Then They Came for Me_ A Family's Story of Love, Captivity, and Survival - Maziar Bahari [1]
He was thirty-one years old and had earned a master’s degree in political science from Tehran University. While at university, he had joined the Revolutionary Guards, a vast and increasingly powerful fundamentalist military conglomerate formed in the wake of the 1979 Iranian revolution. I would come to know that his punches were the hardest when he felt stupid. But when he appeared in my bedroom early that morning, the only things I understood about him were that he was in charge, and that he had a very large head. It was alarmingly big, like the rest of his body. He was at least six foot two and fat, with thick glasses. Later, his glasses would confuse me. I had associated glasses with professors, intellectuals. Not torturers.
I wrapped the sheet tightly around my body and sat up. “Put some clothes on,” Rosewater said, motioning to the three men behind him to leave the room so that I could get dressed. I found comfort in this: whatever their reason was for barging into my house, he was still respectful, still behaving with a modicum of courtesy.
They kept the door slightly ajar, and I walked to my closet. Things were beginning to come into clearer focus, but his rosewater scent lingered and my thoughts, still confused, remained back in the past, at the shrine. What does one wear in a shrine? What’s the best way to present oneself? I had just finished putting on a blue collared shirt and a pair of jeans when the men pushed their way back into my room: Rosewater and another man, who wore a shiny silver sports jacket and a cap.
They circled the room, surveying everything. I had been spending most of my time over the last two years with my fiancée, Paola, in London. We had gotten engaged six months earlier, and had been preparing for the birth of our child in four months’ time, and I had never really settled in at my mother’s house. I could sense their frustration as they took stock of the mess in my small room. Heaps of books sat on the floor beside stacks of videotapes and DVDs and an untidy pile of laundry. I had not organized my desk for months, and it was covered with old newspapers and notebooks. All journalists working in Iran have to be accredited by Ershad—the name is shorthand for the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance—and I had given my mother’s address as my place of work. They’d thought they were going to find an office at my mother’s house. Instead, they were picking through piles of underwear.
“If you want, I can organize things and you can come back tomorrow,” I said with an apologetic smile.
“Zerto pert nakon,” Rosewater said sharply. “Stop talking shit. Sit down and shut up. One more word, and I’ll beat you so badly, I’ll make your mother mourn for you.” He scratched his side under his jacket, revealing the gun strapped to his body. I sat down, feeling my body grow heavy with fear. I, like most Iranians, knew of far too many people—writers, artists, activists—who had been woken up like this, then taken somewhere and murdered. I thought of my father and my sister, each arrested and imprisoned by previous regimes; I thought of my mother, who had been forced to live through all this twice before. I could hear my mother’s voice in the kitchen, and my fear was joined by an overwhelming sense of guilt. How could my mother go through this again? Why hadn’t I been more careful? Why hadn’t I left Iran sooner?
“Would you like some tea?” I heard her ask one of the men in the kitchen.
“No, thank you.”
“Why not? It seems that you are going to be here for a while. You should have some tea,” she said.
“No, really. I don’t want to impose.”
I heard my mother laugh. “You arrived at my house at eight A.M. You are going through my son’s personal belongings. I am going to have to put everything back in order after you leave. What do you mean you do not want to impose?”
The man ignored the question. “Madam, please put on your scarf,” he said.
Though I could not see my mother’s face, I could imagine the condescending