by Jim Carroll
In the midst of the work and the endless questioning, strangely timed, my father was given a visa and came to Tehran to see me. He stayed with me in my small apartment for two days and I was allowed a respite from the questioning.
But there was no relief from the pressure of my confinement. My apartment was bugged by my captors. A knock on my door prior to my father’s arrival opened to two technicians with brown cases of electronic equipment. “We must know everything that is said here. Don’t touch the microphones, or there will be a penalty, one you won’t like.” They were efficient, kind, and unapologetic.
My father was now an old man of 78. In the time since I had previously seen him, his physical condition had visibly deteriorated, and he walked with a cane and in evident pain, but his mind was quick and his thoughts tuned to the Lord. “Yusef, you must know God is in charge of all you’re going through.” He was more peaceful and settled than I had ever seen him. Even my apartment prison didn’t upset him. Our conversation was unaltered by the bugs we both knew were in operation. “We can say whatever we wish. What can we hide at this point?” Indeed there were no secrets left.
I knew he was worried about my physical situation, but then came the key comment. “What’s happening with your spirit? You seem without an anchor.” He was right, and I had no response.
Still, he was calm and confident, for reasons I didn’t yet understand. My mother on whom he depended had been dead for many years. He had recuperated from the loss to the best extent possible. When he spoke of her, he smiled. “She was a saint.” And of course, she was.
I was allowed to take my father to dinner at a restaurant outside my usual radius. We passed by the Fountain of the Martyrs, which commemorated those who died in the Iran-Iraq war. Colored red water spewed from the fountain, suggesting the blood of the sufferers. Such was the tasteless rendering by the upper level clergy.
We arrived at Nayeb, a restaurant festooned in browns and yellows, where I ordered jeweled rice, a dish with carrots, sugar, saffron, oranges, and dried fruit followed by zereshk polo ba morgh (barberry rice with chicken). My father didn’t like my choice. The mix of spices was so unlike Kuwaiti fare, and I felt I had spoiled the evening with my departure from the plain, sturdy taste of our Kuwaiti chicken dishes. But the food was not the main issue. Our mutual feelings of dismay over my situation were the chief source of the damage. He was sad for my lagging spirit, and I was despondent over my guilt and loss of freedom.
My ankle bracelet was also decorated with a listening device, and the restaurant provided no shelter from my omnipresent watchdogs. I told him the story of how I arrived at my present job, as well as how I had been manipulated by Rashidi at Evin prison. For a while I stopped there, but I couldn’t hold back. I proceeded to tell him of the nuclear project and how I had helped. I had to be honest with him. “Papa, you can’t tell anyone in Kuwait about this. If it becomes known, I’ll be charged in the international court when I’m released from prison here. Esau could do this.”
“Yusef, I’ve been so worried about you. And now, with what you’ve told me, I can see it is worse than I thought. I can’t imagine what you’re going through. I don’t know how they’ve forced you to do all that you’ve told me about. You still have four years to go. How will it be for you when this is over?”
I shook my head, and replied, “I don’t know, Papa. The Lord must have a plan for this, but I don’t see it.”
“I don’t see it either. I’m not sure I’ll ever see you again, and I don’t want it to finish with this – your endless imprisonment. I came to encourage you, and I feel like I’m unable to help. All I can tell you is this: I’ve been in places in my life where I saw no exit. And somehow…” His voice trailed off for a moment. “I remember you from the time you were born. You were beautiful. There were none as handsome, none as charming as you. The Lord blessed you with gifts designed for greatness. You still possess those gifts. We have to base our hope on what the Lord has done in the past. He will never forsake us, no matter what.”
His comment seemed empty to me. I had made choices, and they hadn’t been good ones. I was thankful my father didn’t discuss the nuclear weapons issue and the disasters that could arise from it. I understood what he was saying to me, but my heart just could not grasp the hope he was trying to share. I felt I had gone too far.
We talked the remainder of the time about events in Kuwait. I learned that my half-brother Thawab had expressed belief in Jesus. The government had taken no action against him, but several Muslims had decided to correct Thawab’s apostasy, and they had attacked him with swords. He had been hospitalized at Mubarak in intensive care for three weeks.
My father continued. The number of Kuwaiti Christians had grown substantially. Most sought to conceal their conversion by taking their worship of Jesus to the mosque. Those with more courage formed house churches. “The government doesn’t know how to deal with us. If they raise the issue publicly, then it would rise to the level of controversy in the community. And Kuwait wants no such controversy. The government still operates with the goal of self-preservation at the cost of principle.”
I asked, “What about dreams?” I brought up dreams because they had been the bright side of my sojourn so far. The evening needed a bright side.
My father smiled, “The dreams don’t amount to much in Kuwait. The gospel has grown by the more usual method: person-to-person.”
Finally, my father told me about my half-brother, Esau. “He’s taken a new position in Kuwait as a computer programmer at Al-Bader Trading Company. He prosecutes the cause of Islam by any means he can. As we suspected, he’s definitely been identified with extremist groups. We know he’s in charge of e-mail hacking as a tool to find Christians. With his obvious al-Qaeda or ISIL affiliations, Esau’s path will only get worse.” I knew Esau had contacts in Iran, but their nature was unclear to me. Was he orchestrating my detention? And the religious confusion: How was he stirring the pot with both Sunni and Shia elements?
We both thought we were unlikely to see each other again, and the visit had been a rather sad one, not greatly uplifting for either of us. I was thankful my father had not been critical of my cowardice. He only said, “You’re too much like me. You’re careful, not brave. I love you, no matter what. How can I tell of what you’ve done here when I can’t reveal all I’ve done?” With that very real reassurance, he embraced me as I put him in a taxi for the airport. Surely this meeting was our last on earth.
After my father’s departure, my painful schedule resumed and showed no sign of stopping. A series of questioners took on the challenge of breaking me down, but there was no place left that had not already been broken. They might have succeeded if I knew what they wanted, but their questions made no sense to me. I would have been glad to tell them anything useful to get them to stop. Everything except Afsin. “Why did you become a Christian? Who are your friends? Who gave you money? How did you get a job in Iran?” I should have been encouraged by the lack of depth in their questions. But I didn’t think of that at the time. The rosy future I had built in my imagination so long ago had been completely eradicated, leaving nothing except dread for the future and disappointment over the past.
The same set of questions were asked and answered over and over again until January 2018. Three full years still remained in my sentence.
CHAPTER 10
NEW DREAMS
Even in the midst of this vile routine and constant sleep deprivation, my dreams renewed in a kaleidoscopic fashion. At first the dreams rescued me, as they led to business successes, and my reputation blossomed.
In my waking hours, the interrogations stopped and my electronic tether was increased to an eight-block radius. As long as I didn’t attempt to leave the country, I was essentially free. I was promoted for my ability, just as always, and I felt a slight, but temporary release from my bomb guilt.
It was then that a new dream, one that recurred many times, intervened. Its interpretation escaped me. The
dream was delivered not to me but to the head of the Ministry of Economic Affairs and Finance, Karim Khadim. He brought me into his office and related his dream many times, the repetition reflecting his concern. “In the dream I see myself astride a white horse surveying a vast field of wheat. The field bears a sign: By This Field Your Debts Are Secured. Then the dream changes suddenly, and I find myself riding a black, gaunt mule in the midst of the same field, while grasshoppers devastate the field.” He stopped for a moment and then continued, “If I had this dream only once, I wouldn’t have thought much of it, but I’ve had it frequently. The changes in it frighten me.” Why was he being so frank, so self-abasing with me?
The idea of the loss of wealth was clear in Khadim’s dream, but the addition of the concept of secured debt was more difficult. The fact that the dream was repeated showed that it was important and had the potential for some kind of widespread economic disruption. I was apprehensive, and my mind jumped from possibility to possibility.
But at this point my analysis of the dream failed. “Sir, I know the dream is about finances and some sort of economic disaster, but I don’t know what to make of the message behind it.” He kept asking me the same questions over and over. He was afraid, and I was now the focus. The finances were his responsibility. My obligation was to give answers to dreams. First the bomb guilt, and now this.
“Yusef, if you know what’s good for you, you’d better get this right.” Khadim urged. He was losing confidence in me. I imagined he thought my lack of a solution was due to a reluctance on my part to help him. He kept me running back and forth between my office and his, every time suggesting different possibilities. He dishonored himself by his anxiety and by coming to my office, but he was afraid of the consequences if he failed.
The unpleasantness of my incarceration resumed. My travel range was again restricted to one block. There were extended sessions of questioning without pattern, and once more, the sleep deprivation. Khadim turned up the pressure as his own anxiety increased.
I was certain the answer would come to me. Answers always had in the past, but weeks went by and nothing. I phoned my father. Knowing others were listening, I stated, “Papa, I know the answer to the dream will come to me, but I can’t wait much longer.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. I realize you’re on your own there. I’d help if I could. We’re praying.”
Why wouldn’t God answer? Was this punishment for my role in the bomb? Had I considered all the options? No, no way, there had to be an answer.
For the first time in my life what I thought was my great gift of dream interpretation failed me. I was completely stumped. Humbled, I realized God bestowed His gifts at His pleasure; it was not mine. It had never been mine, which meant it was not to be used for my fame either. Khadim stopped speaking to me, and my reputation shrank. My biblical namesake had succeeded at a similar juncture. Not me. Pharaoh lost his respect for me. I began to pray more earnestly than before.
Then the threats began, subtle at first. Khadim called me to his office. “I’m very sad for you. If this dream is important, and you haven’t provided the answers, then the outcome of your time here could change.” He averted his gaze and looked at his papers on the desk before him.
“I don’t understand. What could change?” Where were we headed with this discussion?
“You must know that nothing in Iran is ever completely settled.” He dropped the line of discussion and moved on.
What did he mean? Surely not a change in my sentence.
A subsequent conversation made it clearer. “Yusef, your sentence was given in the Public Court of the first level. I understand there are inquiries from the Court of Cassation about your sentence, and we have received new information from Kuwait that is quite telling.” Esau again? Khadim looked at me directly and folded his arms across his chest. Was he angry, simply stating the facts, or just using fear as his weapon?
I recalled the incident of Majid Nafisi, when I had predicted his sentence would be changed to death, and the prediction came true. What new sentence would they impose on me– more time, the amputation I feared, death? My interpretation gift no longer served me. Now I was agitated, not only about the finances of Iran and Khadim’s dream, but also my future. God, please help me. I need You!
A day later I received an e-mail from my younger brother, Binyamin. It was passed to me by the ever-present security. It was not unusual for me to hear from him. Binyamin and I had become increasingly close over our brief time together in Kuwait. He had advanced in maturity with great speed, and while there was a sizeable gap in our ages, we were devoted to one another, just as I was with Hibah. I had missed hearing from him while incarcerated. At fifteen his technical skills were remarkable; he could hack into critical systems.
Binyamin, addressed me as “Dear Brother.” He must have known others would read any correspondence first, so he didn’t mention Esau by name, but I presumed he had somehow reached into Esau’s computer system. What Binyamin conveyed was startling and gave me an immediate solution to the dream. An unnamed principle (Esau, of course) was frantically disposing of his company’s position in the bond market. Associates in al-Qaeda and ISIL were initiating a run on the bond market, which was much more fragile than generally thought. Binyamin wrote, “Our father told us about your current distress. I think you must act on this information as soon as possible.”
Of course! That was it! A thunderclap surely! But why had not Esau informed his contacts in Iran, the ones he must have. Why was he holding out on them? How many sides could he play?
My brother had discovered the key. Why had I not figured this out for myself, even without God’s help? My interpretive gift had failed, but my brother’s skill saved me. Actually, God had worked through my little brother to help me, but I did not give Him credit for what transpired. The small bit of humility I had shriveled like a prune.
The matter of secured debt was the crux of the matter. The world economy looked strong, the U.S. boom continued, and Europe was finally coming out of its long economic slowdown. China seemed to have gotten a handle on their strongly controlled, planned economy. Corruption had been reduced, or so they said.
However, in the midst of all this apparent prosperity, the debt capacity of world markets had been exceeded. The Chinese had concealed their deficiencies. In all the major states, debt was not really secured in any substantive way. I had not studied the bond market with the same thoroughness I pursued other financial areas, but a quick two-day study period led me to the same conclusions that had been reached by al-Qaeda and ISIL. Not only were corporate bonds approaching default, the same was true of municipalities and the short-term projects they were attempting to fund. Others would surely reach the same conclusion.
In order to maintain the attractiveness of bond-based borrowing in combination with the increased risk, the interest rates offered would have to rise. As a consequence, the value of bonds would fall. The bond market disaster could be triggered by a few payment defaults, which would occur first for those with lesser means to obscure the deficit. But the others would follow.
I hurried to Khadim’s office and rushed past the secretary, who extended an arm to delay me. I was stronger than I had been in days. “Sir, I know the answer. The answer is a coming disaster in the bond market.” I made recommendations to Khadim based on my assessment. My pronouncements destroyed his confidence in the bond market he relied upon. “The country should divest itself of all bond holdings immediately.” Now I was giving him instructions. “You must take this action right away, but in an orderly manner, so as not to hasten a run on the market. After that, hold the resulting funds in escrow in gold reserves and do not reinvest them until the markets stabilize.”
My excited and certain manner rattled him. I had not expressed such confidence in the past. He rose from his desk with me still in the room, something he never did. He was always one to maintain his edge of superiority outwardly. He paced as he talked through the best way to
present the issue. “Wait here, Yusef,” he commanded me. Khadim marched out to pass my recommendations up the line as his own, without mentioning their source. I didn’t expect anything else. Only if it were proved wrong would the advice be laid at my door.
He must have had trouble convincing his superiors because Khadim did not return for two long hours. I waited. Their response was incomplete and slow. Why should they adopt such a ridiculous story? No other nation’s leaders would have swallowed the same information in one bite. What should have taken three to six months was stretched by design to one year. But the slow pace was another triumph for Khadim. He took advantage of the casual pace and ordered me to divert one percent of the bond sales into his private account. In order to protect myself, I kept careful private records, tracking the funds. I knew that would do little good for me now, but perhaps there would come a time. One never knew.
In August 2018 the collapse Binyamin had predicted ensued. Iran had disposed of half its bond holdings, and invested that money in gold bullion. Their remaining bonds became worthless, but Iran was ahead of the rest of the world in this game. Gold prices soared, and Khadim was a hero of the state. He called me into his office, leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head. “Yusef, I thank you for your service in this matter, but I want to caution you. Don’t tell anyone about the dream and how you solved it. I get the credit for this. If you try to take it, life will not go well for you.” I understood this better than anything else. I got it.
Khadim was kind to me, without portioning out the glory. I never expected he would share anything with me, and I was not wrong. He pulled me into his office again, iterating the same message: “Yusef, don’t ever share your role in this.” He smiled and dismissed me. But thanks to him, the interrogations stopped and my ankle bracelet was set to a 12-block radius, which greatly increased my social interaction.
