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On my way home that evening, as I passed by murals of Khamenei on walls throughout the city, Amir’s words stayed with me. I hoped that Khamenei would consider saving his legitimacy not by helping Ahmadinejad steal the election but by listening to his people. Of course, I highly doubted he would do that. As Amir had said, Khamenei was intoxicated by his power and wanted to expand it by having an obsequious subordinate he could control. And that man was Mahmoud Ahmadinejad.

As I passed yet another group of young men and women dressed in green and holding Mousavi signs, I knew that the people of Iran, silent for so long, had finally found their voice. The question now was: Would Ali Khamenei choose to listen?

Chapter Three

In Iran, the weekend is celebrated on Thursday and Friday, and Friday is called Jom’eh, which means “gathering.” On this day, Muslims are supposed to pray together. Many do but many others, if they can afford it, spend the weekend on the shores of the Caspian Sea, about three hundred miles north of Tehran. Others go hiking in the Elburz Mountains, in north Tehran. This is how I spent many of my weekends in Iran, and it was the only way I wanted to spend June 11, the day before the election.

I left my mother’s house at four A.M. with a plan to hike into the mountains for as long as I could and then descend by cable car. Every reporter prays for a chance to come across a life-changing story. Reporting the election was mine. I wanted to hike long enough to clear my head and put some distance between myself and politics, in the hope of keeping some perspective.

· · ·

The music and fresh mountain air calmed me down. “My baby’s going to be born in four months’ time,” I hummed to myself as I hiked. “In four months’ time I will be a father.” The idea energized me, and as the sun rose over Tehran, I walked briskly.

By ten A.M., I was hot and winded. I sat down to eat the dates I had packed. All of Tehran was spread out before me. As usual, a dark cloud of smog hung over the city. I poured a little of the tea I had brought and slowly ate my dates. The exhaustion of the last few days had settled in my body, but even so, I believed myself poised on the edge of so much possibility: a better future for my family; for my career; and, I prayed, for my country. I felt invigorated and happy.

After I packed my things and began the walk to the cable car, a sad, old voice, as thick as the smog covering the city, began to croon in my ears. It was Leonard Cohen, singing “Everybody Knows”:

Everybody knows that the dice are loaded

Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed

Everybody knows that the war is over

Everybody knows the good guys lost

Everybody knows the fight was fixed

Cohen’s words have an unrivaled ability to put a tunnel at the end of the light. While listening to Cohen, I remembered Amir’s words. The possibility of Khamenei making a wise decision was quite remote. After all, despots are hardly known for their inclination toward fairness.

When I returned, my cell phone rang. It was Amir. “Where’ve you been?” He sounded nervous. “I’ve been trying to call you all day. Come to my office as quickly as you can.”

An hour or so later, when I walked into his office, he immediately put his index finger to his lips, then asked me to sit down. “How is your mother, Maziar?” he asked, taking my cell phone. He turned it off and took out the battery. It was believed that Iranian security could eavesdrop on your conversations through your cell phone, even if the power was turned off.

“She’s well, thank you,” I said, feeling ill at ease as Amir handed me a piece of paper. “I’m so happy to hear that,” he said.

The paper was an open letter from Mousavi to Khamenei that would be made public in a few hours. Never before had a presidential candidate written such an irreverent letter to the supreme leader. In it, Mousavi expressed concern that members of the supervisory councils and election observers were acting in favor of Ahmadinejad and that