Then in February 1997 I was arrested. After two months of torture my interrogator, Haji Samadi, gave me a chance to be released if I accepted the accusations and became a spy for MOIS. I eventually signed the paper and one evening was released outside town.
I explained how my whole life was totally controlled by Samadi, who was now my handler. I would ring a number using a mobile phone I was given and whenever I called – whatever time of day or night, or even if he was out of town – Samadi would always answer. He began phoning me once every two days, then it was once a day and then twice a day. I was allowed to tell Azita I was working for the government but nothing more.
When Samadi wanted to see me he never arrived at the agreed time and he always came in a different car, so while I waited for him I had to search every passing vehicle. He would never tell me what he or MOIS, which he called ‘Tashkilat’, were after. One time I might be sent to spy on a Muslim man, and the next a Jew. It took me nine months to realise his organisation was in fact after Jews, and they were sending me to random targets to make sure I couldn’t figure out what their real plan was.
I tell her about Mr Sayar, the old photographer who burned my chest with cigarettes after I failed Tashkilat’s obedience test. Mersey asks to see the burn marks and when I lift up my shirt, her eyes narrow.
I tell her I come from a country that punishes difference and persecutes pleasure. I tell her I resent my homeland. I’m not proud of a country where ancient glory, ruined monuments and fallen kings are the only things that are celebrated. All I respect is the desert – the barren, burning chest of the land with its thousands of buried stories – and all I miss are the red poppies that bloom after the first rain in spring. Mersey listens carefully and nods.
I tell her I was sent to infiltrate a group of underground dissidents, some Muslim, some Jewish. Because I was a Jew and an author, people respected and trusted me. Jews in Iran know they’re under constant surveillance because Tashkilat assumes they’re all spies for Israel. My Jewishness made me very valuable to Tashkilat.
After that first test, I turned out to be an excellent spy. But every mission took me deeper into this abyss and I soon realised I knew too much to be left alone, that when Tashkilat no longer needed me I would be eliminated. Each time I left the house to meet Samadi I’d kiss Newsha and say to Azita, ‘If I don’t come back, just get on with your life and imagine I’ve been killed in a car accident.’ Searching for a victim of Tashkilat could be dangerous.
After a few months of espionage on the dissidents, I was sent to spy on some prominent Jews in Mashhad, and then in Tehran and finally Isfahan. They would invite me to their houses for dinner and say things against the government, words that were sufficient to have them hanged. Tashkilat gave me a sophisticated voice recorder and a special mobile phone that showed our location.
Soon I established a relationship with Saeed, who dedicated his life to making fake passports for Jews who were in trouble and arranging for them to escape. Tashkilat was thirsty for his blood. After I spent weeks working on him he came to rely on me; after all I was a doctor and half of Iran knew my books. He even warned me that I was in danger for writing my book on the history of Iranian Jews.
My heart ached every time I recorded Saeed. I was betraying my own people, people who had children and families and wanted the same things I did: a better Iran with liberty and justice for everyone. I had nightmares constantly – about escaping or dying, or sometimes I’d lead a trembling man to the gallows.
Samadi must have suspected how I felt about what I was doing. He told me he wanted me to turn on the recorder before leaving my car, so he could hear me shutting the door, walking into Saeed’s house and saying hello. I said I would; I knew I couldn’t fool Tashkilat.
I pause, realising that now is the moment to tell Mersey about the thirteen Jews. This information, I’m certain, will immeasurably strengthen my case. But then I remember my mother’s voice begging me to get her out of jail. I think of Newsha and Niloofar waiting for me outside the room, their future happiness dependent on the success of this interview. No matter what I do, someone in my family will suffer. I’m torn to pieces, but I can’t let my daughters down.
Mersey is staring at me. I take a deep breath and say, ‘Through Saeed I built a bridge to three other Jews who were later arrested and put on death row. There were others . . .’
‘Are you talking about the thirteen Jews who were recently imprisoned?’ asks Mersey. I can see the surprise in her eyes.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
I give her their names. She types my words carefully, then asks me to wait. I can see that she is opening another file on her screen and writing a report there. After fifteen minutes she takes a deep breath, looks at her watch and says, ‘Kooshyar, we’ve been here for four hours. That’s enough for today. I want you to come back tomorrow for the rest of the interview.’
I’m startled. This makes no sense. ‘But what about my wife? Can she come with me?’
‘Of course,’ she says. Then for the first time she smiles warmly. ‘I know who is telling the truth and who is just wasting my time. Go home and get some rest. I would like to know more about your cooperation with Tashkilat because we’ve been trying to identify these thirteen Jews and protect them. Your information is really valuable to us.’
I suddenly feel so relieved I want to jump over the desk and hug Mersey. I’m so grateful she’s believed me. My heart is full of hope and light.
When I leave the interview room I grab Azita’s hand. ‘Let’s go home. Everything is going to be fine.’
NINE
I sit outside our building, smoking and thinking about the interview. I still have so much to tell Mersey, but I must be brief and to the point. There’s no room for error: even though Mersey said she knew I was telling the truth, if I say something that contradicts other facts my case still might be rejected. I have to stay focused and remember dates, times, names. This isn’t easy – I was sent to many people over those thirteen months. As I try to recall that period, I find myself drifting away on a new wave of memories from years earlier.
When I was twelve I went to Isfahan for the first time, visiting Jewish relatives with my mother during school holidays. King Abbas I made Isfahan his capital in the sixteenth century, and in the following few decades it turned into one of the world’s most lavish, affluent cities. But Abbas was also a brutal ruler who made Iran a Shia state by ruthlessly persecuting Sunni Muslims, which most Persians were at the time. It was one of the most important turning points in Iran’s history and that of the Middle East. If it weren’t for Abbas, it’s likely Shia Islam would have disappeared as a minor branch of the faith.
I felt so excited about meeting my relatives, but they were not particularly kind to me. I could tell by their empty eyes and soulless smiles they did not like me. They thought I was of mixed blood because my father was a Muslim, even though he wasn’t a practising one. Still, he was not a Jew so I wasn’t pure enough. I could see their resentment, even when they praised me for my high marks at school.
A few days after our arrival I was in the bazaar and fell into conversation with Mr Mostafavi, a sixty-year-old rug seller. He attracted my attention because of the big sapphire ring on his right hand. He was a devout Muslim, though not a zealot, and a lovely soul.
‘Your mother was the smartest girl I ever met,’ he told me over tea at his shop. ‘You should be proud of her. She’s worked hard for her life.’ He sipped his tea and made himself comfortable on a small timber chair. ‘Just before your mother was born her father, Habib, was stabbed to death by fanatical Muslims, right there on that footpath.’ He pointed to a narrow cobblestoned lane nearby.
‘Your grandmother remarried, to a Jewish man in Tehran, so she moved and sent her three older daughters to Israel. Your mother was adopted by Habib’s brother, Abraham.’
I was shocked to hear this. My mother had never really told me much about her parents and any time I asked about them
she changed the topic.
‘Abraham is a horrible man,’ said Mr Mostafavi. ‘I’m not saying this because he’s a Jew; he is a truly evil individual. He made your mother work at his liquor shop from the age of six. I told him many times to be kind to her but he didn’t care. She served alcohol to all sorts of drunk, sleazy men. She was abused often but nobody protected her. She had to work for Abraham, otherwise she would’ve had no food, no clothes, no education. Later on I found out she was forced to sleep in a small storage room in Abraham’s house, while all his children had proper rooms.
‘When she was fifteen she met Khalil, the generous, handsome and charismatic bus driver who came to Abraham’s shop every now and then. He was twenty-five years older than her but talked very sweetly to her. He told her he was single, that he loved her and would look after her. Your mother was naïve and starving for love, so she believed him and one day she escaped with Khalil to Tehran.’
Mr Mostafavi sighed deeply. ‘He took her to his house and told her she was his queen. She was happy for two weeks until one day the door opened and a forty-year-old woman entered with her teenage daughter. The woman’s name was Parvin and she was Khalil’s second wife. As soon as she found out who your mother was she brutally bashed her. Khalil came home and denied everything, telling Parvin your mother was just a new maid at their house. Your mother was heartbroken and forlorn. She couldn’t come back to Isfahan – Abraham would have killed her. After many months of working as a maid at Khalil and Parvin’s house, he moved your mother to a basement in Nezam Abad. He told Parvin he’d fired her but he had to get her out because she was pregnant. Your mother also found out Khalil had another wife too, Nahid. She was devastated but had no choice other than to stay.
I sat there stunned by these revelations about my parents. ‘When you were eighteen months old, Parvin took you from your mother and threatened to kill her. Your mother became deeply depressed and wanted to commit suicide. She came back to Isfahan as a last resort and my wife looked after her. We talked to her for days, until she started to change her mind and gain her confidence again. Abraham refused to see her but he agreed to send her to Israel. At the last moment your mother decided not to leave you with Parvin. She went back to Tehran but Parvin had set fire to the house to harm you and you were burned badly. You had to spend more than two months in hospital. After you’d recovered, your mother went to the police and they warned Parvin that if she bothered her again she would go to jail.’
As Mr Mostafavi spoke I touched the large scar on the right side of my stomach. I’d known that Parvin had caused it but my mother never told me the full story.
Mr Mostafavi took a deep breath and stared into my eyes. ‘Kooshyar, your mother has sacrificed her life for you. Make her proud,’ he said.
His words profoundly affected me, and I was deeply touched he’d taken the time to tell me all this. I already respected my mother but now I admired her: for her endurance, her courage and her self-sacrifice. I also now had a better understanding of why her behaviour towards me was sometimes contradictory. Hearing about her dreadful childhood, I realised she’d never felt loved and constantly faced betrayal, neglect and abuse. My mother wanted my brother and me to always be reliant on her, to always want her. This suited Koorosh but I had a greater sense of self-sufficiency. Though I knew she loved me dearly and was proud of my accomplishments, my mother also resented me for not needing her as my brother did – and so sometimes she would impulsively hurt me. My mother never understood how much I admired her, and she mistook my desire to be independent for careless rebelliousness.
The next morning we arrive at the UN at eight again but this time I’m in Mersey’s room less than an hour later. Azita and our daughters are in the waiting room. A whole new group of asylum seekers are being interviewed today, another assembly of despairing humans searching for a glimmer of hope from interrogators who determine their destinies.
I tell Mersey the story of a man I call Mr Ali. He was smart and highly educated, with only a small group of people – university lecturers and authors – in his gatherings. I successfully infiltrated this group and attended five sessions in his house. Soon Mr Ali’s right-hand man, Mr Hossein, went missing and two weeks later his decomposing body was found in bush near Mashhad. Some of Mr Ali’s other followers were arrested and either jailed for many years or killed. Occasionally Mr Ali himself would go missing and reappear, telling his followers he had been imprisoned and tortured.
Samadi loved my reports about Mr Ali and was intensely interested in his activities. One day, after I gave Samadi information about Mr Ali’s recent session with four democracy activists, he said something that indicated he already knew about this secret conversation with the activists. I started to realise that while people who had half Mr Ali’s record of dissidence were being given long jail sentences or executed, he was safely practising. It dawned on me then that Mr Ali was a decoy. This was confirmed later when Samadi suddenly told me to forget about Mr Ali and return to Saeed.
Mersey asks me some questions about my cooperation with MOIS and after another hour she seems satisfied. She opens a folder on her desk and goes through some papers.
‘Kooshyar, did you ever join a political party in Iran?’ she asks.
Suddenly my heart stops. I see she’s looking at the support letter faxed by the party’s London office.
‘No, I didn’t,’ I tell Mersey.
She stares at me above her spectacles. I’ve already risked my mother’s life once in front of Mersey. I just can’t do it again. Besides, if I talk about the monarchist group, I’ll also endanger the other members, a horrifying thought after already accidentally giving MOIS the names of three of them. But if I tell Mersey that the fax is fake, as Attaran instructed, my whole case could crumble.
‘None at all?’ she asks sharply.
I shake my head. ‘Not really.’
Mersey closes the folder and leans forward. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I didn’t really act as a member of any political party. That’s all I can tell you.’
‘But you did take a lot of risks.’
‘I know, but not as part of any party.’
‘Listen, Kooshyar, you have to be honest with me,’ she says. ‘So far I have trusted you, and I have information right in front of me showing that you did in fact join a political group, a monarchist party. Is that right?’
She looks at me expectantly. I wish I could tell her that if I say any more my mother will be tortured to death. I return Mersey’s intense gaze, willing her to receive my silent message, to see the truth underneath my expression.
I tell her, ‘Joining a monarchist party can jeopardise one’s vulnerable family members. I can only say that much.’
She nods, and a smile slowly appears across her face. ‘I appreciate your difficult situation, Kooshyar.’ She takes a deep breath and puts the folder in her drawer. ‘Okay, I think I have what I need. As you might be aware, we have to confirm everything with our database and our agents on the ground. This will take time.’
‘I understand, ma’am.’
‘Now, could you please ask your family to join us?’
‘You mean . . .?’
‘Yes, I’m not going to double-check your story with your wife.’
I’ve started to like Mersey. Azita walks into the room with Niloofar in her arms, and Newsha comes over and holds my hand. Mersey gets up from behind her desk and asks Azita if she can hold Niloofar. ‘She’s gorgeous,’ Mersey says, smiling.
‘Thank you,’ Azita and I reply simultaneously. Then Azita bursts into tears. Mersey hugs her and says, ‘You are going to start a new life. Your misery is over.’
These words give us so much hope and courage that we forget about all our troubles in Turkey. When we leave the building, my heart is jumping out of my chest with joy.
Three days after my final interview with Mersey I go to the police headquarters as usual to sign the book. But this time things are different. The Turkish
police officer asks my name again, even though he knows it very well after more than ninety days of coming to the same room to sign the same book.
‘Kooshyar Karimi from Iran,’ I say.
He tells me to wait and leaves the room. I think, What’s going on?
Half an hour later he comes back, looking concerned. ‘Kooshyar, you have to move,’ he says.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know why but you have to move from here. That’s what my boss says.’ He speaks in Turkish so I have a bit of trouble following him, but after twenty minutes of broken conversation I realise I have to go to a place called Çankiri, two hours east of Ankara. My involvement in Iranian politics means it’s too dangerous to keep me here in Ankara. But are they trying to protect me or the Turkish government? I certainly feel safer in a large metropolis than a small isolated village. Because the UN has probably now notified the government of my knowledge about the thirteen Jews, the Turks are likely to be worried about negative press if any harm were to come to me.
How are we going to cope in a small town? I’ve been able to create some semblance of normal life by regularly buying things from the stolen goods market in Ulus, such as clothes and even a broken old TV that I managed to fix. I now feel comfortable in our little room three levels under the ground. Finding new accommodation to rent in such a small place will be impossible.
I wait till late at night before I finally tell Azita we have to move. She bursts into tears. I try to calm her down, reminding her that we have to do as we’re told and reassuring her we’ll soon hear from the UN and be safe in another country. My words are futile.
‘I can’t do this anymore, I just can’t. Do you have any idea how damaged Newsha is? Where are those women you treated in Iran? Who is going to help us now?’
It’s a good question. In the morning I contact Bulent.
‘What’s up, Pislik Yahudi?’ That’s what he calls me as a joke: ‘Dirty Jew’. He’s a Muslim but a very moderate one – he drinks alcohol and eats pork. I explain what’s happened and he exclaims, ‘Çankiri is a shithole!’
Journey of a Thousand Storms Page 9
