This was not the first time I’d been promised release in exchange for my cooperation, and I was reluctant to allow the hope I was beginning to feel to truly take hold. “I’m willing to help any way I can,” I said. “I’m a filmmaker and a journalist, and I can offer you my services when I’m out of prison.”
“Of course you can,” Rosewater said. “But the gentleman who’s going to be here in a few minutes will tell you how else you can help us. He’s my boss, so be very careful when you talk to him.”
Rosewater had left the room to get more tea and biscuits when his boss walked in. The Boss sounded like an old man, and his strong and distinct accent betrayed that he was from the city of Isfahan. The Boss pulled a chair up next to mine and began to gently rub my back. “I hope you’ve had a pleasant time, Mr. Bahari.”
“Well, sir,” I said, “because of its nature, prison is a very difficult place to be.”
“Soon you’ll be out of here,” the Boss reassured me. I closed my eyes under the blindfold, trying to absorb his words. “But there are certain formalities that we have to go through before releasing you. I’m sure you know what I mean?”
“Not really, sir,” I said apologetically.
“Well, do you know why we’re releasing you?” the Boss asked.
“Because I’ve repented?”
“Yes, but what will the manifestations of this repentance be?”
“I’ll make films for you and write articles in defense of the Islamic Republic,” I offered.
“That’s very good, but we need you to cooperate with us in other ways.” The Boss got up from his chair and moved even closer to me. He had polished brown shoes and creased brown trousers. Rosewater walked in and put a fresh cup of tea and digestive biscuits on the arm of my chair.
“Would you like me to stay, sir?” Rosewater asked the Boss.
“Maybe it’s better if I have a private talk with Mr. Bahari,” the Boss answered. I heard Rosewater leave the room.
“He is a very devout soldier,” the Boss said about Rosewater. “He’s tough and a firm believer but you and I … we are intellectuals. I think we can work this out between ourselves. If not, I can just leave and ask your interrogator to carry on his duty.”
I was too afraid to say anything. I wanted to hear him tell me again that I would be released. Keeping my eyes closed, I quietly sipped my tea.
“I was really impressed with your first TV interview, and even then I thought, Here’s a man we can work with,” the Boss said as he tapped my shoulder. “You have many contacts in the West who are among the opposition to our holy regime. You also know the Western media inside out. So, Mr. Bahari, all we’re asking from you is to help us identify how the Americans and Zionists are using the media to wage a war against our government. And in doing so, Mr. Bahari, you will help us to defeat our enemies.”
He placed a list on my chair: dozens of names of journalists and opposition activists working inside and outside Iran, including many of my friends, as well as some people I’d never met.
“This is a partial list of people we would like you to monitor,” the Boss said. He then laid out his plan for me: after my release, I would provide them with a weekly report about anti-Iranian activities in the West. To accomplish this, I was to approach different journalists and politicians, become friends with them, and then report their activities to the Revolutionary Guards.
I accepted immediately and without hesitation. The Boss lifted my blindfold, and I reached for the pen he handed me and signed the letter of commitment on my desk:
I, Maziar Bahari, will be working with the brothers in the Revolutionary Guards Corps, and I will report to them every week about my activities and the activities of the anti-revolutionary elements I will be in contact with. I accept that I will be responsible for the consequences of my failure to act upon my promises and my failure will result in punishment.
As I saw it, I was not being asked to admit to any guilt. I was simply being forced to make a promise that I had no intention of keeping. This was a useless piece of paper—of course I would sign it. I was elated. There was a real possibility that I would be released in time to be with Paola for the birth of our baby daughter.
Rosewater reentered the room.
“Congratulations, sir,” the Boss said to Rosewater. “Because of your endeavor, Mr. Bahari seems to have learned about the might of our forces, sir. It’s an important achievement.”
“With your permission, sir,” Rosewater said, “I would like to remind Mazi—this is the term of endearment I use for Mr. Bahari, sir—that when he steps out of Evin Prison, he should not feel that he’s safe. The Revolutionary Guards Corps has allies all over the world. If Mr. Bahari ever decides to abuse our trust and act against us, we can always bring him back in a bag.”
“Mr. Bahari is a wise and intelligent man,” the Boss said. “He knows that we are his friends. Don’t you, Mr. Bahari?”
“Of course. When will I be released, sir?” I asked. “My wife is going to give birth in twenty days, on October twenty-sixth. Will I be able to see the birth of my child?”
“I think so,” said the Boss vaguely. “This letter of commitment means that you’ve trusted the Islamic system, and in return we’ll make sure that you don’t have to go through the bitter experience of the last three months for much longer.”
The thought of being with Paola for Marianna’s birth made me happy, but I also knew that I could never trust these people.
Over the next several days, I spent most of my time in the interrogation room, reviewing the different lists of names Rosewater or the Boss had been preparing for me. The lists included a variety of people, from former secretary of state Henry Kissinger to friends of mine who worked as junior producers for the BBC. As in my Thai massage stories, I let my imagination roam freely, making up details about how I would approach each person and spy on them.
“I’ve met Kissinger. He’s a German Jew and he really liked my film about the Holocaust,” I lied to the Boss one day. (I’d never met Kissinger in my life.) “He is the man behind all the decisions in America regarding Iran and the Middle East. I can go to Kissinger’s office, pretend that I want to do an interview with him, find out about his plans for Iran, and report back to you.”
I also told them that I’d be willing to spy on my friends for the Revolutionary Guards.
“You’re friends with Masoud Behnoud, aren’t you, Mazi?” Rosewater asked, referring to a well-known Iranian journalist who lives in exile in London. “If we give you an eavesdropping device, will you be able to plant it in his house?”
“No problem,” I answered. In speaking with Rosewater, I described how Masoud lived in a grand luxury house in central London, though, in fact, he lived in a modest, two-bedroom flat in a suburb. They thought that Masoud was spying for MI6 and that he was a wealthy man, and I happily went along with their narrative. “I can put the device under his desk, and I might even be able to download his computer files,” I said.
“Ahsant! Bravo!” said Rosewater.
To secure my release, Rosewater explained, I would have to post bail in the amount of three billion rials ($300,000). I didn’t have that much cash, of course, but told him that I could register my mother’s apartment as the deposit.
“If you ever make the mistake of not returning to Iran,” Rosewater warned me, “the first thing we’ll do is kick your mother out of that apartment and throw all your tapes and books into the street.”
It was another attempt to manipulate and scare me, but it wasn’t going to work. I knew my mother would rather get kicked out of her home than have me endure even one more day in prison, and even if she were evicted, I would be free, and able to enlist the help of our friends and relatives in finding her a new place; plus, it sounded like an empty threat. From their constant emphasis on the bail, I knew that they didn’t believe that I was going to spy for them. I guessed it was just protocol that in order to be released, prisoners had to sign a letter saying that
they were going to spy for the regime; it was a way for the Revolutionary Guards to save face. I had no way of knowing if my guess was correct, but I didn’t care. All I wanted was to be released.
· · ·
As I prepared for my release—never knowing the exact date when it would occur—I was allowed to call my mother every day. She told me that she and Mohammad had started the legal procedure to register the deed to my mother’s house to be used for my bail. She also told me that Paola had been admitted to the hospital three times. She had been diagnosed with placenta previa, a condition in which the placenta attaches to the uterus so low down that it borders on or covers the cervix. It had resulted in heavy bleeding, which was dangerous for Paola and the baby. My mother and Mohammad reassured me that the hospitalizations were only a preventive measure, but the news still devastated me.
As my cellmates chatted and shared stories, I tried to keep myself busy by exercising. But I was consumed with worry for Paola. I began to imagine the worst, to the extent that, at times, I actually longed to be back in solitary confinement, where I could cry freely without bothering anyone.
Though being in Evin had been a very emotional experience, I generally don’t like to show my emotions. My stoicism bothered Rosewater to the last day. My conversations with my family were recorded, and Rosewater didn’t try to hide the fact that he’d been listening to them.
“How’s Paola?” he asked. It was Friday, October 16. By then all the legal steps regarding my bail had been completed, and I was ready to be released. “I hope she and the baby will survive this.”
I knew he wanted to purposely raise doubts in my mind about Paola’s health. Using a man’s wife and child to put pressure on him was pushing the moral boundaries to the limit, even for an interrogator working for the Islamic Republic. But nothing about Rosewater surprised me anymore.
“I’m sure they’ll survive, sir,” I said quietly.
“You’re so cold, Maziar,” he remarked. “We’re talking about your wife’s and your baby’s lives here.”
“They’ll be fine,” I said firmly, while burning inside. “I’m not worried about them.”
“But what your family is telling you about the bleeding and everything isn’t very reassuring.”
“They’ll be fine, sir.”
Rosewater took away the plate of digestive biscuits and the cup of tea he’d put on the arm of my chair. “Listen.” He tapped my shoulder as hard as he could. “Don’t forget who you are. When you step out of here, I need you to report every single thing you do. I want to know about every person you meet and every thought you have. You’ll be fine when I say you’re fine. Your family will be fine when I say they’re fine. And when you’re out, always remember the bag. We can always bring you back in a bag.” He grabbed my ear for the first time in weeks and squeezed it as hard as he could. “Understood?”
I didn’t want to reply, but then I considered that it wasn’t defiance that had gotten me to this point.
“Understood?” he repeated, squeezing harder.
Let him hear what he wants to hear, I thought. You’ll be jogging in Regent’s Park with Paola and the baby soon.
“Yes,” I said. “Understood.”
PART THREE
Survival
Chapter Eighteen
On the morning of October 17, I was taken to Judge Mohammadzadeh’s office. If the number of files on his desk was any indication, the Islamic Republic had managed to make many more enemies for itself in the months since my arrest. I wondered how many innocent lives were in the hands of this vicious, hypocritical judge.
Unlike the first time I’d met him, when he’d made rude, sexual gestures, today his manner was businesslike and efficient. He quickly read aloud the thirteen charges against me, which included everything from the still undefined “media espionage” to taking part in illegal demonstrations and undermining the security of the state. When he finished reading, I spoke up.
“When will I be freed?”
“Inshallah, within a couple of hours,” answered Mohammadzadeh. I’d come to hate the expression inshallah—“God willing”—which may be the most overused and least meaningful phrase spoken by Muslims. It allows individuals to pretend that they care, while doing nothing.
“Possibly within a couple of hours? Or within a couple of hours for sure?” I asked.
My question clearly angered Mohammadzadeh. “What did you say, you little spy?” he barked. “Do you want me to tear up your release order and let you rot here for the rest of your life?”
“I just wanted to know, sir,” I said quietly.
“If it was up to me, I would execute you and everyone like you. You’re lucky that our Islamic regime has been kind enough to let you join your family temporarily. But don’t worry: I will make sure that you receive the harshest sentence possible.” He closed my file. His next words hit me harder than any of Rosewater’s punches.
“Actually, I’m going to call the court to ask them to annul your bail order,” he said. “Now put the blindfold on and get out of my office before I kick the life out of you.”
Was he serious? I thought of my mother and Paola, who must’ve heard the news of my imminent release and would now have their hopes dashed. My knees felt so weak that I could hardly walk.
I went back to my cell at nine thirty-seven A.M. I lay down and waited to see what decision the judge—in all of his “Islamic kindness”—was going to make about my case. As I shut my eyes, trying to think of nothing, I could feel the excruciating pain of each passing second. Each one felt like a day. I couldn’t think of anything except for my hatred of the Islamic Republic, its potentate, and his servants.
Trying to pass the time, I reviewed all the things I would have to do as soon as I got out of prison. I would buy a ticket for the first available flight to London. I wondered if my travel agent had heard about my ordeal. How about my other friends and acquaintances? I went through their faces and names one by one. I would contact my friends on Rosewater’s list, and check on them to make sure they had not been imprisoned.
But among the long list of things I needed to do, one particular task weighed most heavily: I had to find a way to tell the world of the atrocities I had witnessed during the demonstrations and what I’d experienced at Evin. I knew that in hundreds of other cells lining the dusty hallways of this prison, innocent people were undergoing the same experience I had—people who did not have the benefit of a powerful magazine and a very stubborn, outspoken wife behind them. I had an opportunity to be the voice of my imprisoned friends and colleagues. It was only the thought of exposing the regime that tempered the excruciating pain of those endless moments while I waited to learn my fate.
· · ·
I was brought to see Rosewater a few minutes before eleven A.M. He told me that my brother-in-law, Mohammad, was waiting outside Evin with the deed to my mother’s apartment.
“Call him and say that you may not be released today,” Rosewater ordered.
“But why?” I asked weakly. “What’s happened?”
“Nothing. We just need a signature, and we’re not sure when we can get it from that official.”
My heart sank. In Iran, many lives were spared and others were ended because of a final signature of an official. I wasn’t sure whether Rosewater was telling me the truth or if Mohammadzadeh had annulled my release out of spite.
“Inshallah, the official will be found today,” I told Rosewater.
“Inshallah,” Rosewater answered, as he handed me the phone to call Mohammad.
Mohammad said that he wasn’t going anywhere until I was freed. “I told Moloojoon that I’d come home with you, and she’s waiting for both of us,” he said. Mohammad, who’d gone through a much longer and harsher incarceration than I, knew how heartbreaking it would be for my mother to hear that I had to stay in prison even for one more day. As usual, his words were reassuring. “Don’t worry about anything,” he told me. “I’m sure you’ll be released today.”
“It’s a free country,” Rosewater said sarcastically. He’d been listening in on the call. “He can wait outside as long as he wants.”
I went back to my cell. After lunch, Rosewater called me to the interrogation room twice. Again he went through the list of names of people I was expected to spy on in London. Both times, I felt that there was someone else in the room, and at one point, I thought I heard the buzz of a camera recording our conversation. I’d used video cameras enough in my life to recognize the sound. The fact that I was being filmed gave me hope. I thought, They’re recording me for the last time before they release me, so they can prove that I’ve been cooperating with them.
Rosewater had told me that I shouldn’t talk about my release with my cellmates, but after I was called to the interrogation room for the second time that afternoon, they began to wonder what was going on.
“I don’t know what he wants from me,” I told them. “He keeps on asking me the same questions over and over again.” I wasn’t sure if they believed me or not, and at that point, I didn’t care. The only thing I was thinking about was my freedom, and joining Paola in London to witness the birth of our baby in nine days.
· · ·
“Mr. Bahari,” a guard called to me about two hours later. “Collect your stuff. You’re moving to another cell.”
“But why?” I asked. The guard didn’t answer. He led me out of the building, and after a long walk through Evin’s labyrinthine courtyards, we entered an office I’d never been to.
“Here’s your Mr. Bahari, sir,” the guard said. I recognized Rosewater’s slippers.
“Take your blindfold off,” ordered Rosewater. I didn’t understand. He was sitting right in front of me, the lights were on, and he was asking me to remove my blindfold. “We obtained the necessary signature,” Rosewater said. “Now take the blindfold off and sit down on the sofa.”
Then They Came for Me: A Family’s Story of Love, Captivity, and Survival Page 28
