· · ·
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.”
It was the first time I’d seen his face clearly since the day he’d arrested me. I’d mentally reviewed the details of his face during the many sessions when he’d beaten and humiliated me. When he’d slapped me on the back of my head, I had wondered about the size of his hands. When he’d screamed and insulted me and spit on my face, I had tried to remember the shape of his mouth. And in his moments of silence, I’d wondered about his gaze.
Now he was sitting right in front of me on a white plastic chair, one of many that were scattered around the courtyards of Evin, with his legs crossed. His light brown suit looked even tighter than it had on the day I’d been arrested. What was the point of the blindfold, if I was allowed to see his face on the first day and the last day? I guessed it was so he didn’t have to look into my eyes while making false accusations and insulting and beating me, even though in his heart he knew that he was torturing an innocent man.
I looked down. I could feel that he was staring at me, but I didn’t want to look into his eyes. There was an uncomfortable silence between us. Even on the brink of my freedom, he was silently trying to tell me that I was still his prisoner. And quietly, I refused to accept his suggestion. At that point, I hated him so much that I was afraid I might do or say something that could enrage him and make him reverse my release.
At his feet were six big plastic bags that contained my confiscated laptops, mobile phones, documents, CDs, and DVDs. “What time is it, sir?” I finally said. “I think my brother-in-law is waiting outside. It must be getting cold.”
“Yes. And I’m sure you want to go home so you can eat your mother’s cooking, don’t you?” Rosewater asked.
I finally looked into his eyes. They were as hateful as I’d remembered. But he was much uglier than I’d thought. The expression on his face revealed an obscene mind. The way he squeezed his lips after each sentence betrayed an insecure bully. But there was also a childlike quality about him. He grinned after his own unfunny comments and blew into his cheeks when he talked about the strength of the regime. As he went through, for the umpteenth time, the list of people I’d promised to inform him about, he looked more relaxed than he had the day he’d arrested me. He didn’t have to keep a stern face anymore.
When he finished giving me instructions, he leaned forward and handed me a bag of my clothes, but when I took it, he refused to let it go. “Remember our talk about the power of the Revolutionary Guards, Mazi,” he said. He looked into my eyes, maybe searching for the fear he wanted to see. “You’re never going to be safe.”
· · ·
After I got dressed, they put my blindfold back on and drove me out of Evin. As soon as I was permitted, I took off the blindfold. I looked at my watch. It was nine fifty-four P.M. on October 17, 2009. I’d been arrested exactly 118 days, 12 hours, and 54 minutes earlier. I knew that I was about to embark on yet another extraordinary journey, but I wasn’t sure about anything. Was I really free? Or was it a joke, a cruel trick like Maryam’s mock execution? Were they going to arrest me again? I was full of the doubts that Rosewater had worked so hard to instill in me.
Mohammad was waiting outside the prison gates, along with many other people waiting for their loved ones. I kissed both his cheeks. I wanted to hug him for a long time, but I also wanted to get away from Evin as soon as possible. Evin’s main gate is off a busy street in north Tehran. We hailed a cab as soon as we saw one.
At home, my mother and Iran, Maryam and Mohammad’s daughter, were waiting for me. I immediately took my mother in my arms and cried for several minutes—not only because I had missed her so much, but also because I knew that our greeting was just the beginning of what could be a very long good-bye.
Then I called Paola. She couldn’t believe that I was finally out. She wanted to picture me in my home to help her believe that I really was not in Evin anymore. “Are you there with your mother?” she asked me. “What time did you get home?” She became more excited with every answer, as each one confirmed that I had been freed and I would be with her soon. Very soon. But our excitement was overshadowed by the fact that I was still in Iran. I kept my conversation with Paola to a minimum. I wasn’t sure if the Guards had put me under surveillance and were tapping my phone calls. I had told them that I would be returning to Iran within a couple of months, so I avoided any conversation about how long I was going to be in London or any other important subject. Fortunately, Paola instinctively knew not to ask many questions.
Paola had been in the hospital for more than a week. My friends at Channel 4 News had paid for a private room for her, she told me. She had her own television set and computer there. My family had already told her about my release, but reporters from all around the world were also calling her to find out the news. Before saying good-bye, I told her that I didn’t want to do any interviews a
nd asked her not to talk to any reporters.
I took my laptop to the living room. As my mother, Mohammad, and Iran told me about the latest family news and political developments, I went through my emails. The Guards had deleted many of my messages. However, I still had hundreds of emails from friends and total strangers who’d written to wish me well, thinking that maybe—miraculously, perhaps—I had access to the Internet in prison. I was moved by the generosity of all those who had cared about me during my time in Evin. Seeing the attention I had received while in prison made me more determined than ever to help the hundreds of prisoners who were not as fortunate as me.
As I went through my emails, my niece told me about the details of Newsweek’s and Paola’s campaign.
On Sunday, June 21, 2009, the day of my arrest, Paola, who was five months pregnant at the time, had been walking in Primrose Hill. It was a hot day, and Paola looked for a place in the shade where she could sit down and relax. Just as she found a bench, her cell phone rang. It was my friend Malu. “Check your email,” she told Paola. “Maziar’s been arrested.”
Paola rushed home and found Khaled’s message waiting in her in-box. Khaled had heard the news of my arrest from my mother, who had called him as soon as I had been led away in handcuffs. From his student apartment in Adelaide, Australia, Khaled had sent a message to everyone on the list I had prepared of friends and colleagues in different media outlets around the world. I had often told Khaled that the Iranian government had never released any prisoner because his family and friends had remained quiet. If you wanted your loved ones freed in Iran, you had to make noise. In his email, Khaled made it clear that I needed as much publicity as possible.
A flurry of emails flew among the people on Khaled’s list—my editors at Newsweek and Channel 4, and my other friends and colleagues. Paola recognized few of these parties. It occurred to her then that she would have to head the campaign for my freedom. There was never any question in her mind that this task would fall to anyone else. But my world was somehow unfamiliar to her. She was a financial lawyer. My world was the world of the media, and Paola didn’t know many of my friends and colleagues. Indeed, in those early days in prison, I’d often wondered whether people were going to be more surprised by my arrest or by the fact that Paola was pregnant. I’d been traveling so much in the months before the election that I had not had the opportunity to tell my close friends in person about the pregnancy. I’d wanted to announce it properly after I came back from Iran. Many of my friends and certainly my colleagues at Newsweek didn’t even know that Paola and I had gotten engaged.
At home, Paola took a deep breath and concentrated on playing catch-up with the emails. Nisid Hajari, who had been my editor at Newsweek since 2006, seemed to have already taken control of the situation. He had decided on a strategy and had drafted a statement to be released to the press that same day. Ironically, Nisid had sent me an email the night before my arrest, asking what my plan was if the government were to start a crackdown on journalists; I’d never gotten the chance to reply.
Don Graham, the CEO of the Washington Post Company, which owned Newsweek at the time, and Jon Meacham, then the magazine’s editor, told Nisid to do whatever he could, regardless of the time it took or the money it cost. When Paola called Nisid later that day, she felt an enormous sense of relief that strong and dependable Nisid was going to coordinate the campaign, to which she would give her heart and soul until I was free. There and then, she placed her full trust in Nisid, and never once would she doubt that she had made the right decision.
From that day onward, Nisid relinquished almost all of his day-to-day editing duties and committed himself to leading the effort to free me. On the other side of the Atlantic, Chris Dickey, Newsweek’s Paris bureau chief and Middle East editor, took the train to London to meet Paola and offer his support. Chris had brought me to Newsweek. He knew Iran as well as anybody and was able to offer Nisid sage advice on every decision. Their first task was to find out where I was and who had taken me. Information started to come in from different sources, many of whom had friends inside the Iranian government. However, when the Revolutionary Guards took over much of the government, the rules of the game changed. Many people inside the government itself did not know anything about my situation and were unknowingly misled into passing on false information.
From time to time, news of my whereabouts and imminent release would seep through from some seemingly dependable source to Nisid and Chris. At the beginning, they would call Paola and they’d all privately rejoice. But then days would pass with no further news. Chris and Nisid chided themselves for having been so credulous and, in particular, for having given Paola false hope.
Paola, meanwhile, hid from them her utter despair—a despair that seemed to emanate from the deepest part within her. She imagined the baby inside her to be at the epicenter of the turmoil, and as she watched her body shake uncontrollably, she was racked with guilt. She was grateful that her twin sister, Barbara, was there. Barbara always knew what to say and the right tone to take. This time she was firm and matter-of-fact: “Paola, be strong for the baby. That’s what Maziar wants.” And with those words, Paola’s body stopped shaking. She picked herself up and got back to work.
From the beginning, Newsweek ensured that the news of my arrest would go viral. The arrest of an innocent journalist hit a nerve among thousands of people around the world. Paola was inundated with messages from people who knew me, even former school friends from many years ago. They started websites and Facebook pages and worked with Paola and Newsweek to disseminate petitions for my release across the world. Night after night, as I sat in that prison cell, designing crossword puzzles and playing miniature basketball and thinking that I’d perhaps been forgotten, my friends and colleagues were working tirelessly for my release.
On the diplomatic level, Nisid knew that he had to allow Canada to lead the governmental efforts to obtain my release, since I was a Canadian citizen. But the Canadian government, being the Canadian government, was not as aggressive and persistent in its approach as Nisid and the others would have liked. When it comes to human-rights abuses, the Canadian government has always taken the lead in condemning the Iranian government, but its officials use bureaucratic tactics and follow very strict protocols.
The Iranian government, meanwhile, was caught off guard by the attention paid to my arrest. The Revolutionary Guards did not explain its reasons for arresting me to the other branches of the government, and made sure that the rest of the government understood that my arrest and the arrest of others taken by the Guards was no one else’s business. Iranian diplomats felt powerless. Many of them were ashamed of their government, but they feared dismissal and arrest, and had to continue to work to make a living. Of course, they could not say that to Newsweek, so they pretended to be in the know about my situation. In this way, many encouraging but false pieces of information were passed on to Newsweek and Paola.
As the weeks passed with no solid information about my status, everybody grew increasingly worried, and very impatient. They waited and waited for good news, but none came. Meanwhile, in late July, Nisid learned from sources in Iran that officials from the Guards were saying that Newsweek’s quiet campaign on my behalf meant that Newsweek agreed that I was a spy. The war team’s strategy had to change. My case had to have the maximum amount of publicity possible.
A few days later, Hillary Clinton appeared on Fareed Zakaria’s show GPS, on CNN. Fareed was the editor of Newsweek International. He’d been mentioning me often on his show—in fact, every chance he could get—and he took the opportunity to ask Clinton what she thought of my arrest and the staged trials going on in Iran at the time. She replied, “Well, I am just appalled at the treatment that Mr. Bahari and others are receiving. It is a show trial. There is no doubt that it demonstrates, I think, better than any of us could ever say, that this Iranian leadership is afraid of their own people, and afraid of the truth and the facts coming out. We’ve expressed our
concern about Mr. Bahari’s confinement, and now the trial.”
Clinton spoke about me a few times after that as well, and her comments made diplomats around the world more aware of my ordeal. Nisid knew that they needed to continue the publicity in order to keep the story of my incarceration fresh. The only problem was that after the election, hundreds of people had been arrested. Newsweek had to find a creative way to convince people that my story was worthy of extra attention. Paola was the difference. Paola’s efforts while visibly pregnant helped make my story interesting to the international media.
On September 8, Paola agreed to give an interview to Channel 4 News at our home in London. That morning, despite being over seven months pregnant, she had rushed around town to get some medical letters regarding her condition legalized and sent to the lawyer in Iran. As she walked to the notary’s office, she regretted not having taken a taxi. The sun was streaming down and the baby had started to kick vigorously. Just as she felt about to faint, she arrived at the notary’s and collapsed onto the black leather sofa. The receptionist, who knew her well by this point, rushed to her with a glass of water. “You have to take it easy. Can’t someone else deal with all these medical letters?” she asked Paola. “Not really,” Paola replied. Barbara had already taken a week off from her job to help her and had been made to feel irresponsible by her boss afterward. Paola’s friends were at work, and the rest of her family abroad.
Paola took a taxi home. As she swept the floor and tidied all the papers to prepare the flat for the interview that evening, she resolved to slow down a little. Throughout the campaign, the baby had been the reason for her strength, but now she had to acknowledge that she felt physically drained. That evening the crew from Channel 4 News arrived. She helped them remodel the living room into a mini studio. Just as the last touches to the room were being made, the show’s host, my friend Jon Snow, arrived. They sat down opposite each other, Paola relieved to finally be off her feet. “Do you have a message for the Iranian government?” he asked as the camera rolled. “Yes: Fuck you!” Paola laughed, knowing that Jon would edit that part out.
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