‘Thank you. Now can you tell me the name of the person who introduced you to the party? I know this must be frustrating for you but I have to make sure I’m talking to the right person, for the safety of the other members.’
‘I understand. It was Mr Morteza Naseri, the history lecturer at Tehran University who published my most recent book. He introduced me in 1992 and soon afterwards I became the leader of a cell of five in Mashhad.’
‘And what are the names of at least two of your members?’
I give him this information, and then there’s silence. I panic for a second that I’m revealing too much to this unknown man on the other end of the line. But I have no choice – I have to trust him.
‘Dr Karimi, I know about you and I’m pleased to tell you none of your team members have been captured.’
‘Thank God for that,’ I say.
‘Now, what steps have you already taken in Turkey to move to another country?’
‘I have an interview at the UNHCR soon.’
‘That’s good but as you probably know that process takes some time. I’ll send them a fax tomorrow confirming your membership and outlining your activities for the party. Because we’re non-violent, the UN fully supports us so this fax will help your case significantly.’
‘What should I say in the interview?’ I ask.
‘Just be honest. Tell them the truth about everything that’s happened to you. I know the majority of cases in Turkey are rejected but yours is different. I can assure you that with our fax you’ll have a great chance of being approved.’
‘Thank you so much, Mr Kasra, thank you.’ I feel buoyant with gratitude and joy.
‘Okay, now listen. It’s critical you keep this confidential, as you did in Iran. Turkey is not safe for you. You must not tell anyone about this, not a single soul, not even your family. Is that clear?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Unfortunately we can’t provide any financial support, though we truly appreciate your efforts for the party. But we can definitely assist with your interview.’
‘I’m not expecting any money. All I’m asking for is help getting us somewhere safe – anywhere.’
‘I understand, Dr Karimi. I’ll make sure the fax is sent by tomorrow, and I’ll call you in two weeks to see how your interview went. Please stay calm and focused. Be safe.’
I walk back to our basement, feeling for the first time since leaving Iran that I’m not completely alone in this battle to find freedom for myself and my family.
Time passes so slowly. I wish I could tell Azita we now have outside support. She’s accusing me daily of getting her and the children into this mess.
‘Just give me another few days,’ I say. ‘If our interview with the UNHCR goes wrong, you go back to Iran with the girls and I’ll stay here until I find a way out. I don’t want you to suffer – it’s me they want, after all.’ She seems less furious, at least for a while, even though we both know that returning to Iran will be extremely difficult without our house to live in.
Two days before my interview I’m too nervous to stay in our unit so I go out for some air. It’s a cold autumn day and I walk quickly down Dikmen Street. These days I keep the SIM card in my phone all the time, in case I receive a call from the party. I’m not far from home when my phone suddenly rings. ‘Dr Karimi?’ says a man’s voice.
‘Yes, who is this?’
‘My name is Keeyan. I am Mr Kasra’s superior in the party. I understand you have an interview in two days with the UNHCR, and that we’ve already sent them a fax confirming your brave work for us. But you will need to take some important documents with you to the interview, including your membership card, and these have been sent by registered post to our safe house in Ankara. I want you to go to the Sohoolo Hotel in Sohoolo Mahalasi, room 121, tomorrow at three and meet Jahan, our trusted agent there. He’ll give you the documents.’
I go back to the basement elated, but feeling like an idiot for not contacting the party earlier. Finally I will have physical evidence to prove my claims.
When I leave the house the next day I tell Azita I’m going to the police headquarters to sign the register, and I’m not lying. But after signing the book I jump on a bus and go to the Sohoolo Hotel, in the centre of Ankara. I take the lift to the third level, find room 121 and knock on the door.
‘Who is it?’ someone asks from inside.
‘Kooshyar Karimi.’
The door is opened by a man with prominent pointy ears and a thick moustache. His face is covered in so many zits and scars it reminds me of an omelette. ‘Come in,’ he says in Turkish. The room is quite large and bright and is decorated with modern furniture. He gestures for me to sit opposite another man, in his late thirties, sitting on a couch. There is a glossy black coffee table between us. I can’t see the documents anywhere, and begin to feel uneasy.
‘Dr Karimi, nice to see you,’ says the man on the couch, in Farsi. ‘My name is Attaran, and I’m here to help you. Let me explain the situation.’ He takes a deep breath and leans forward so I look directly into his fierce eyes.
‘I work for the Islamic intelligence service, and I know everything about you, Dr Karimi.’
Panic grips me. How stupid I was to come here. The man who claimed to be Mr Kasra’s superior must have been a MOIS agent.
‘Don’t worry, we’re not going to hurt you, as long as you cooperate just as you did in Iran. By the way, Samadi said hello,’ he says, grinning.
Hearing the name of my torturer makes my heart sink. ‘What exactly do you want from me?’ These people could kill me in this room and nobody would ever know.
Attaran reaches into his pocket, takes out a mobile phone and dials a number. He looks at me. ‘Have you been in contact with your mother, Dr Karimi?’ he asks.
‘I’ve tried but she hasn’t answered the phone.’ My voice is trembling.
‘Yes, it’s Attaran, put her on now,’ he says, talking into the phone. Then he puts it on the coffee table and turns on the speaker.
A man’s voice says harshly, ‘Talk now. Your son is on the other end of the line.’
Then I hear a woman’s voice. ‘Kooshyar jan, can you hear me?’
Attaran indicates to me to answer.
‘Yes, Maman jan, I’m here. Are you okay?’ I ask. My heart is pounding hard.
‘Kooshyar jan, listen to me carefully. I am in custody. You have to do as I tell you or you will never see me again. Do you understand?’ my mother says, her voice shaking.
‘Yes.’ I’m fighting back tears. I hate to think what might be happening to her.
‘I’m told you’re going to have an interview with the UN. Be very careful. If you tell them anything about that party, you will bury me. Is that clear?’
I’m horrified that by contacting the party, I’ve exposed them to MOIS. I have no idea how. It’s almost impossible the intelligence service tapped my prepaid mobile here in Turkey. Maybe they used an extremist Islamic group in London to tap the party’s line there. Whichever way, MOIS is now using my mother as a hostage to subdue the regime’s biggest enemy: monarchists who are supported financially and politically by the West.
‘Okay, Maman jan, I won’t say anything to the UNHCR about the party. Nothing.’
‘Promise?’
‘I promise, Maman jan.’ And the phone disconnects.
Attaran puts the mobile back in his pocket. ‘Dr Karimi, I think you now understand the situation. If you talk about that goddamn party in your interview, your mother will not live another day. When they ask you about the fax, you are to tell them it’s fake. Also, you are not to say anything about the thirteen Jews under arrest in Iran. If you play smart with us again, Murat will make sure your daughters are taken care of.’ He points at the Turkish man who let me in.
The threat against my children fills me with rage, but I know I’m powerless.
‘What do you want from me? Why don’t you leave me alone? I’m nobody now,’ I say desperately.
&
nbsp; ‘I have told you what we want from you. Now you can go.’
The hulking Turk opens the door for me and I stumble over with shaking knees. I’m in shock, realising how truly fragile our safety is in Turkey. Then it hits me – I’ve endangered Mr Naseri and the two other members I named over the phone. I feel sick.
I meander through the streets for a long time before I’m able to think clearly again. I consider going to the UN or the police but I know they won’t do anything to help yet another asylum seeker. Plus, by the time I’ve gone to the authorities, they will find no trace of Mr Attaran.
On the bus back to Dikmen I feel utterly vulnerable. When I get home I go straight to Niloofar and Newsha, pick them up and hold them against my chest.
‘Are you okay?’ asks Azita. ‘You’re crying.’
‘Yes, I’m fine. Just a bit stressed about the interview tomorrow.’
And I press my face into my daughters’ warm bodies, willing it to be true.
EIGHT
Later on Azita and I are talking about the interview when she says, ‘By the way, something bizarre happened today.’
I’m instantly alert. ‘What?’
‘Arya and Shadi left early this afternoon with their bags, and they rang an hour later to say they’ve found a different place to live. Isn’t that strange? I don’t know how they organised something so quickly, or why they didn’t even bother to say goodbye.’
I have a feeling it relates to what happened to me today, but I don’t want to make Azita’s anxiety worse. ‘Don’t worry, maybe they wanted to be somewhere less noisy. Good luck to them. We have more important things to be worried about.’
Azita asks me again, ‘Have you practised saying your case? I don’t want you to sound confused or unsure.’
‘Yes, a million times. But they’ll double-check everything with you, so make sure you have the dates right too. If there’s any discrepancy they’ll reject us.’
‘I’m sure you can convince them. Stay positive,’ she says, but I can see how nervous she is.
‘Azita,’ I say seriously, ‘if my interview is unsuccessful I want you to take the kids back to Iran. We don’t have enough money to stay here for a long time and I don’t want my children to suffer because of me.’
Azita nods. ‘But what would you do?’
‘I don’t know, but I’ll survive and somehow get to another country one day. Then you and the girls can join me.’ Actually uttering these words is like being deeply sliced with a knife. ‘It might take many years but we’ll see each other again.’
Azita goes to sleep but I cannot rest. I look at Niloofar’s plump lips and long black eyelashes, at Newsha’s silky hair and angelic face. My heart aches. I try to imagine them happy and healthy in a new country. I won’t let them grow up suffering the same hardships I did. Though they’re here because of me, I have to hold on to the hope that everything I’ve done, and all they’ve sacrificed, will be worthwhile in the end.
Finally it’s time to wake Azita. We change Niloofar’s nappy and go out. I’m trying to remain calm. At eight o’clock we’re in front of the UN building – the last hope for people who have nothing to lose. Regardless of whether we’ve left our homelands because of political or economic reasons, all of us have one thing in common: we’ve been crushed by the hammer of religion and tradition. We are the sacrificial goats of ancient, wretched cultures that seek blood constantly.
As usual there are many people there, gossiping, arguing, spying. Time passes slowly until nine o’clock, when the gate is opened by three guards who start calling out names. One by one couples and families go through the gate. The slow progression reminds me of Jews walking to the Nazi furnaces. The asylum seekers are body-searched before being guided inside. Finally my name is called.
I take a deep breath and go forward. One guard starts checking Azita and another one searches me. He points at my suitcase. ‘What’s in that?’
‘Books,’ I tell him.
The guard shakes his head. ‘You can’t take it inside. Only documents are allowed.’
‘But sir, these are my documents.’
He takes the suitcase from me and orders us to go in. Azita starts begging him to give it back but there’s no point. The first thing an asylum seeker loses is their dignity; the second is their voice.
After being ushered inside a large hall with yellow carpet, we sit down and look around. There are five other families and everyone seems very tense. Off the hall are five interview rooms. A Turkish woman hands out pamphlets to the adults and coloured pencils to the children. She shows us a small area for kids and says in Turkish, ‘They can stay here and colour the pictures but they have to be quiet or we will send you all out.’ Then she looks at the adults and says, ‘You’re not allowed to talk to each other. If you need to go to the toilet, ask the guards and they will take you there.’
Newsha joins a little Iranian boy and they start drawing and colouring in. Niloofar falls asleep on Azita’s lap. Azita asks me if I’m okay and I nod. I feel as if I’m about to be interrogated and tortured again.
Soon an officer appears and announces someone’s name. A man in his thirties stands up and follows him to one of the interview rooms. Time passes as slowly as a tortoise in mud. After half an hour another man is called into another room, then half an hour later a woman is called in. Newsha wants to go out so we try to distract her. Niloofar has started crying and Azita calms her down by feeding her.
The first asylum seeker comes out of the interview room after an hour and a half. His face is covered in sweat and he seems very distressed. The guard sits him down on a chair and then leads the wife to the same room, presumably to check his story. One asylum seeker told me last week that he knew someone who said to the UN officer he had been jailed. The officer asked him where the light switch was in the cell, to the left or the right of the door. He said the switch was on the right. Months later he was told he’d failed because political prisons in Iran do not have light switches.
It is close to noon, Newsha is hungry and we are all restless. Every minute my apprehension increases. I’m tired of staring at the worn-out yellow carpet so I read the pamphlet they’ve given us. It says every individual has a right to leave his or her country if human rights are violated and to seek asylum in another country, and also that the UNHCR helps refugees to resettle in a third country. But, just as Arya had warned us, on the last page it emphasises that more than ninety-five percent of cases are rejected.
Finally my name is called and I stand up. My knees are stiff. Under my breath I say a prayer my mother taught me when I was seven: ‘O God, undo the tie from my tongue and give my heart strength and confidence to utter my words. Make me strong over my enemy.’
I’m taken to interview room 5, a medium-sized room with a desk and two chairs, and a small window suffocated by a thick grey curtain. A middle-aged woman with glasses is sitting behind the desk with a computer in front of her. She indicates to the guard that he should leave us.
‘My name is Mersey,’ she says. ‘I will be interviewing you today. I am originally from France.’
My heart sinks. I’m sure she is the ‘French Butcher’, the woman I’ve been told is every asylum seeker’s worst nightmare.
‘My Farsi interpreter is absent today,’ she says. ‘We can postpone your interview to another day, or if you can speak even basic English, we can go ahead.’
I cannot tolerate another night of sleeplessness. I want to get this over with. I tell her I used to be a translator in Iran so I know some English, though I don’t speak it often.
‘Okay then, we should be fine. I am going to begin and if you find it too hard we can stop. Do you have any documentation or identification to show me?’ Mersey starts typing and I realise she’s going to write down everything we say. She reminds me of Mrs Fotoorchi, my primary school teacher, who had the ability to twist one of your earlobes until you thought it would come off, and then smile and convince you to offer your other ear.
&n
bsp; ‘I do, but the guards took it from me. I have important things in my suitcase but they didn’t allow me to bring it in.’
Mersey picks up the phone and in less than two minutes a guard comes in with my suitcase and opens it on the desk. I take my books out, one by one – seven of my best works.
I can see that Mersey is impressed. ‘You wrote all these?’
‘Yes, ma’am, plus another twelve books I couldn’t bring with me.’
Mersey tells the guard to photocopy the cover and the first page of each book for her.
‘So you were an author in Iran?’ She starts typing again.
‘Yes, ma’am. I was a writer and a translator, as well as a doctor. In 1994 I was given an award for the best translator in the country. In fact I would like to say, if you don’t mind, that I had a very good life in Iran. I didn’t want to leave. By coming to another country I’ve lost my practice and my recognition as a writer. I’m not using the UN to go to a developed country for financial reasons. I am here because I was in trouble with the intelligence service.’
Mersey nods as she types, and this gives me confidence and hope. ‘Tell me about your background in Iran.’ She places her fingers expectantly on the keyboard.
So I do. I tell her I was the second child of my Jewish mother, and that my father was a Muslim bus driver. When he married my mother he was forty-two with two other wives and she was only seventeen. My Casanova father first came to see me three weeks after I was born.
I tell her about all the discrimination and oppression I experienced as a Jew, from having to hide my religion to being initially banned from attending university. I tell her that I terminated more than three hundred pregnancies and repaired the virginities of more than a hundred women to save them from so-called honour killings. For doing this I could have been hanged several times over, and I lived in constant fear.
I tell her that in 1994 and 1996 two of my best novels were not allowed to be published. Despite this, I began researching my Jewish heritage in Mashhad for another book, interviewing people with Jewish ancestry and even going to the old abandoned synagogue.
Journey of a Thousand Storms Page 8
