Then They Came for Me_ A Family's Story of Love, Captivity, and Survival - Maziar Bahari [21]
Davood finally drove me home at around two A.M., and as I prepared for sleep, I knew that whatever the outcome of the election—a Mousavi victory, an Ahmadinejad resurgence, a second round of voting—something had changed in Iran over the course of this campaign. Iranians from unexpected quarters had started to express themselves, and the leaders of the Islamic Republic now faced the uncomfortable reality that the people were demanding to be listened to.
As I tried to sleep, I envisioned an Iran free of men who think that to be true Muslims they need a master controlling every aspect of their lives. I knew that Mousavi was not a leader who would bring about a profound change to the country, but getting rid of Ahmadinejad, the man who had disgraced the country and imperiled its well-being for four years, was a start.
Chapter Two
I came out of the shower the next day to the sound of my mother panicking in the kitchen. “Mazi, Mazi!” she cried out. I ran out of the bathroom to see what the problem was and found her staring open-mouthed out the window. Outside, Davood sat idly on his motorbike, waiting for me. I had asked him to pick me up at ten A.M., and he was right on time.
“Everyone knows that motorcycle drivers are just mad,” my mother said. “The only people crazier than them are their passengers.” Even though I had taken almost twenty trips to Iraq to report on the war, I don’t think I’d ever seen her as worried for me as she was at that moment.
Losing her husband, elder son, and daughter in such a short period meant that my mother worried about me more than ever. As I got ready to go, Moloojoon followed me around the apartment, reminding me about the fatal accidents caused by motorcycles.
I kissed her good-bye. “Don’t worry,” I said. “He’s just giving me a short ride to a friend’s office.” I knew she knew that I was lying, but we had an understanding. She trusted my judgment.
I said hello to Davood and jumped onto the motorbike behind him. He had apparently done some research overnight.
“I Googled you,” he said. “Aren’t you afraid of making all these films and writing all these reports about this government?”
“Not really. I try to be careful and not to step on their tails,” I answered, using a Persian expression, as Davood headed the wrong way down a one-way street. “I’m frankly more worried that your driving will get me into trouble.”
Davood didn’t laugh. “I noticed a couple of people waiting for us in a Peugeot when we went to see your friend in Robat Karim yesterday,” he said. “There was another car parked toward the end of your street today. They followed us, but I think we lost them. I wasn’t sure at first, so I didn’t mention it.”
I thought he was just being paranoid. “Right, Davood. As if you need a reason to drive like this,” I said.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Maziar. I’ll take care of you,” he assured me.
Davood and I spent the morning visiting a few more Mousavi and Ahmadinejad campaign offices around the city, and when we were done, at around three o’clock in the afternoon, I paid him for the whole day and told him he could go home. As much as I liked and trusted Davood, I couldn’t take him to my next appointment.
I was going to see Amir, a friend of mine who’d previously worked for the Ministry of Interior, which is in charge of elections in Iran. Now in his early sixties, Amir had joined Khomeini’s movement in 1963, when he was just sixteen years old. Over the course of the last fifty years, he had come to know some of the highest-ranking members of the Iranian government, and he understood the inner workings of the system as well as anyone in the country. The information Amir gave me over the years had