I want to remember. I’m content with today.” I saw he really was satisfied.

  We pulled into the driveway of our home and my father pressed the automatic gate opener on the visor. Binyamin hopped out first and ran to Hibah. I got out of the car and slipped on the day’s accumulation of dust on the driveway. What a contrast between the green of England and the dust of Kuwait.

  Since I was not one of the regular, approved men in the group of Kuwaiti believers, I was not invited to any of the sessions, even those in our own home. I was told to remain in my room. It hurt
me that my half-brother Thawab was there regularly for the meetings, but I understood the risks of any other course of action. In regular attendance was a son of my martyred Uncle Suhayb. I had never known my father’s brother. The Iraqis had killed him during the invasion while I was still an infant. He was a hero of the Kuwaiti resistance.

  For my brief time at home I faced the awkwardness of my current relationship with Hibah. She still blamed me for leaving, and her greeting revealed that. She extended her hand, but there did not embrace me. We only talked during meals. “We missed you here in Kuwait,” she said quietly one evening. “Our father is OK, but he still regrets your leaving. He’s needed you, Yusef; not that it matters at all to you. You always do what’s best for yourself instead.” Her voice was low, but pain and accusation filled her eyes.

  Her words lay on the table between us like a loaded gun. I thought it best to limit my response, so I changed the subject. “How is your law practice going?” I asked lightly. She didn’t reply.

  Hibah was now a young woman, still in our home since a Christian Kuwaiti had not been located for her as a husband. Our mother had raised her well, and Hibah was content to wait for the Lord’s timing. Or at least she didn’t speak of it.

  Binyamin was already a computer whiz kid, engaged in special summer computer classes at Kuwait University. He already knew how to code, and while I was there, attempted to give me a little lesson, which I failed.

  For the moment, Esau, still at the Al Ahli Bank, was quiet, perhaps waiting for the next opportunity. There were rumors he had all kinds of extremist ties, from the Saudi Wahhabis to al-Qaeda to ISIL (which is also known as ISIS in America especially). Since the first mention of the Wahhabis so long ago, I had learned they were regarded by many in the world as one of the strictest, most orthodox Islamic groups in the world, centered in Saudi Arabia, although some disagreed with that assessment. Al-Qaeda was well-known for their attacks on the American World Trade Towers and Pentagon in 2001. ISIL was yet another extremist group that believed it was their destiny to rule a strict Islamic regime over the entire Middle East from Turkey to Palestine, even stretching into northern Africa. Although each of these groups were different in their goals, Esau was definitely in cahoots with the most extreme elements of Sunni Islam. And then there had been the note in the Tehran Times. He had just married for the third time, keeping two of the three wives. On one occasion, he had been observed visiting the Emir’s palace in Kuwait.

  I planned to return to Kuwait only rarely. I did not think important events would occur in stodgy Kuwait until most of the other Gulf countries had passed through the fire. That same year, 2013, the reformist-backed cleric Hassan Rouhani won the presidential election in Iran. I took his election personally, believing it was a favorable event for my plans. In September he told an American broadcaster that Iran would “never” build nuclear weapons. He allowed the opening of more coffeehouses as a token of the freedom of the youth. More than half the Iranian population was under thirty. In November, Iran agreed to curb uranium enrichment and gave foreign inspectors better access. Temporarily, the situation cooled.

  While I remained in Kuwait, Professor Al-Madani continued to deal with Iranian trading arrangements through countries not participating in the sanctions. The financial opportunities carved out by the sanctions were immense, and both Al-Madani and I intended to take advantage of them. “Young man, the risks for you are great, but so is the reward. Your talents and language skills are beautifully suited to this situation that our present politics has created.”

  It was to my advantage that the sanctions continued. There seemed to be little doubt they would as the U.S. would not back off; and despite Rouhani’s denials, Iran was single-minded in its goal to achieve nuclear independence. I assured Al-Madani I wanted to return to Isfahan because of my contacts there with him, and he located an Iranian trading firm with an office in the city. Much sooner than I expected, I was ready to return and join the Persia Trading Company in Isfahan. What would Al-Madani expect from me?

  CHAPTER 6

  ISFAHAN

  In mid-September I arrived at Isfahan Shahid Behesti International Airport, which could be mistaken for any modern airport with its big signs, escalators, plastic seats and stone pillars. Having learned earlier that the orange cab company was the most reliable, I took one into the city. The driver submitted to my price after he realized it was not my first trip, and I was careful to say darbast, meaning I wanted to be the only passenger.

  Out of respect for the Khorasani family and a desire to maintain contact with Afsin, I went to their home in the Mehrabad section of the city near the Zayandehof River. The father said, “Afsin, why don’t you give Yusef a hug.” Afsin looked down and obeyed his father, but did not linger on my shoulders. Was he afraid? Perhaps he no longer believed. After a night in my old room, like a child returning home, the oddity of the visit assaulted me. I was not their child, and I had betrayed the family’s trust by playing a role in Afsin’s conversion. I did not belong here. The best thing I could do for Afsin, whether he still believed in Jesus or not, was distance myself from him. Being connected to me would never help him. Perhaps the little boy saw the same facts stretching before us.

  In the cab from their apartment to my own, giddiness swept over me, a sensation of escape. I settled into my comfortable, second floor walk-up on Ferdosi Street near the bridge, where I could see the river if I stood on wooden chair at the window.

  My salary was generous by Iranian standards: sixty million rials a month. I quickly walked to the nearest store and bought a nineteen-inch Samsung TV to assist with my Farsi, keep up with Iranian news, and, of course, the soccer scores.

  Game results were interrupted by the news from Al-Jazeera. There she was, sitting at the news desk with her male colleague. The billing on the TV read “Tahara Al-Thani” alongside the name of her cohost, a name forever forgotten. How could a simple TV appearance stun me so deeply? Was it her directness, as if she was flirting at me through the camera? No, it wasn’t that. She was just breathtakingly beautiful with a forthright clarity of expression I found irresistible. And her name, Al-Thani: Was she related to the Qatari royal family? Probably not. Could I be smitten from TV appearance?

  My first dinner in the apartment was takeout from the Fardis restaurant on the street below me. I chose beryooni and watched the cook mince the baked mutton and lungs and then heat the mix over an open fire as he dusted cinnamon on top. But it was not as tasty as that made by my surrogate Persian mother, Mrs. Khorasani. The Persian fast food restaurant, Boof, would be my next stop, for sure.

  Two days later I reported for work at the Persia Trading Company where I met my boss, Sami Hosseini, an obsequious, paunchy, twitchy man in his fifties. Even as boss, I guessed he was fearful of losing his job. “You must take care here. Anyone may be listening.” Who were these nameless ears? I was Kuwaiti and therefore unafraid.

  He took me by the hand down the hall. “This will be your office. I trust you’ll find it satisfactory.” He was my supervisor. Why would he care whether it was satisfactory? The office had a view of the river. The other employees who had been there for longer periods looked on, glowering, lips parted, several cracking their knuckles. Were there any among them resentful enough of my position to be dangerous? Was it in this group I would find the “listeners” he warned about? And why was he warning me in the first place? Why was he afraid? To them, he said, “Gentlemen, please come and welcome Mr. Al-Tamimi.” Still, they shook my hand firmly, and after they heard I was fluent in Farsi, several spoke words of greeting. Because of my status as a rich Kuwaiti, some were even animated in their gestures. Perhaps to court my favor?

  Iran’s foreign trade had been battered by sanctions, particularly after the European Union had joined the restrictions. But there were considerable alternatives for financial gain. In June 2012 the U.S. had exempted India, South Korea, Malaysia, South Africa, Sri Lanka, Taiwan, and Turkey from economic sanctions if they cut their import
s of Iranian oil. There remained many other trade areas that could be plumbed by the wise, as well as many other countries that had no intention of pleasing America and the other Western nations.

  In my first week, a prominent Chinese trading group brought a translator who spoke English, and the advantage fell to me. Our Chinese guests came nodding and smiling to the office, and it was a spectacle. Their bowing and plastic smiles were almost more than I could take, but the negotiations were fruitful and Hosseini broadcast the results to the office staff, “Yusef has brought our Chinese friends into the fold.” I was embarrassed, but Hosseini beamed over my achievement, and his tics vanished for the moment. The employees in cubicles in the office center grinned whenever I passed.

  Western sanctions had damaged the firm’s revenue, as was evident by their old computers in need of replacement and the rasping swivel chairs. The deal I struck went a long way toward alleviating that loss. Hosseini put in an order for new equipment the afternoon of my triumph. The status afforded me because of this contract was one to which I had been accustomed all my life, and its occurrence now lured me into a false sense of security. I arranged for my university contact, Al-Madani, to get a cut as a consultant. No problem for Hosseini: such extraordinary, even unethical, arrangements were commonplace.

  But somehow Esau invaded. On a deal I was about to conclude, his name appeared among the signatories. The commission we were promised was suddenly halved, and Hosseini was forced to back out of the arrangement. “Yusef, how did you mess this up?” I shrugged my shoulders, but I knew. On a video business call I saw Esau in the background. His sardonic smile was unmistakable, and he had gained some weight. How did he have connections so far afield from Kuwait?