City of Lies: Love, Sex, Death and the Search for Truth in Tehran

by Ramita Navai

  The revolution was the making of the Kazemis. The family had been plagued by poverty, a hereditary curse passed down from generation to generation. Imam Khomeini changed their fate. They had always been deeply religious and not just because they were seyeds, the honorific title used to identify direct descendants of the Prophet. They attended the mosque a few times a week and they never missed Friday prayers. When a newcomer to the neighbourhood erected a satellite dish on the roof, Morteza’s mother Khadijeh went straight to the head of the Basij unit in the local mosque and reported it. The dish was destroyed a few hours later by a policeman and two young basijis, who warned the owner that next time they would destroy him too.

  The family home was a small brick house, in a row of identical brick houses in Imam Zadeh Hassan, run-down, ugly suburbs in the south-west of the city where the only well-kept buildings were mosques, and where cars were either white Prides or dented and rusted pick-up trucks, the backs of which were as often filled with families as with produce. Five of them – Morteza, his parents Khadijeh and Kazem, and Kazem’s parents – lived and slept in two rooms, one of the bedrooms doubling up as the main living room during the day. It had small, high windows with dirty lace curtains that were rarely parted. The walls were bare, greying and flaky. Persian floor cushions lined the room and in the corner was a dark plywood desk. It was crammed with most of their possessions: a television, a computer, a bottle of perfume, a magnifying mirror, a pair of tweezers, toothpaste and a big blue tub of Nivea cream. Underneath the desk, bed sheets and blankets were neatly rolled. A makeshift kitchen had been erected in the hallway, where Khadijeh cooked on a camping stove next to a fridge with a lopsided door that rattled loudly into the night.

  Many of Morteza’s uncles were original Hezbollahis who had formed little battalions during the revolution and fought against the unbelievers, leftists and the monarchists. People like the Kazemis were remunerated with jobs and respect. It allowed them to be proud once more of the strict religious control they exerted over their lives and their women. The revolution also unwittingly brought about more equality between the classes – for the first time in the history of the Kazemis, female members were allowed to be educated beyond primary school, safe in the knowledge that they would not be corrupted under an Islamic education system. A stream of distant relatives from a farming village in central Iran, from where the Kazemis hailed, poured into Tehran. The family found strength in numbers. An uncle who had excelled at spying for the Islamic Revolutionaries, liberally denouncing neighbours and inculpating dissenters, was swiftly rewarded with a position in a newly established Ministry. Nepotism was another bonus, and before long several more Kazemis were installed as clerical assistants, cleaners and even office managers. Despite the new-found power and income, unlike Somayeh’s clan, the Kazemis were not friends with people who did not share their political and religious beliefs – especially not those who were making the climb to higher class and looser morals. They isolated themselves against outsiders who brandished invasive influences, and that was a crucial tactic in their survival.

  War also served the Kazemis well. Morteza was just a baby when his two teenage brothers, Ali and Hadi, were sent to fight against Iraq. They had joined the Basij as volunteer militiamen. It was near the end of the internecine war when Khadijeh had paid a forger in downtown Toopkhaneh Square to falsify Ali’s birth certificate. With the stroke of a pen Ali was bestowed another three years, going from an underage fifteen years old to a fit and fighting man of eighteen. Sending her son as a child soldier to war was Khadijeh’s way of showing her gratitude and love to Saint Khomeini and God. Ali and Hadi were immediately drafted to the front line, where they survived for nearly a year, watching their friends die around them, some during notorious ‘human wave’ attacks. The tactics were suicidal: charging into incoming artillery and wading into minefields in order to clear them, encouraged by the promise of the glory of martyrdom and virgins in paradise.

  Ali was finally hit by a rocket; miraculously he survived long enough to pick up his debris-encrusted entrails from the ground, push them back in his ripped stomach and whisper the death rites before his blood went cold. Less than a week later Hadi was killed; his body was never found. Stories of the brothers’ bravery emerged after their deaths and grew ever more impressive with time: both boys had relentlessly and fearlessly charged towards the enemy, dodging bullets and bombs, dragging comrades to safety, killing dozens of the enemy with no more than an AK-47 in their hands, Allah Akbar on their tongues and Khomeini in their hearts. They were war heroes. With two of those in the family, the position of the Kazemis in the new Islamic order was instantly bumped up a few more notches. Photographs of Ali and Hadi were displayed around the house and on the walls of local businesses in the neighbourhood.

  The fringe benefits of martyrdom were also reaped by those left behind. Morteza’s father gave up his job as an office cleaner and, with the help of a foundation set up for families of martyrs, he opened a cab company, licences for which were favoured to families of martyrs and disabled war veterans.

  The pride of their martyrdom did not lessen the pain of Hadi’s and Ali’s deaths for the family, nor did the passage of time. And the more time passed, the more obvious it became that Morteza was the opposite of his brave brothers. As a little boy he liked to play on his own, or with his aunties. His favourite game was when they would dress him up as a Persian prince and paint his nails red; when his father Kazem found out, he slapped him across the face even though he was only five years old.

  Morteza had recognized his father’s disdain for him early on, which soon morphed into revulsion. By the time he was ten, Kazem had begun regularly whipping his son with his belt. At nights Morteza would hear his father sobbing and shouting at Khadijeh, ‘I had two sons in this life and because of you, I now have none.’

  More than anything, Morteza wished he was more like his brothers. Khadijeh spoke of them incessantly; she hoped that igniting jealousy in her son with stories of their bravery would goad him into behaving more like them – local bully boys who were scared of nothing. Morteza tried hard to emulate them, playing football in the alley outside the house as they had. He persevered, despite being mocked for his irrational fear of the ball. He hung out with the neighbourhood boys after school. He began to wear Hadi’s and Ali’s old clothes, musty and two sizes too big for him, desperate that their essence would be transferred into him through the fraying cotton. Even if his parents could not see it, Morteza was the most determined, tenacious child ever to have been born to a Kazemi.

  A group of boys had gathered in the lobby of the mosque; Morteza stood alone beside them, his pointed leather shoes shining from the slick of vegetable oil he had used to polish them. His new white shirt was so stiff it looked as if it was made of cardboard. Khadijeh was near the entrance, shouting out to him and waving her hands, urging him to queue-jump as all the other boys were doing. But Morteza was getting pushed farther back.

  The mosque was at the centre of the community; it was as much a social club as it was a spiritual retreat. Worshippers arrived well before prayers to catch up with friends and gossip. The mosque fed and clothed the poor in the holy months and at norooz, New Year. It lent money to struggling families and helped with the cost of marriages. Morteza’s local mosque was also a Basij headquarters.

  Khadijeh had tried to dissuade him from joining the Basij-e Mostazafin, the ‘Mobilization of the Oppressed’ voluntary militia. Even though it was her deepest wish that he should be a member, she did not think he was up to it – this meek and frail twelve-year-old with a languid walk, all long limbs and skinny buttocks, who would cry at the slightest provocation. Morteza had insisted. Being a basiji would make him a respected man equal to his heroic brothers. Khadijeh had finally relented, not least because the family was struggling to survive. With Morteza a member, it would mean he would be fed and taken care of at least once a week.

  Morteza’s father Kazem had always enjoyed an occasional to
ke of opium, but after the death of his sons he began smoking more. Soon his state pension, Khadijeh’s jewellery and the money they received from the Bonyad-e Shahid martyrs’ fund foundation was being used to feed his addiction. When that ran out, he sold his barely functioning cab business. Most of his day was spent pipe in hand, bent over a small manghal or brazier, sifting white-hot coals with iron tongs. When he was not smoking, he was shouting, either at Khadijeh or Morteza.

  After the boys were registered they were led into a classroom in the adjoining hosseinieh. The mosque’s caretaker, Gholam, a bent, wiry man in faded cream pyjamas, darted across the room, broom in hand, making last-minute adjustments. Nobody ever saw Gholam stand still. Between making tea, sweeping floors, cleaning shoes, washing carpets, praying, bleaching loos, buying groceries and watering plants, he ostentatiously prostrated himself to those he deemed of higher rank, which was everyone. He was from a long line of illiterate caretakers; he had guarded and tended the mosque since he was sixteen years old, taking over from his elderly father. Now he lived in a small room off the lobby of the mosque with his wife and two young daughters.

  Gholam hushed the boys as he scampered out. The Commander strode in. He had a suitably militaristic gait and a stony glare. The Commander was wearing the non-uniform uniform of a Basij leader: a pair of large-pocketed khaki military trousers and a loose-hanging shirt. No emblems on display or badges indicating rank. All brothers are equal in the Basij. A grey beard concealed miserly thin lips and a forest of hair was stacked on his head like a compost heap, rising as high as his stomach ballooned out in front of him, a solid bulk of fat and flesh.

  ‘Salaam-on Alaykom! You are the army of our future. You represent the Islamic Republic of Iran. We are here to serve God and our prophet – God rest his soul. We will serve the Supreme Leader against infidels, the West and Zionism. Death to Israel!’

  ‘Death to Israel!’ The children, who were all around the same age as Morteza, parroted back the rallying call, but only a few of them knew what Zionism was, or why Iran considered the West the enemy.

  The Ahmadi twins punched their fists in the air. They were sons of a diehard former Hezbollahi leader who had taught his children to burn the American flag and shout ‘Death to America!’ as a party trick when they were four years old. Haji Ahmadi had been one of the first to join the Basij in 1980, when Khomeini had envisioned a magnificent people’s militia that was twenty million strong. In the early days they were simply volunteers used as a security force to help the Revolutionary Guards; they were also sent to fight Baluchi, Kurdish and Turkmen separatists. When war broke out, they were herded to the front lines. Haji Ahmadi survived with shrapnel in his legs and an invigorated passion for the Islamic Republic that he siphoned into the post-war tasks that basijis like him excelled at: policing vice, enforcing virtue and crushing protest. Haji Ahmadi was disappointed at what the Basij had become – more youth centre than fighting force. He would give his life to the Supreme Leader and he expected his sons to do the same.

  The Commander marched towards the boys, shouting at them to stand in front of their desks. He inspected his new charges. He hovered over each one so closely that his belly brushed against their bony-ribbed chests. A warm, wet burst of the Commander’s breath snorted out of his nostrils and was expelled against Morteza’s face as he moved down the line. He stopped at a louche-looking kid, perhaps sensing a subversive spirit in the wild, black eyes that confidently met his gaze. Ebrahim – Ebbie for short – was handsome, even in dirty clothes and with holes in his shoes. He had a sensual swagger and an innate intelligence that life on the street had sharpened to lightning-quick wit. From the age of eight he had been working as a porter in the bazaar and had been playing backgammon in tea houses for money. When he was not gambling or skiving from school, he was lying his way out of trouble. His father beat him for no reason; if he misbehaved, he was made to sleep outside on the road. The Commander stared at him.

  ‘Stand up STRAIGHT!’ Ebbie stamped his feet together and saluted the Commander with a flourish, shouting out, ‘Yes sir!’ The Commander was too vain to notice that Ebbie was mocking him.

  The Commander also took his time over the next boy. Mehran’s parents had persuaded him not to wear his new trainers, for it gave him a Western, balaa-shahri, uptown air that did not go down well with the Basij. Even without the trainers the signs were there, in the extra inch in length of his hair, in the closer fit of his check shirt and in the glint of a gold chain half hidden under his vest. Mehran’s mother had been cleaning houses in north Tehran for ten years, exposing her children to a lifestyle they could only dream about. She had persuaded Mehran to join the Basij for the same reason that Ebbie and at least half the group had joined: the perks. The Basij laid on extracurricular activities that few families in the neighbourhood could afford. The boys would have free access to the local swimming pool, free use of a football pitch, day trips out of the city to tourism hot spots and even the possibility of a stay in a summer camp. They would also get occasional free meals, low-interest loans, preferential treatment by government organizations and – thanks to a specially designated quota of forty per cent for Basij students that overlooked poor grades – a vastly increased chance of getting into university. Time spent serving in the Basij would also be knocked off compulsory military service. For these boys, the Basij was part Islamic Boy Scouts club and part Freemasons. If they showed devotion and hard work, they could even hope for a regular wage. Few underprivileged families would miss the opportunity of joining the Basij.

  These motivations were kept quiet. Everyone knew about each other’s drug habits, incomes, debts, quarrels and marital problems. But any liberal outlooks that might have crept into their world were ferociously shielded from view. Nobody knew that Mehran’s mother worked as a cleaner and maid in north Tehran where she would serve alcohol at dinner parties, that her sons did not pray, or that Ebbie’s family thought religion was a waste of time.

  While many religious, sonati, traditional families were accepting that issues like divorce and protest against the state were new realities of modern city life, true basiji or Hezbollahi families held tightly on to values they saw as being intrinsically part of their religion. Even Mehran’s mother knew her own boundaries. Divorce within this community was still seen as bringing shame upon a family. A woman who considered divorce was simply brandishing her wantonness, no matter how unfaithful her husband was. Mehran’s mother still whispered the taboo word talaagh, divorce, even though half her employers were divorcees.

  Abdul was the son of a bus driver whose father was the head of the Basij unit of bus drivers. The unit, like many of the professional Basij units that had been established, was seen by non-Basij supporters as countering the unions in an effort to weaken them. Abdul had learnt not to look women in the eye and never to shake a woman’s hand in order to protect himself from lustful feelings. He already knew most of the Koran off by heart. For Abdul’s family, joining the Basij was about loyalty and khedmat, duty to serve, a chance to pledge allegiance to the state and to benefit society. It was a way of doing good. Majid, the son of a local mullah, was less staunch in his view of Islam, but had been brought up to believe a man’s worth was based on how scrupulously he defended God and good morals. The Basij was a perfect platform to fulfil his religious obligations. For boys like the Ahmadi twins, being a basiji was also about reputation and power. The Basij attracted as many thugs and religious fanatics as it did bored, idle boys from impoverished families. Baton in hand and a motorbike between their thighs, these teenagers’ dedication to the Islamic Republic made them perfect enforcers. They were the ones who struck fear in people’s hearts.

  When the Commander was satisfied the boys were adequately intimidated, he set them a task. They would learn five passages from the Koran to be recited at a weekly meeting.

  ‘Please sir, when do we get our guns?’ The Ahmadi twins nearly always spoke together. Haji Ahmadi, who was standing with folded arms in the doorw
ay, laughed proudly.

  ‘Patience, dear boys. Work hard, show your true colours and you can reach the top and maybe one day be a commander like me.’ The Commander stalked away, leaving them on their own. Ebbie broke the silence, looking to Morteza who he sensed would be an appreciative audience. ‘I forgot to congratulate the Commander.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Because he’s clearly nine months pregnant and expecting any day!’ The boys howled with laughter. Even serious Abdul suppressed a smile.

  ‘Show some respect,’ hissed the Ahmadi twins.

  ‘Relax, we’ll get you some guns soon and then maybe you won’t behave as though you’ve got rods up your arses.’ The twins stood up, growling.

  ‘Is he your uncle or something? Why are you so upset?’

  ‘You can’t talk like that about a commander of the Basij!’

  ‘And you can’t talk to me wearing such ugly trousers, did your granny make them?’ With that, Ebbie darted out of the room before the Ahmadis had a chance to catch him.

  On the way home, Morteza saw Ebbie kicking a deflated football with some street urchins. ‘Aren’t you scared of the Ahmadi twins? They may tell the Commander and you’ll be in trouble.’

  ‘I like trouble. Anyway, just watch, the Ahmadi twins will be eating out of my hand soon.’

  Morteza smiled.

  ‘So did your parents make you join the Basij?’ Ebbie asked.

  Morteza repeated words he had heard since he was born. ‘I want to serve God and my country. It’s our duty. And if we go to war, I’ll fight just as my brothers did.’

  ‘What, and end up six feet under in a war we won’t even have won? Anyway, I hate to break it to you, but you wouldn’t last five minutes, you couldn’t carry a can of cola to the front line, never mind a gun.’

  Morteza launched at Ebbie, pounding his fists into his chest. Ebbie did not flinch.