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“Is it true?” she asked. “Did he really win?”

“Sadly, yes,” I answered. As I tried to tell her about the events of the day, I was overwhelmed by a feeling of utter exhaustion, and only then did I realize that I had barely slept since landing in Tehran three days earlier. Trying to relive the experience was too much for me. I said good-bye to Paola and called a taxi to take me to Mousavi’s press conference.

The press conference was held in an anonymous building off Africa Street. In his public appearances, Mousavi usually seemed far more like a subdued artist than a charismatic politician. But that night, he was a changed man. He acted defiant and confident. The support he had been receiving from millions of Iranians had made him animated and inspiring. As he stood before a room full of almost fifty journalists and cameramen, he explained that he didn’t regard the official result as an end to his campaign. “Any result other than one indicating my victory will be wrong and manipulated,” Mousavi proclaimed. The reporters in the room, mostly Iranians working for the foreign media, looked at one another with surprise. Even though we were trying our best to remain professional, I know that, like me, most others in the room were rooting for Mousavi.

I had rarely felt more patriotic, or more depressed, than I did that night. I was worried about the future of Iran and angry at the thugs who were going to rule it for, at least, the next four years. It was as if bandits had kidnapped one of my loved ones. But the thought of Mousavi fighting for his votes thrilled me. Maybe he could stop the pro-Ahmadinejad thugs from carrying out their military takeover by mobilizing the people.

· · ·

That night, when I got back from the press conference, I turned off my cell phone and unplugged the landline in my room. I knew I would be receiving dozens of calls, and all I wanted to do was sleep. At nine the next morning, I found that I had thirteen missed calls and four messages from Mousavi’s office. His people were eager to get coverage from foreign media, since Iranian state television was not giving them any airtime.

“Mr. Mousavi and his wife, Mrs. Rahnavard, are allowing interviews today, in the Etela’at building at two P.M.,” one message said. Etela’at is a state-controlled newspaper, but its editor was friendly to Mousavi.

In the living room, my mother was reading Beyhaqi’s History, a book about Iran in the Middle Ages that told the story of Hasanak the Vizier, a competent minister to a king in the eleventh century who was hanged in favor of a useless but ingratiating successor.

“Rooz az no. Roozi az no,” she said. “Same kind of day. Same kind of action. This country has been plagued by these ashghal, garbage, rulers for centuries.” She looked tired. She laid the book on her lap. “I knew I shouldn’t have voted. At least then I could have kept my integrity intact. This way I feel used. It seems like I have voted for this ashghal system.”

My mother’s gloominess set the mood for the rest of my day. Economic hardship, decades of political turbulence, and polluted air have made Iranians a borderline depressed nation. In fact, in the 1990s an adviser to the mayor of Tehran suggested that they add Prozac to Tehran’s water to revitalize the citizens. But on the day after Ahmadinejad’s reelection, no amount of antidepressants could have helped many Tehranis. The misery in the air was almost unbearable.

From my contacts, I learned that the supreme leader, Khamenei, had called Mousavi on the afternoon of the election and told him that he understood that Ahmadinejad had won. Khamenei asked Mousavi to accept the defeat gracefully, and even promised him a major position in the new administration. Mousavi told Khamenei bluntly that it was too early to decide. “The people have to make a decision. Not you,” Mousavi said. He hung up on Khamenei and refused to meet him that day.

A few hours later, Khamenei sent a message to the people of Iran congratulating them on their historic