Omid rapped his knuckles against a lectern.
“Shall we begin the trial of Hossein?”
There had been no trial. Hossein had been killed in the course of battle. His head had been paraded on a lance.
Darius rose to his feet. He spoke with an unaccustomed formality.
“Most honorable Caliph, Commander of the Faithful, may one among the judges be appointed to represent this descendant of the Prophet?”
A sweep of Darius’s hand indicated Ali Golshani had been cast in the role of Hossein.
Instead of a gavel, Omid slammed a blunt-headed ax on the table. With his attention on Darius, Khattak didn’t see it materialize. His hands jerked in response.
Nasreen looked over at him.
“It isn’t as sharp as theirs,” she said, just as Omid said, “We’ve already decided the question of his guilt. Read out his crimes.”
A search beneath Darius’s armband yielded a piece of paper. Darius cleared his throat.
“Must the prisoner condemn himself?”
“Read the crimes!” Omid thundered.
His face was so pale Khattak didn’t think he was acting. Darius was quick to comply.
“By challenging your leadership, Commander of the Faithful, the upstart Hossein has insulted the holy sanctities. He spreads propaganda against your reign, his followers have colluded against you. They are enemies of the regime.”
Regime, not caliphate.
A warning bell rang in Esa’s mind.
Ali raised his head. He offered a single sentence, an air of invincibility about him.
“Ma bishomarim.”
We are many.
Behind him, the players in green formed a line. They raised their hands in victory.
Nasreen whispered the words, “Allahu akbar.”
God is Greatest.
Esa drew a sharp breath. He understood the Green Birds’ play. It was the natural evolution of a strategy the Green Movement had pioneered by appropriating the symbols of the regime, an act as clever as it was dangerous.
Allahu akbar was the rallying cry of the supporters of the 1979 Iranian revolution. They had assembled in the hundreds of thousands, roaring in the public square, demonstrating against the Shah of Iran’s injustices. In 1979, the revolution had symbolized hope. It had promised social justice—it had promised the people everything. But when the Islamic Republic’s tyranny and corruption had succeeded the despotism of the Shah, the Greens had struck back in the revolution’s own language.
Allahu akbar had floated from the rooftops of Tehran in the ensuing days and weeks after the stolen election of June 2009, this time to signify the dissent of the opposition at the falseness of the regime’s slogans. Posters appeared that paired the leaders of the Green Movement with images of Mossadegh, the most formidable advocate of democracy in Iran’s history. Shah raft became Ahmadi raft: the Shah is gone, Ahmadinejad will be gone. Demonstrators injured at protests displayed their bruises and bloody clothing proudly, in the tradition that repression could only fuel revolution, it couldn’t undermine it.
But perhaps the most significant strike of the Greens had been the act of co-opting Ashura, the culminating event of Muharrem, the date of Imam Hossein’s death. In 2009, the opposition had proclaimed: this year’s Ashura is Green.
And ta’ziehs were performed on Ashura.
Khattak gazed down at the performance in the courtyard with a faultless comprehension of its language. The trial of Ali Golshani, the “self-inflicted interview,” was dressed in the symbols of the martyrdom of Hossein. The regime that claimed to esteem Hossein beyond any other figure was implicated in his murder.
It was bold and brilliant and completely without subtlety.
As the drama unfolded, Hossein was torn from his family without the opportunity to speak in his own defense. Omid, as the Caliph, performed an elaborate charade. He signed declarations, asked questions that offered Hossein the opportunity to incriminate himself, and proclaimed the verdict before deliberations were able to take place.
It was a perfect simulation of the current regime’s show trials: defendants were without access to counsel or family, without knowledge of the charges against them, or evidence offered to substantiate the charges, the outcome assured in advance.
He turned his back on the performance. Nasreen hadn’t answered his questions. She hadn’t spoken of her brother, imprisoned at Kahrizak, or explained her relationship with Zahra. Nor had she offered an explanation of Zahra’s message on the papered-over wall, another cause for worry. It would take little effort for a man like Larijani to ransack the house and discover the Green Birds’ wall of subversive messages. He was appalled by the risk. Zahra had been tortured and raped—how could the Green Birds believe they were safe when the messages on the wall challenged the regime at every turn?
One message in particular had caught his eye.
Resaneh shomaid.
He translated it as, You are the messenger, you are the media.
He pondered its subtleties, its contrast to the ta’zieh. The people as a conscious voice for change became the message of change. And the nuances of “messenger”—a reference to the messenger of God, a touch of the divine in all human creation.
If you belonged to God, how could you be undone by the regime?
Nasreen had stared at the cartoon of the journalist. Was there a connection to Zahra’s work as a documentarian?
“Was that Zahra in the cartoon?” he asked.
Her reply was indirect.
“Why does no one think a woman can be a prisoner of conscience?” she mused. “Take Zahra Rahnavard, for example.”
Zahra Rahnavard—scholar, painter, university chancellor, the author of dozens of books—a key figure in the Green Movement’s leadership. She’d opposed the government’s anti-women legislation in the penal and family law, arguing on the side of religion’s innate progressivism. She had silenced the naysayers and hardliners with her thorough knowledge of the Qur’an.
Her status as Mousavi’s wife was secondary to her own accomplishments, but her presence at Mousavi’s side had galvanized the Greens. Holding her husband’s hand, she’d spoken of gender equality, accusing the regime of failing to fulfill its constitutional and international duties to ensure the rights of women.
Zahra Rahnavard was under house arrest, just like Maryam Ghorbani.
When Khattak left Iran, the struggles of the Green Movement would continue. He could contribute nothing beyond his attempt to unravel Zahra’s murder, and for that, he needed answers.
“Will you answer a few questions before I leave?”
Startled, Nasreen’s eyes found his. She must have thought him bemused by the rituals of the unfolding ta’zieh. He wasn’t. He was beginning to feel tired and impatient.
“What was your relationship with Zahra?”
Nasreen, too, had made up her mind. Something in her face shifted. She let out a sigh.
“She was a friend. I brought the case of my brother to her, she promised to help.”
“Did Zahra tell you she’d requested a meeting with the Supreme Leader? Do you know the purpose of that meeting?”
A faint frown colored Nasreen’s brow. “Zahra’s only preoccupation: Roxana’s release.”
Khattak wasn’t certain this was true. He left it aside for the moment.
“Do you know what the sketch on the wall means? Do you recognize the name Taverner?”
“No, I haven’t heard it before.”
Her eyes shifted away from his. He suspected her of lying.
“Have any of the others?”
“No, I’m the one Zahra spoke to most.”
She bit her lip. This was something she hadn’t meant to tell him.
“Why did she come to Esfahan if she needed to be at Evin?”
“To meet with the Green Birds for her film. To speak to Roxana’s mother.”
“Do you think there’s a chance Roxana will be released?”
He watched h
er face for any sign that Zahra had confided something of her progress.
“I have hope,” she said.
But she didn’t, he saw. Her face sagged at the question. She was pressing the stars on the chain into her neck again.
“Why do you wear that necklace? What do the stars mean?”
“You don’t know?” He shook his head. “I wear these for Saneh. He’s a starred student.”
“I’m not familiar with the term.”
She raised a single star on her fingertip. Her nails were unpainted.
“If you’re a student who becomes politically active, you’re blacklisted by the regime. You can recant if you sign a document promising to give up your activities. If you have one or two stars and recant, you’re allowed to return to your studies.”
“And three stars?”
“They’re for Saneh,” she repeated. “With three stars, the ban is permanent. You can never return to school. We were treated more harshly in any case because we’re Kurds, but to Saneh it didn’t matter.” Her hoarse voice choked on the words. “He refused to recant. He argued we were better off than Baha’is, who are blocked from post-secondary education. The ban put us on an equal footing, he said.”
She told him this without self-pity. He asked how long Saneh had been in Kahrizak. He asked why she continued to risk her own safety, given her brother’s torturous fate. He used the word deliberately. Her face altered again, it made him think of the letters, the writer’s allusion to Rumi. A treasure among the ruins, the bones of her skull fragile inside her scarf.
Darius had told him Nasreen had asked after him. He was interested as well, attracted by an aura of mystery. She avoided his questions, making for the stairs.
A loud hand banged on the door to the house. It sounded twice more with the force of a battering ram.
The players in the courtyard scattered, pulling down the dais and hastily re-arranging themselves. Ali motioned to a few to leave from a door at the back. Darius ripped up the piece of paper and swallowed the tiny pieces. He raised the volume on the classical music. An angry voice sounded over it, quarreling with Omid. Just as Khattak had feared, it was Larijani.
Moving swiftly, Esa shut off the lights and closed the screen doors to the second-story room. He made his way down the stairs, his glass trembling in his hand.
Larijani hadn’t come alone. There were three men with him, dressed in black, belligerent in their movements like guns already cocked. Larijani scoured the courtyard with his eyes, his lips hitching up in a sneer.
“I know you.” He pointed to Ali and Darius, turning to Omid. “What are they doing here? What are any of you doing here?”
Khattak intervened.
“Agha Larijani,” he said with utmost politeness. “I met these young people at the bridge. They invited me to watch a ta’zieh.”
Larijani swiveled round, his eyes cataloguing every member of the party. He nodded at his men. They began to move through the house, searching it room by room. Khattak heard Taraneh’s voice from the kitchen. She was scolding the intruders. One of the men climbed the stairs to the roof. Khattak tried not to watch his progress.
Larijani ignored Khattak. He jabbed Omid in the chest with a finger.
“There are no ta’ziehs at this time of year, don’t lie to me.”
Coolly, Omid explained the nature of the rehearsal. He discussed the rites of the performance in detail, making small, obscure comments about the script. He offered to call the players back together. He’d been prepared for a moment like this. Or it wasn’t his first time dealing with the Ministry’s agents. He’d known Larijani’s reputation, as soon as Khattak had mentioned him.
Khattak was waiting for the sound of footsteps from the roof. A cold sweat had broken out on his back. The palms of his hands were damp. He couldn’t emulate Omid’s composure.
Larijani changed his tune. Not wanting to lose face, he asked Khattak sourly, “Were you impressed?”
Rushing over the words, Khattak discussed Shia processionals in Pakistan. Larijani ceased to listen, his attention diverted by the sound of Taraneh’s voice. He noticed the sweat glistening on Darius’s face.
“Where are your parents?” he demanded.
“Visiting friends.”
“There are women here without chaperones.”
“They’re my cousins,” Omid said easily. He still hadn’t asked why Larijani had burst into his home. He told the players to rise, Larijani waved them aside.
He pointed to Khattak. “It’s time to consider the date of your departure.”
Khattak bowed his head without comment.
Larijani’s men completed their search. One of them held up Omid’s laptop. The other two had returned empty-handed. Darius sucked in an audible breath, his scar inflamed on his face.
“You’re going to explain this to me.” He jerked his head at Omid. “And you.” He indicated Darius, nodding at his men. Darius swallowed compulsively.
“As you wish,” Omid agreed, unperturbed.
“Perhaps I should come instead of my brother.” As pale as Khattak, Ali sidestepped the attempt of Larijani’s men to fasten onto Darius. “I worked with Omid on the script.” He shielded his brother behind him, stumbling over the words.
There was a fractional pause before Larijani agreed, “Yes, you’re the journalist.”
He turned a black scowl on Khattak. “The performance is over. Get back to your hotel.”
It wasn’t a suggestion. Khattak looked over at the others. Was there any way he could intervene? Omid caught his eye, shaking his head quickly.
And when he still hesitated, Larijani barked at him, “I told you to leave!”
Khattak didn’t delay again. The players left Darius behind. Khattak followed them, his thoughts with the Green Birds of June.
And struck by fear for Nasreen.
39
The Suite
“Joojeh, I beg you, is my sister here? I’ll give you everything I have if you tell me, please say she isn’t here.” Joojeh looks over his shoulder, back at the tiny window of the cell. No one’s there. He puts a finger to his lips. “Don’t believe them,” he says. “She isn’t here, she’s safe.” “And Zahra?” I ask, my heart in my throat. “Khanom Sobhani, she’s safe?” Joojeh’s eyes waver. He looks away and shrugs. “She’s dead,” he says. “It was quick, and everyone knows.” He motions me away from the door. And hands me a packet of honey.
Zahra
They’ve taken her to interrogation. A female guard searches Zahra with disgusting familiarity, a hand between her legs. Men that look like animals are grinning as they watch. Zahra’s blindfolded, she can’t see. She’s handcuffed, so they shove her along, and she stumbles. Someone laughs, it’s Radan. Her head snaps up, she knows Radan’s voice. He shoves her into a chair, pressing his crotch into her face. She leaps away. “You can’t do this,” she says. “I know what you’ve done, I’ve been to see Khamenei.” He reaches across the desk to shut off the camera. He barks orders to his men. They leave him alone with Zahra. “It doesn’t matter,” he says. “You’re too late, you’ll be dead by this time tomorrow. And when I’m done with you, I’ll move on to Roxana.” Zahra isn’t intimidated. She sits with her back straight and speaks in a fearless voice. “I demand to see a lawyer.” Radan laughs. “In this room, I’m lawyer, prosecutor, executioner, judge.” He lowers his zipper. His fist smashes into her skull.
I wake up in a cold sweat. Night after night, I dream this.
40
Khattak stayed awake late, deeply concerned for the others. Had Omid and Ali been released? Would they be? Who could he ask? He wouldn’t dare to contact them now. Larijani would be watching.
He remained in his room to avoid arousing Nasih’s suspicion. He’d showered as soon as he reached the guesthouse, the moments of peace on Omid’s rooftop shattered by Larijani’s intrusion. The only step he could take was to send Touka an encrypted query. It yielded no reply.
He let the silence and the scen
t of the lemon trees settle in his room, the air turning cold as the hours advanced. Leaves skittered across the pavement, pushed along by an aimless wind. Too afraid to sleep, he left his window open, alert to sounds of intrusion.
He was thinking of what he’d learned, and wondering if the ruse of the ta’zieh had worked. Larijani had turned up on a night when Khattak was at Omid’s house. Either Larijani was tailing Khattak, or the surveillance of the Green Birds was more thorough than they knew.
When dawn arrived, he arose and performed his prayers. In the long supplication at the end, he remembered Zahra Sobhani. He prayed for the release of Saneh and Roxana, and the countless others detained as prisoners. He prayed for the living and the dead, thinking of Omid and Ali.
And he wondered how many similar prayers had gone unanswered in the years since the revolution, how many families’ disappointed hopes had dwindled into mourning. The memory of Maryam Ghorbani’s bereaved eyes was fresh in his mind. He’d spent some of the night reading about the battle of Khorramshahr and the long-forgotten Iran-Iraq war.
Many of the Green Movement’s supporters were children of war heroes who’d fought the invasion at Khorramshahr. A twenty-six-year-old by the name of Mohammad Ali Jahanara had led the townsfolk in defense of their homes, under the Iraqi army’s relentless bombardment.
Neda Soltani’s killing by the Basiji had evoked Jahanara’s memory, equating Saddam Hussein’s Ba’athists with the leaders of the Iranian regime.
Tell Jahanara the Ba’athists are in Tehran, firing at our girls.
It was an echo of exquisite force.
And it was painful to Esa that Roxana, whose uncles had died as young men at Khorramshahr, was considered an enemy of the regime. Her protest songs had captured the popular imagination, and the spirit of the movement for change. God knew if she was alive or dead, or if Lot 209 was her burial place.
He ended his prayer and dressed in fresh clothing, making his way to his seat under the quince tree. A handful of ringed plovers were pecking birdseed from a wooden feeder. Their small chirps softened his fears.
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