The discussion was over. The two men stood up. They exchanged a cold handshake and left. I realized that it would be better for me to leave as well. I said: “Mr Kianuri really wants to meet up with you.”
He shook his head, saying neither yes or no.
“Telephone me. I’ll be here for days on end.”
By the time I reached the city centre on the bus, it was nine in the morning. The roads in the centre of the city were blocked. I walked on foot towards Boulevard Street. At the time, the Mardom offices were located in a high-rise building near the northern corner of the US Embassy. When I got closer, I saw young men and women wearing red bandanas around their heads. They were running around and shouting:
“Today is the day of blood!”
“The downfall of Khomeini!”
Most of them were armed. I could see a number of Hillman cars following them. Men were aiming pistols out of the car windows, hunting them down, one by one. The north of the street was completely blocked and the sound of sporadic shooting could be heard. I don’t know whether the shoot-out was the result of the failure of that early morning meeting or not. I considered how to leave the area. I chose a broad road that led east and entered it. The street was eerily empty. A bit further on I reached a side road and saw that a shoot-out was already under way between the Mujahedin and the Revolutionary Guards. I hurried on down the street. I knew I couldn’t go back the way I’d come. A bit further along, when the street narrowed, I saw some young men trying to drag a wounded girl with them as they ran away. Judging by their clothing and their age, they must have been Mujaheds. At the next junction, people in civilian clothing arrived, fully armed and carrying heavy machineguns. It was like a very dramatic scene from a war film. The people in civilian clothing spread out across the road, completely blocking it. They moved forward, clearing the road step by step. They passed me and carried on down the street. Later, when I recalled that scene, my whole body started to shake. All it needed was for one or two of them to mistake me for the enemy and I would have been finished. Fortunately I managed to reach the main road safely; however, the whole area seemed to be in flames. The sound of shooting continued uninterrupted and the roads were blocked.
My last meeting with Khamenei took place a month later, when he was already well on his way to the Presidential Palace. At that time he was bedridden. He was very ill and talked with difficulty. I realized that we could only talk very briefly and would have to stick to neutral subjects that wouldn’t tax him. The door opened suddenly and a chubby young man rushed into the room looking agitated. He went to the side of the bed and whispered something into Khamenei’s ear. Then he took a piece of paper out of his pocket and gave it to Khamenei, who read it carefully and gave it back to the young man, urging him not to react. The young man agreed, and left.
Khamenei smiled a lifeless smile and said: “Right, so now you have gobbled up the Fedayeen47 as well.”
I realized that the news of the alliance between the Party and the Organization of Iranian People’s Fedayeen must have just been announced. I said: “Would it be so bad if they, too, were defending the revolution?”
He replied: “A structured organization with Russian support that is fully behind us and all those young people ...”
He fell silent briefly and then carried on: “You have turned dangerous, Houshang.”
I said: “There are rumours that arrangements have been made to launch a communist massacre.”
He was about to fall asleep again and said: “There is no need for us to launch it. Once the people understand that we won’t stop them they’ll tear you all apart ...”
I laughed and said: “So let’s say goodbye for good.”
He said: “No, we won’t let them tear you apart.”
We joked, but this was horror and death. I tried not to lose control of myself. I knew that the answer would be negative but I still asked: “When can you see Mr Kianuri?”
He said: “Things have changed now.”
I recalled his angry argument about the Mujahedin. We shook hands and I left. The next meeting might be in hell itself. Khamenei went on to take up the post of president, while I went to prison, and then into exile. Two cellmates, one in exile, the other at home.
I delivered this final message to Kianuri. He went pale and fell silent. He must have seen that the tide had turned.
When I related the incident to Rahman, he flicked his hair and said: “This man Khamenei is very dangerous. He has made up his mind to tear the communists into pieces.”
Chapter 10
I used to be Ahmadinejad’s Torturer!
Hello Brother Hamid. I am about to write my tenth letter to you. You have taken away the papers relating to Khamenei to read. I am now recalling the happy, difficult days in which the idea of the revolution was still alive and well. We were euphoric that we were marching towards freedom. You were arranging for a Taliban-style government.
Political groups were still active on the streets of Iran in those days. Young boys and girls were selling newspapers at the crossroads. Distributing leaflets. A free Iran could have become a role model for the third world. And you were scrutinizing everyone. The first street operations against women had just begun. The headscarf had already become compulsory. I was preparing the ground for freedom. You were getting the prisons ready. You and the likes of Ahmadinejad stayed in the background in those days.
Tehran, spring 1979
We were unemployed and stuck at home. We had nothing to do other than work for the revolution. We could almost hear the sound of bulldozers ploughing through the entire society. The Party line was that they were sowing the seeds of socialism. We would see the chador-clad women and bearded men around us and thought to ourselves that we were fighting a common struggle with them. But they were walking towards the past while we looked to the future. There were times when we wanted to wake them up with the sound of bullets, but instead we tried discussions, books and newspapers. We would write and print, and they would set it on fire, and the nation’s existential harvest went up in flames.
We were living in our little paradise while around us a wild inferno was raging, with new fires springing up on every corner. Frustrated by the injustices of Iranian society under the Shah, we were united by our socialist ideals. We were a bunch of enthusiastic people who assumed that the anti-imperialist, antioppression revolution would finally uproot imperialism and usher in socialism on the whirlwind of change. It was on one of those spring days that Rahman said: “Sooner or later the Savak list is going to turn up. You must prepare your wife, gently, gradually ...”
Rahman and I both knew that my name would be on that list. During the Shah’s regime, it was important for the Tudeh Party, for its own protection, to have someone on the inside to warn them of impending acts of repression against the Party or any of its members by Savak, the Shah’s secret police. One of the senior leaders of the Party had therefore asked me to infiltrate Savak so that I could monitor its activities, possibly supply disinformation on the Party, and warn Tudeh officials if Savak seemed to be on their trail. It would take a separate book to explain this fully, but suffice it to say that I had eventually managed to join Savak in an informal capacity, and was able to serve the Tudeh Party in this way, as a sort of double agent, for several years. My wife, however, knew nothing about this.
My first words on this sensitive subject created an arctic wind, making my incredulous wife freeze. She looked at me icily, growing colder by the minute, up until the announcement clarifying my role was published on the front page of Mardom.
Rahman, who knew the full story, did not consider it wise to interfere directly. He restricted himself to mentioning it obliquely: “Someone has got to do the dirty jobs of the revolution. Such people are the true revolutionaries.”
My wife looked at him with tearful eyes, but didn’t respond. She told him that she would only be convinced when the Party made an official announcement on the subject. One night, she left our bedroom
to do something, and I discovered, by chance, a large knife under her mattress. On her return, she said: “I’ll kill you with this very knife if the Party fails to confirm your story.”
Her delicate hands were trembling and tears ran down her cheeks. I immediately informed Rahman, not because I was afraid of death but because I feared for my wife.
He said: “What’s your view?”
I said: “My wife is more important to me than myself, but as always, I leave the decision to you.”
And the Party leaders came to their decision. One of them was strongly opposed to full disclosure, arguing that bringing the matter up in the present political climate would destroy my life. However, Rahman was extremely worried about my wife, Nooshabeh. Kianuri sided with Rahman and said: “If we announce the truth of this matter, it will reflect well on the Party.”
I was at home at the time, and was unaware of the meeting. The telephone rang and Kianuri told me that he wanted to talk to my wife. I handed her the phone. My wife listened for a few minutes, put down the phone, and smiled.
The next day, 28 May 1979, the news was printed in a few lines in a corner of Mardom’s front page:
The office of the Central Committee of Iran’s Tudeh Party is announcing herewith that Houshang Asadi is a member of Iran’s Tudeh Party and was instructed by the Party to infiltrate Savak via Tudeh’s secret network, and in accomplishing this, he has provided a valuable service.
I took the newspaper to my wife. She read the report and the ice statue immediately thawed and she hugged me. From that moment on she saw it as her duty to look after me very carefully. She feared that people loyal to Savak might target me and tear me to pieces.
Later that day I went to a ceremony in Toopkhaneh Square.48 A famous photographer, who was busy taking photos there, said to me: “You have exploded a bomb, Mr Asadi.” He was right. While that bomb had melted my wife’s iciness, its detonation had set in chain a series of events that went on to influence the rest of our lives.
I was walking past Tehran University a few days later when I noticed the Shouts and Noises tent. This was a well-known but controversial publication that was opposed to and violently insulted all groups that were not Hezbollah.49 I went into the tent, and immediately saw a long poem written in large letters on a piece of cardboard. It was about me, the Party and Marxism. I was reading it and laughing to myself when a short, ugly young man appeared from behind the cardboard. He asked: “Is everything alright, brother?”
I said: “Yes. Do you know this guy?”
He said: “Yes, he was my torturer in prison.”
And then he gave me a lengthy account of how I had tortured him and how every time I raised the whip, I shouted: “Death to Islam! Long live Lenin!”
I left, astounded and laughing. Years later, after he became the president of Iran, I saw a photograph of him and remembered that day.
Chapter 11
Kabul a Few Days after the Red Army’s Arrival
It’s a cold winter morning in exile, Brother Hamid. The coldness of exile is not only in the air. It freezes your whole body.
My wife wakes up in the middle of the night. She searches my face with worried eyes and says: “Don’t write. You are killing yourself.”
The symptoms of my heart condition have returned one by one. Once again I have problems with my breathing. Once again. But I must write.
The muezzin’s voice told me that it was sunset when you picked up the pile of writing and took it away. I put down the biro when I heard the shuffling sound of slippers. I put on my blindfold and waited. You were laughing loudly. You hit me on my shoulder: “How are you? Written anything?”
I handed over the sheets on Afghanistan.
You said: “Stay right there ’til I come back.”
Kabul, winter 1980
In the summer of 1979, we went on our first post-revolution trip abroad. My wife’s mother and sister came with us. We went to Greece. A cruise ship took us to fairytale islands in the beautiful Mediterranean Sea. We made the acquaintance of an American businessman on the boat and the conversation inevitably turned to Iran. The young man was fiercely anti the revolution and predicted an ominous future for Iran. His jaw dropped in astonishment when he heard my wife and I defend it. When he realized that my wife had studied at Oxford he exclaimed: “But why would you support it, madam? Do you want to wear a headscarf?”
My wife responded: “I would be prepared to wear a sack over my head if it ensured my country was free and independent!”
That winter, the Soviet Army entered Afghanistan, an event that shook the world. The Party took the immediate decision to send a Mardom reporter together with some trusted reporters from the other major Iranian newspapers to Afghanistan. Mansour Taraji, the editor-in-chief of Ettelaat, the second largest pre-revolution newspaper in Iran, was the only one to accept the Party’s invitation. He had been a member of the Tudeh Party as a young man, but became a serious critic of the Party.
We set out for Kabul a few days later. First we went to Delhi to get visas from the Afghan Embassy. There was a long queue outside the embassy, almost entirely made up of foreign reporters. No reporters had entered Afghanistan since the Soviets’ arrival, even after the dismissal and assassination of Hafizullah Amin50 and the coming to power of the Parcham Party government led by Babrak Karmal.51 None of the journalists ahead of us in the queue was granted a visa.
Eventually, our turn arrived. Self-assured, we introduced ourselves to the ambassador who was an intelligent-looking man. Contrary to our expectations, he didn’t make a fuss, he simply glanced at his papers and said: “No.”
Throughout the meeting, a tall young man had been listening to our conversation. After we left the room he came after us, and called us back. He immediately embraced me and gave me a warm kiss on my cheek. From the beginning, I’d introduced myself as a Party representative and Mardom reporter, while Mansour had stressed that he had nothing whatsoever to do with the Party and had come for purely journalistic reasons on behalf of Ettelaat. It turned out that the young man, whose name I have forgotten, was a representative of the Parcham Party and was monitoring the Khalqi ambassador who had not yet been replaced. He told us to wait, entered the ambassador’s office and returned a few moments later to call us back in. It was clear that he had been having an argument with the ambassador. The young man took our passports and put them on the ambassador’s desk. The ambassador stamped in the visas with a complete lack of enthusiasm. We said our goodbyes.
We had just stepped into the road when the young Afghan came running after us, and insisted on inviting us for dinner. He picked us up that night and we went to his home in a poor part of Delhi. It was a place where lanterns were used to light shops and homes, but was only half an hour away from the luxurious Ashoka Hotel, which was on a par with the best international hotels. The young Afghan’s wife was, like her husband, in the Parcham Party leadership. She came in once or twice to bring us food and tea. Throughout the evening, we gathered information about the new situation in Afghanistan, information that was repeated to us time and time again from then on, like a Party announcement: “The Khalqis were agents of the West. The Soviet comrades entered the country at the request of the Party and the people of Afghanistan.”
We also talked about the situation in Iran. The young Afghan seemed to be carefully repeating the Parcham Party’s views, and whenever the conversation turned to Kianuri or Tabari, he spoke about them with great respect. Like all Parcham members, from ordinary rank and file through to their leadership, he was in love with the Party and worshipped Kianuri and Tabari like idols.
The next day we flew from Delhi to Kabul. Except for us and two other foreign journalists, all the passengers on the plane were Afghan. The foreign journalists, whom we knew from Tehran, happily told us that they had bribed the Afghan consul in Bombay for their visas. They were delighted to be the first international journalists to enter Kabul.
The plane flew over snow-capped mountains and
I felt as though I was flying over Iran. I remembered that until a mere hundred years ago all of this territory had belonged to Iran.
Large scarlet banners and Russian tanks were the most eye-catching sights on our arrival in Kabul. We were met at the airport by Assadullah Keshtmand, editor-in-chief of The Truth of the Sawr Revolution newspaper, who was also the prime minister’s brother, the deputy culture minister, and some other Party leaders.
Again, I introduced myself as a representative of the Party and a reporter for Mardom, and Mansour said that he had nothing to do with the Party and that he was a reporter for Etalaat. This led them to hug me tightly and to kiss my cheeks and to shake hands with Mansour. We told Keshtmand about the foreign journalists. Inside the old airport hall, porters were picking up our suitcases when the loudspeaker called out the two foreign reporters’ names. A few minutes later I saw them being escorted back to the plane, bags in hand, looking puzzled. They were being deported. Even now when I think about that scene, I feel ashamed. I now better understand just how deeply ideology can penetrate a person’s existence.
That wintry day, Mansour Taraji and I became the first international journalists to drive along the road to Kabul since the Red Army’s arrival a few days earlier. Russian tanks still lined the road on either side. We were escorted to the old Hotel Kabul, which was in the centre of the city and were told that the hotel was totally safe.
Letters to My Torturer Page 12
