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By Root 419 0

no effect on university students, however. Students in many dormitories around the country staged pro-Mousavi demonstrations and clashed with the police. In some instances, the police ransacked the dormitories and arrested a number of students. From different postings on Facebook, I learned that the worst atrocities that night were committed in the men’s dormitory of Tehran University. Police had apparently been called by campus security after a group of students were heard chanting anti-Ahmadinejad slogans. After the police and Basij units entered the dormitory, security closed the gates so that no one could get out. Every student from the dorm—whether he had taken part in the demonstrations or not—was dragged out of his room. Outside the dorm, the anti-riot police piled them together and beat them with clubs. Many were kicked until they became unconscious. In some cases, the anti-riot police sodomized the students with clubs. At least seven students were killed.

That night, I heard the sound of chaos in my dreams; but before I woke up, it was Amir’s voice that echoed around me: “All we can do is pray that the supreme leader will make a wise decision.” Power blinds, and I feared that Khamenei’s blindness could only mean disaster for my country and my people.

Chapter Five

I woke up the next morning to a disturbing email from a friend of Amir’s:

“He has been arrested. Call me.”

On the phone, the friend told me that Amir had been arrested that morning, along with dozens of pro-Mousavi politicians, including former ministers and vice presidents. The news of the arrests had gone viral.

“Should I be worried about myself?” I asked.

“Not now. Just be careful,” he answered.

That morning, I tried to reach my friends and sources within the government. Nobody was answering the phone. Everyone had suddenly gone silent.

I had asked Davood to pick me up at nine A.M. to take me to a few appointments and then the demonstration planned for four P.M. on Revolution Avenue. Reacting to Ahmadinejad’s speech after his victory, when he’d called his opponents a bunch of dust and dirt, Mousavi supporters had named their protest the Dust and Dirt demonstration. Word of the gathering had gotten around through Internet sites and was reported on satellite television. But Davood was uncharacteristically late, and not answering his phone. He called me at nine-thirty.

“Where the hell are you?” I asked angrily.

“Come to the corner of Motahari and Vali Asr,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Mr. Maziar, just come to the corner. I will wait for you there.”

The instructions were so strange that I began to grow worried. I remembered Davood telling me about the men in Peugeots he had seen waiting on my mother’s street. Her apartment was on a dead end, so there was not much traffic. I could easily spot strangers if they were waiting for me outside. I went to the rooftop before leaving the house and looked down. There were three Peugeots parked along the street, but that was not particularly unusual—even though Peugeots are the government’s cars of choice, ordinary people drive them as well. A few people came out of an office down the block. Nothing looked suspicious. I was late for my appointments and angry with Davood. I walked ten minutes to the corner he’d indicated and spotted him sitting on his bike.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“There were a couple of people waiting at the end of your street, Mr. Maziar.”

“Yes, because there are offices on our street.”

“But these two looked really suspicious. I just know they were from the intelligence service.”

I was getting fed up with Davood’s erratic behavior. As I climbed onto the bike behind him and he began to drive, I noticed that he smelled of sweat and alcohol and that his hair was messy.

“Have you been drinking?” I asked him.

“Just a little bit, Mr. Maziar,” Davood said remorsefully. “I can’t sleep at night. We had another fight with the Basijis after you left.”

“Bezan kenar,” I ordered him. “Stop here.”

He pulled over. “Sorry, Davood, I can’t let you drive if you drink like this. Go get