Hot Spot

by Jim Carroll

  “Is there anything else?”

  “That’s what I’m asking.” I should have seen at this point that he was interrogating me. He clearly had no conviction of his own sin. Allah was not working on his conscience. The conversation proceeded in this vein for thirty minutes, questions about what it meant to be a Christian. Eventually, I called a halt to it. I didn’t think I had crossed any lines. Others in the office were watching us from their desks.

  All this time the international scene continued to buzz in Iran. In June 2014 President Rouhani offered to assist Iraq in its battle against Sunni elements, further enhancing old Sunni-Shia splits. Iranian Revolutionary guards were providing more training to Iraqi militia than the Americans were. Negotiations over Iran’s nuclear program were reactivated.

  One day, I received an ill-timed and frightening e-mail: “You fell into the trap – you talked with Shabaz. Esau” What did Esau have to do with any of this? Why would he even care about Iran and issues of religion on this side of the Gulf?

  When Abbas, Shaheen, and I began to meet again, Abbas told us he thought he was being followed. He had always been the more fearful and suspicious one of the group, so Shaheen and I didn’t give this much credence. But when, without a word, he failed to attend the coffee shop the next week, our apprehensions grew. He was quite dependable and his absence was out of character. We called his cell phone multiple times and got no answer. Then, it occurred to us that our own cell numbers might be betraying us, so we ceased calling and waited.

  There was no further word for two weeks. Shaheen and I continued to meet for coffee. Then, Shaheen disappeared too. I had no choice, but to go to his home. “I’m a friend of Shaheen. I haven’t been able to contact him. I’m worried about him.”

  His parents, conservative Muslims, had not heard from him for three days. They didn’t invite me in. “We’ve reported his absence to the police. We can’t get them to do anything. Dealing with them is even worse than usual.” They wanted to know my connection to Shaheen. I simply told them he was my friend from the coffee shop.

  I returned to work, trying to remain calm. My boss called me into his office. “Yusef, two men in black suits came to the office looking for you. Whatever you’re into, don’t involve me.” Typical Hosseini.

  Did Esau have anything to do with this? How could I have been discovered? Was it via the computer again? Should I never e-mail my friends?

  I remained as composed as I could, trying to relax with my hands in my pants pockets. I told Hosseini I had a family emergency in Kuwait and would need to be gone for about a week. A family emergency always takes precedence in the Middle East. After a fast cab trip to the Behesti International Airport, no luggage, I booked the first available flight out of Iran to Dubai, and then on via Kuwait Airways to Kuwait City. The clerk didn’t smile with my booking. “No luggage, sir?” I nodded.

  Upon my arrival in Kuwait, my father was sharp with me, no preliminary greeting. “Running away will do no good. They can’t touch you. You’re Kuwaiti. Just face what’s in front of you. You led those two men to Jesus, and you’re responsible for them. There’s just no way they’ll challenge a Kuwaiti citizen. You’re safe by virtue of your birth and position.” My father’s confidence buoyed me up. Surely he was right.

  Was there any other choice but to return and help Sheehan and Abbas? I feared my father underestimated the risks, but he was my father.

  The growth of the gospel in Kuwait during my brief absence had been exponential, but was still secret. Perhaps that’s what made my father so strong. “God will not be mocked,” he assured me. “The gospel will grow and bear fruit, no matter what. Yusef, what do you really believe? You must know the Lord will protect you.” Thus, he stirred up my old uncertainties. I was not as clear on that matter as I had hoped, and I began to wonder. I depended on my charm and abilities, but it was becoming obvious that they might be insufficient. So how was my father so confident? He was clearly trusting God in a way that I did not.

  Hibah joined the conversation and did not encourage me as she had done in the past. “Yusef, Allah has given you all you wanted in Iran. You wanted to be there, and He clearly has work for you there.”

  In the end, it was with fear and reluctance that I returned to Isfahan. What am I doing? On arrival I was taken aside at the immigration desk for non-Iranians and escorted into the office of a very polite official dressed in an expensive, gray, pin-striped suit. There was a single manila folder on his desk. “I’m very sorry for delaying you,” he said with a smile. I noted he didn’t use the word “detain.” The staff brought us tea, and he left his desk chair and joined me, sitting at the table. He put his hand on my shoulder briefly, as if to say we are brothers.

  “There are some routine matters that need clarification. I see in the reports you have made many close friends during your time in Isfahan.” He patted the folder on the table in front of us.

  “Yes, certainly, I’m very happy here in your country.” I tried to remain unperturbed, but sweat was gathering in my armpits.

  “I see you had two close friends, Abbas and Shaheen. I’m afraid we’ve had to collect them and interrogate them. Initially, they didn’t have much to say; but in the end, they were quite forthcoming.” Why was he speaking of them in past tense? What did he mean by “in the end”? “We know they were apostates. They left Islam. They said you helped them. Mr. Al-Tamimi, you’re from a Kuwaiti family, a clan bent on trouble for your little country. We have information about all of you from your half-brother.” Esau again? How had he come into the picture? My stomach contracted. “It would be much easier for you and our two countries if you simply got back on the plane and returned to Kuwait. We would prefer that. I’m afraid this is a pivotal moment for you.”

  I fell silent for a full minute. I thought back to my father’s assurances of safety and also to Hibah’s dare. Looking back, I’m sure my family had no idea what Iran was really like. My self-image directed me to show courage even when there was none. “Sir, I’ve done nothing wrong. I have a good job here in Isfahan, and I love it here. I would like to remain in your great country.” Had it not been for my father and Hibah and knowing I would have to face them in Kuwait, I might have purchased an outbound ticket. I was fearful of the Persian authorities, but more anxious about preserving my image and the honor of my family. I should have reversed the order of concern, but pride eclipsed reason.

  “So it shall be.” With that comment, he pressed a button on the underside of the table. Two thick-shouldered men with full black beards entered the office and each grasped one of my arms. Where do these guys get those shoulders? I was taken to an unmarked black Mercedes and driven off into the evening. They did not answer my requests for information, even as my voice shook. The psalms called out to me, “O Lord, how many are my foes! Many are rising against me; many are saying of my soul, ‘There is no salvation for him in God’” (Psalm 3:1-2).

  After an hour driving northward from the city, we arrived at a large installation that I recognized as Kashan prison. I had heard of it and seen photos, usually depicting executions by hanging. I was taken to a white-painted room with no windows and one door. One of the men told me to disrobe and provided a loose-fitting white shirt and white trousers. My wallet, apartment, car keys, and cell phone were taken. I sat waiting alone for nearly two hours. Another man, tall and clean-shaven, finally entered the room and sat across facing me. I couldn’t move, paralyzed.

  “Mr. Al-Tamimi, I can promise you your stay with us will go much easier for you if you cooperate fully. We know you are a Christian who pretends to be a Muslim. Our contacts in Kuwait confirm our information. We know your father in Kuwait is a Christian, and everything about your family.” How do they know? Esau? Why does he care enough to intervene so far afield? “We know about your friends, Abbas and Shaheen. They confessed their apostasy and paid the penalty for it. We must know who else you have deceived.”

  “Have I been charged with any crime? I want to know what m
y rights are. Is there something you have against me?” I cracked my knuckles, trying to display anger. Ineffective.

  “We ask the questions, not you. Today, I ask only one question. Who else have you deceived? We will learn everything from your computer.”

  I couldn’t tell him, not ever, about young Afsin. I held off the story of Ferouz and Shabaz, thinking I could occupy the interrogator’s efforts later by recounting information they likely already knew. When I supplied no answers to his repeated questions, I was taken to a cell.

  The cell was gleaming white, much cleaner than I expected, an image from one of my dreams. For the first two days, all meals were brought to my cell and I was not allowed to meet with other prisoners. Then, on the third day I was taken for interrogation, this time by a straight-laced, uniformed man with a small moustache and goatee.

  I concluded he was a member of the Basij, the paramilitary force subordinate to the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps. The Basij was heavily involved in the violent crackdowns and serious human rights abuses that had occurred in Iran since that June 2009 contested presidential election. They were also implicated in attacks on university students, abuse of detainees, and violence against peaceful protesters. I told him about Ferouz and Shabaz, that they had sought me out on their own without any instigation from me, and that I had not attempted to lead them into apostasy. All this was true, but cached in cowardly terms. My presumption was that security forces had planted them, and that appeared to be correct because he showed no interest in their stories. He wanted to know about other contacts, explanations of all my previous actions, and my future plans, if they had not apprehended me.

  “My future plans are simply to continue working at my firm,” I answered, “Why am I here? What’s charges have been brought against me? May I leave and go back to my job?”

  “No, you will not be permitted to leave.”

  “When is my trial?” This was to be my continuing question.

  I expected to be beaten into some sort of confession, but there were no beatings, just the interminable day following day, each mostly in my cell. What was going to happen to me? A trial? Surely they would not hold me without a trial. They would not treat a Kuwaiti citizen as they had treated Shaheen and Abbas.

  CHAPTER 7

  MY PRISON COMMUNITY

  No word of a trial. No answer to questions about any judicial process.

  After two weeks I was allowed out of my cell with other prisoners, like a pet released from my cage into the courtyard of the other pets.

  Without my imprisonment at Kashan, I would have never have understood, truly grasped, what was happening in Iran. My days were filled with poets, artists, filmmakers, academics, political dissidents, Christian pastors, drug dealers, murderers, thieves, rapists, and most of all, dreamers. No, I don’t mean philosophers but normal individuals who had dreams, not just the standard dreams we all experience, but prophetic dreams, dangerous dreams. The history of modern Iran is replete with reports of gospel conversions through dreams, and in the prison I was honored to hear many. Some recognized the meaning of their recurring dreams and others were looking to have their dreams translated. I’m certain some of these dream stories were planted as an attempt to pull me further into the morass. At this point, what difference could it make? Still I saw malevolent intent in every observation and every event; I thought every circumstance was directed only at me.

  The dreams did not lead to immediate conversion for most. This is a crucial point. They did, however, raise the awareness of a spiritual yearning that could only be satisfied by news of the gospel in sufficient detail. For some, the course of conversion was rapid; in others, erratic. The need for Bibles was crucial, but this necessity was not easily resolved.

  My imprisonment provided a strange freedom I would not have experienced in my comfortable position in the city because everyone knew I had been imprisoned because of my Christian beliefs, so there was no longer any reason to hide my faith. Now it could be tested, a trial I did not want. I prayed Psalm 55:1: “Give ear to my prayer, O God, and hide not yourself from my plea for mercy!” But the Lord allowed no escape.

  I considered the possible crimes for which I could be held. The most serious crime was my supposed conversion and apostasy from Islam. Apostasy means the abandonment of a previously held belief. The punishment for apostasy from Islam is death. But I had never been Muslim, having been reared and taught in a Christian home. The second, more likely charge, was proselytizing. At no point was either of these charges specifically made to me, and I continued to be held without charges levelled against me or a trial in my future.

  During the four hours a day out of my cell I was permitted to speak freely with other prisoners. One of my first serious exchanges took place with Kamal Kashani, formerly a literature professor at the University of Isfahan. He was charged with spreading dissent and disobeying government censorship. This issue had arisen in the context of his teaching certain banned literary works. His specific crime was the assignment to his students of the short story titled, “The Baboon Whose Buffoon Was Dead” by Sadeq Chubak. The story is an allegory about a baboon controlled by an all-powerful master, the buffoon. The buffoon represented the unyielding state, a theocracy. On the death of his master, the buffoon, the baboon is forced to make his own sad choices.

  I tried to exchange complaints against the system with Kashani, but he replied with, “I don’t want to hear about your experiences as a Christian, a foreigner here in my country. You’re nothing to me.” Thus, he relegated me to the level of one his accusers. Kashani resented his incarceration, and never laughed or smiled. He fired insults and sarcasm at any target. “My family or students won’t come to visit me.” Surely, his family and students wouldn’t visit him because of possible entanglement in the charges against him. He would end each diatribe with, “I know now there is no God.” He remained stiff, inflexible, and bitter in his hardened disbelief. In the past a devout Muslim, his resentment against God was profound, and this brought him great personal suffering. Every week he lost visible weight from his already lanky frame.

  But God intervened, and his relationship with me softened. He came to me, eyes wet. “Yusef, my sleep is troubled. I’m having a dream that frightens me. A tall man dressed in gold walks toward me. He looks angry. On each occasion, he says, ‘You forsake me in your anger.’ Then, he turns away from me.”

  “Who is the man?”

  “That’s what frightens me. I’m afraid he’s going to punish me.”

  “Why would he punish you?”

  “I’m angry with God.”

  I replied, “Has the God of the Quran ever spoken to you?”

  “No.”

  “Then perhaps he is not the God of the Quran.” I closed the discussion at this point.

  We talked again in three days, and his demeanor had changed. The permanent frown was gone from his face.

  “I think I know who the man is – I think He’s Jesus. If someone had told me this could happen, I would not have believed him. The stories I taught my students didn’t prepare me for this.”

  “And if you’re right?”

  “Then, it means He comes for me. I have not asked Him to come to me, and I’ve done nothing that would cause Him to come for me. What do you think? Is this possible?” He sat down on the concrete bench with hands together, almost prayerful. Repentant? I wasn’t sure.

  “I believe you’re right. This is what I thought from the beginning, but you had to figure it out for yourself. You’re not the first to experience such a dream. You must know that the Lord of the world is working out His will.” The wind bent down the grass in the prison yard, but Kashani was beyond looking at his physical surroundings, not the scrubby grass or the high, tan walls or the grim-faced guards.

  “I’m a teacher. I’ve always wanted to know more. And now I don’t have any way to learn more about Jesus. I need to read His book.” His eyes were wet. Were those real tears? I wasn’t certain.

  �
��You’re right. We can talk and I can teach you more, but you need a Bible. I haven’t been able to figure out how to get Bibles into the prison.”

  Two weeks later Kashani introduced me to a guard he had befriended. The guard was a closet Christian. He told Kashani, “I’ll bring in one Bible at a time. I’ll not take any more risk for you than that.” They were tiny volumes containing both Old and New Testaments with miniscule print, but they were easily concealed. Even with my young eyes I couldn’t read the print, so we needed magnifying glasses, which required more smuggling. We paid another guard to bring those. We told him they were for the elderly. Handling such contraband would be an added charge on our lists of wrongdoings if discovered, but I had never been formally charged with anything yet. Even so, I was anxious and troubled about the smuggling, and my stomach turned when I thought of the possible consequences. My ability to sleep, which was already poor, nearly disappeared, and my stomach problems, always the mirror of my distress, grew.

  Kashani was a quick student with his new Bible and turned out to be a remarkable teacher and evangelist among the inmates. Dreams continued to present themselves. The recipients were thieves, rapists, and insurrectionists – all manner of men. The gospel flourished, albeit quietly. Strangely, the epidemic remained undiscovered for some time. I couldn’t believe we had been given such freedom, and I began to see attacks even where there were none.

  Once again the words of a psalm, asking for the Lord’s protection, came to my aid: “Deliver me from my enemies, O my God” (Psalm 59:1a). It was as if my mother was by my side, reminding me of my heritage. Sometimes I heeded her, sometimes not.

  Almost all the prisoners who considered themselves Muslim were Twelver Shias. I knew a bit about Shia theology from my high school religion course. They believed that twelve divinely inspired imams came after Muhammad and that the last imam, the last Mahdi, still existed in hiding, having disappeared from view in the ninth century. In the last days, they believe, this Mahdi will return to public life and fight one final battle against the armies of the Antichrist. He would triumph and rule justly for a period of years, whereupon Jesus (as a prophet) would finally return in triumph from heaven too. Of the Madhi, the Persians said, “May God hasten his return.” I saw striking similarities to these predictions and those of Christian end-times theology. The vital difference was that the Twelvers viewed Jesus as a human prophet, and not divine. Still, there remained in this theology a basis for discussion that provided legitimate and open exchange in this odd environment, a situation created unintentionally by the Iranian theocracy.