That night, Keshtmand Junior came to the hotel to have dinner with us. He had a Kalashnikov hanging over his shoulder. It became clear that the fighting took place at night. A bit later, the sound of shooting could be heard. Keshtmand had not yet finished his meal when he said that he needed to leave. I asked him to take me to the hotel’s telephone desk to contact Tehran before he left. On the way, he told me that no matter what job they performed in the daytime, the Party’s leadership took up weapons at night and fought against counter-revolutionaries on the streets. That same instant, the sound of shooting became louder and the lights suddenly went out. Keshtmand grabbed me and threw me onto the floor and we lay in that position until the lights came back on. We went to the telephone desk together. Keshtmand introduced me to the young man in charge. Like his fellow Afghan Party members, he gave me a tight embrace and kissed me on my cheeks. I said: “I want to contact Iran.”
He fiddled with the telephone and told me: “It’s not working. You must wait for an hour.”
I gave him the number and said: “Alright, I’ll come back in an hour.”
Keshtmand was leaving to do his nightly patrol duties but refused to let me accompany him. He said: “It’s dangerous, the counterrevolutionaries come out of their holes at night.”
We were going in the direction of my hotel room when I heard someone call me: “Comrade! Comrade!”
I turned back. It was the young man from the telephone desk. He beckoned me to come to him and it became clear that he had been looking for an excuse to make me wait until Keshtmand had left. He phoned Iran immediately and I talked to my wife.
When I finished talking, the young Afghan served me tea and started pouring his heart out. He insisted that I convey his words to the Party leadership, in particular to comrades Kianuri and Tabari. He had been part of the Khalq Party faction that had been sidelined, a Maoist as we used to call them then. He said that Hafizullah Amin had not been an agent of the US. He had been a true communist. The Parchamis were representatives of the petite bourgeoisie and because they did not enjoy widespread support, they had called on the support of the Soviet army, which led to the destruction of the Khalq faction.
He was also critical of the Iranian government for being reactionary and religious rather than revolutionary. My views at the time ran counter to his, but I didn’t express them.
The following morning we went sightseeing. Two Afghan security officials came along with us. They were young men, dressed in black suits and sporting large sunglasses just like in the movies. We insisted that they should not walk with us because they would make us stand out like a sore thumb. We arranged for them to keep an eye on us from a distance.
All the government offices, telephone kiosks, road signs and pylons had been painted deep red, a colour that was said to have been loved by Hafizullah Amin, who saw in it the victory of the communist revolution.
We walked past a dried-up stream, which they called a river. We passed the King of the Two-Edged Sword mosque, the king being Hazrat Ali, and entered the city’s filthy, old bazaar. Bazaars like this could be found only in the remotest, smallest towns in Iran. We would enter shops and say we were Iranians and all doors would be opened to us. Through chit-chat we intended to find out the people’s views about the presence of Soviet troops, but we encountered silence. No one would say a word. Almost all the shops had pictures of Googoosh, a famous Iranian pop singer.
A couple of hours later we had our first official meeting. The culture minister, Dr Majid Sarboland, was a tall Afghan with Western airs who put his feet on his desk to show off his finely crafted Italian shoes while we talked.
During our interview, he repeated the official line that had been dictated to him. He talked a bit about Afghan history and literature. We asked him to arrange an interview for us with Babrak Karmal and Mohammad Najibullah52 and allocate a day for us to visit Pul-e Charkhi prison. He gave us promises for the first and second requests but with regard to the third, he said: “That’s up to Comrade Karmal.”
There was only one cinema in Kabul, which looked like an old shop, and it was showing an Iranian film. Most of the women on the streets were covered in hijab but there were a few women with bare heads in the area around the half-open Kabul University and near the government offices. Mansour tried to start a conversation in a bank with a girl behind the cashier’s desk, but instead of responding, she just laughed.
Keshtmand, Mansour and I had dinner together again that night. During our conversation I noticed that the middle-aged waiter was listening to us and paying close attention to me. I stayed at the table after dinner. The Afghan waiter came over and while clearing the table, he said hello. I returned his greeting. He asked me: “Are you Iranian?”
I said: “Yes.”
“Going back to Iran?”
“Yes.”
He looked around him and while fiddling with my plate, he placed something underneath it and left. I lifted the plate. I found a small photograph of Ayatollah Khomeini and an announcement from the Afghan Mujahedin that they would fight until the infidels left the Islamic land of Afghanistan. There was a fire simmering underneath the ashes.
The next day, we went to see Mohammad Najibullah. He was an imposing man, very polite. Unlike the culture minister, he walked out to the car to receive us. He answered all our questions and even said things that he shouldn’t have, bearing in mind my views at the time. For example, he revealed that a quarter of a million Afghans had been killed in Afghanistan’s civil wars and when we returned to Iran, this became the headline for Mansour’s article for Ettelaat. I felt compelled to interfere and told him that he was revealing Party secrets. He said: “I am talking to comrades.”
He made a phone call in our presence, securing permission for the interview with Babrak Karmal and a visit to the Pul-e Charkhi prison. That tall Pashtun, who was so in love with Iran and with the revolution, was later brutally tortured and shot at the hands of the Taliban when Kabul fell. Though he may well have earned his nickname, the “Butcher of Kabul”, the thought of his disfigured corpse hanging on public display in Kabul always makes my heart ache. But he too would stand when Kianuri and Tabari’s names were mentioned, and like the other Afghan officials we met, he repeated the official line about Hafizullah Amin inviting in the Soviet troops.
The next day a jeep was sent for us by Najibullah, along with an official to accompany us to the prison, and we sped out of the city. We drove past high, snow-covered mountains and followed an ancient, narrow road through the middle of a frozen desert until, after an hour or so, we saw the outlines of the infamous prison in the distance. We finally lurched onto a dusty main road, passed through a medieval-looking gate and came to a stop in front of the prison gates. The young prison director was waiting for us. He gave me a tight embrace, shook Mansour’s hand and led us into his office, which was more like a bunker than an office. He hesitated a moment when he noticed the official accompanying us, and when we told him we intended to interview Hafizullah Amin’s ministers, he immediately called Najibullah for verification. Until he had received his instructions from Najibullah himself, he refused to believe that anybody could have given permission for such politically sensitive interviews.
We were the first and perhaps the last Iranian journalists to visit Pul-e Charkhi Prison. Mansour was caught up with asking his questions and I left the office and found myself at the end of the sort of corridor I had only seen in films. I walked down the corridor. A worn blanket was hanging in front of a hole that was lower than the height of an average person. When I pushed the blanket aside I could see a crowd of people seated around a lantern, huddled in black blankets.
A small metal window at the far end of the corridor opened onto a dusty, round courtyard. Cats were running about the courtyard. A rat was moving up the wall and there was a dreadful stench of human defecation.
I returned to the office, feeling unwell. Mansour had finished his interview. We asked to see Amin’s ministers. A young Parchami of
ficer left the office and returned a few minutes later, followed by the twelve former ministers who were being held on suspicion of being American spies. They entered one by one and sat down. They all wore traditional Afghan clothing, were very young and very clean. They reminded me of the young men in the Party’s youth organization.
Dark tea was served in delicate glasses. One by one they picked up the glasses, looking at each other in astonishment until the prison director introduced us. When they heard that the Party had sent me, they became extremely happy and animated. Some of them walked up and kissed me on the cheeks.
We spoke with them for two hours. They had no idea what had happened to them. They said that they had been arrested out of the blue and brought to prison. They had assumed that the Americans had launched a coup. When we told them that the Soviets had arrived and that Babrak Karmal had become president they shouted in astonishment. When they heard that the charge raised against them was that of spying for America, they became seriously agitated. With the intensity of very traditional Afghans, they all protested that they were communists, believed in the Soviet Union, and were enemies of America. The farewell scene was sorrowful, as one by one they kissed me on the cheek, embraced me and told me to deliver their messages to comrades Kianuri and Tabari and tell them that they were not spies.
I had no idea that within three years, the bearer of their heartfelt messages would not only “confess” to spying for the Soviets but also for the British.
Years later, when I visited the famous San Quentin Prison in San Francisco, I realized that prisons represent a nation’s emotional state. San Quentin was a thousand times more gruesome than the prisons I had known in Iran. A regimented, iron prison. Violent, heartless and resistant to any influence. In the Afghan prison, with its chains and humidity, the violence had a primitive quality that you expected to be ultimately overcome by humanity.
The final meeting was with Babrak Karmal in Muhammad Zaher Shah’s palace. I had seen many of the world’s great palaces from the outside. And on the day after the revolution I had been inside the palace of the last Iranian Shah’s sister, which was on the outskirts of Tehran. In contrast, Zaher Shah’s palace was very unimpressive.
Our car stopped in the courtyard, in the shade of some Russian tanks. The chief of the palace security, who was also one of the young Parchami officers, came to receive us. We walked up the stairs and entered the hall. After we introduced ourselves, the young officer acted just like the rest of them: he embraced me tightly, kissed me on the cheeks and shook Mansour’s hand. He asked us to walk upstairs. I asked him: “Why aren’t you searching us?”
He said: “How can I search Tudeh comrades? I’d be embarrassed.”
I argued: “This is not right. You ought to search everyone.”
Mansour said: “But I have nothing to do with Tudeh.”
The officer responded: “Yes, but still, you are Iranian, comrade.”
Mansour said: “I am not your comrade, man.”
Eventually we were given a half-hearted search. Karmal came out to receive us while we were walking up the stairs. He was wearing a grey-coloured suit, looking chic and tidy, like a proper Party leader. The kissing on the cheeks routine was repeated once again. The president of Afghanistan waited until we had entered his office – a large sun-filled hall –before seating himself behind his desk. Mansour conducted his interview. After the interview we drank tea and talked. Babrak Karmal was very hopeful. I told him about the jailed ministers and added that I was going to deliver their message to the comrades in the Party leadership.
He asked: “What is your opinion?”
“In my view,” I replied, “they are Khalqis but they are not agents of the West. They are radical communists.”
“What should I do?” he asked.
“Release them, quietly,” I suggested.
He went into deep thought and then sent a very warm message to the Party leadership. We kissed each other on the cheeks and separated. When I returned to Iran, I heard that Hafizullah Amin’s ministers had been quietly released and sent to Moscow.
Three years later, while writing yet another draft of this story as a “confession”, I kept putting a swear word next to Karmal’s name. But whatever he was, he was a man deserving of respect. When his government fell, he returned to the Soviet Union via the same mountains through which he had come, and in Moscow he drank himself to death in the bitterness of exile.
The following day, we were at Kabul Airport, waiting to board a plane to Moscow. Mansour wanted to interview the Soviet foreign minister Andrei Gromyko and I was not disinclined to visit the Soviet Union myself.
While we were waiting, a man with the appearance of a Turkman approached us. He spoke Farsi fluently but with a strong accent. He said he had been sent by the Soviet comrades to receive us and gave us each an envelope. We asked: “What’s this?”
He said: “The cost of your trip.”
We both returned the envelopes. Mansour said: “My newspaper has paid for my trip.”
And I said: “The Party has paid for me.”
Astonished, he took the envelopes, gave us a cold handshake and left. On the way, we kept joking – we nearly ended up being in the pay of the KGB.
The room and I have been left alone. I pull up my blindfold. I put on my glasses. I stand up. I pace. I stare at the cream-coloured walls. I am all ears for the door, for who might be coming. I hear the sound of doors closing. A telephone is ringing in the distance. The windows have frosted over. It is getting cold, slowly, gradually. As if the central heating has been switched off. I pace. I try to keep myself warm. The air is getting colder. I knock on the door. There is no answer. Again I pace. I knock harder. There is no answer. I am out of breath. My teeth are hurting, especially that damn molar. When I walk, I feel a sharp pain in my feet, which are wrapped in thin fabric. The shooting pain in my left shoulder has become unbearable. It’s getting colder and colder. I sit on the chair and draw my legs up to my chest, hoping to fall asleep. Pressure on my bladder wakes me up with jolt. I try to open the door. Useless. I think of relieving myself in the corner of the room. I don’t know whether there are specific rules about peeing in an interrogation room. It dawns on me that I am hungry. How long has it been since I last ate? I don’t know. I am getting colder inch by inch. My whole body is aching. The hunger, my burning bladder, the feel of urine, is driving me mad. I am sleepy. The only solution is to knock on the door. A solution that is no solution. A solution that has no answer. I don’t know whether it lasts one night or a thousand. I collapse in a corner.
I see my wife in a nightmare; she is running around Toopkhaneh Square in Tehran shouting: “He’s frozen! He’s frozen!”
I wake to the sound of voices. Doors are opened and closed. The sound of life returns. I bang on the door. There is no answer. I want to run outside and stand under the sun, but I have been tied to something. I bang harder. I yell. And suddenly something hits the door. I jump up with a start. A voice is saying: “Put on your blindfold.”
The order to put on my blindfold is the best news for me. I do it with the last of my energy. The door opens and I hear the sound of boots. Two people grab me and drag me along. They take me down the stairs like a sheep’s carcass. They drag me across the courtyard. My instinct says that we are heading in the direction of the room downstairs. My brain has still not yet registered this when my hands are handcuffed. I yell out. They shove a piece of cloth into my mouth. They tie my legs with a rope. The marks of that rope are still on my ankles. They throw me face down on the bed and leave.
I turn and twist and each movement multiplies the pain a thousand times. The pressure of the handcuffs has added to all my other pains. I force myself to breathe through my nose. I am suffocating. Then, I don’t know when, I descend into blackness. I open my eyes when they unlock the handcuffs. I hear your voice, which is sounding terribly gentle: “I have been to visit Mr Montazeri.53 I had such a great desire to see the Aqa that I completely forgot abo
ut you, little lion. The brothers brought you here by mistake. Good job I am back.”
You help me stand up. You shake my hands, making sure my muscles don’t go stiff. Gently you take me to the room upstairs and you say: “Have a rest until they bring you food.”
And you leave. I take off the blindfold. They have thrown two blankets next to the heater. Without hesitation, I stretch myself out on one of the blankets. I press myself against the heater. I pull a blanket over myself.
My eyelids immediately begin to droop. The pleasure of sleep has not quite washed over me when a spasm makes me jump. I begin to shiver violently. I am aching from my brain to the tip of my toes. My whole body has dissolved into pain and the molar tooth is going on and off like a red traffic light. My body starts to fit. I try to stand up and collapse in a heap on the floor. I try with all my strength to control the shaking, but I can’t. Someone has obviously been watching me from behind the door; he rushes in and grabs my hands, trying to still my thrashing body, but he is not strong enough. He leaves. I lie like that, jerking on the floor. Then I start to yell. I hear a voice: “Shut up, useless wimp.”
It’s you, Brother Hamid. For a moment, the fear makes me go quiet and I look for my blindfold. You are shouting: “This is just a show. He has been trained in all this.”
I can’t stay silent. I yell again. Then I throw up. I throw up blood mixed with yellow liquid. I am in the middle of Toopkhaneh Square. I am trying to get myself home, running and running. I am telling my wife: “I have been freed. Everything has been a lie. A nightmare.”
Then I stretch myself out and my wife starts massaging my feet. Why is she crying? Why is she wearing black? I plead: “Wife, let me die ...”
She says: “No, no. You must live.”
And I slowly open my eyes. It is pitch dark. I am in a place like a hospital. My feet are tied to the bed. An intravenous drip is attached to my hand. And again, I descend into darkness.
Letters to My Torturer Page 13
