• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

Listen!

The shadows are stepping by …

We must flee.

Paola knew the poem because we had watched an Iranian film inspired by Forough’s words. “This is beautiful, Mazi, but …” She paused. “It’s ominous. Have you booked your ticket to London?”

“Not yet. I’ll do it when we hang up.” But on some level, I knew I had to stay on and bear witness to history.

You,

O green like the soul of the leaves,

Leave your lips to the stroke of mine,

And savor them like swell flavor of an old wine.

If we forget

The wind will take us away,

The wind will take us away.

· · ·

Later, alone in the mountains, I found my thoughts turning again to Maryam. As I began the slow ascent, I remembered the last time we had hiked this path.

In 2007, not long after our brother, Babak, died, I’d taken Maryam to these mountains. She was not athletic and had had a hard time keeping up.

“I’m running out of breath, Mazi joon. I can’t do this anymore,” she’d said after just half an hour climbing the steep hills.

“Come on,” I’d replied. “Just a few more minutes. Otherwise, you’re not going to burn any fat.” Now I regretted having said this.

I couldn’t shake the idea that she was beside me. I was sixteen when Maryam was arrested, and for so many nights afterward, I’d lain alone in my room, cursing the people who had taken my sister away.

During the six years of her imprisonment, my parents worried every day about what might happen to her. Many of my father’s prison buddies’ children were also in the Islamic government’s jails, and I often overheard the conversation among these old men, and their futile attempts to understand the vicious circle of history.

Maryam’s husband, Mohammad, was released in 1988, and Maryam a year later. Both had suffered months of solitary confinement and endured many sessions of torture. Even though they did not support the regime, they remained patriotic and were committed to helping their country in any way they could. They even named their daughter Iran, a name modern parents rarely choose.

These thoughts of Maryam stayed with me, and it was only after I had taken the cable car down the mountain that I once again felt a part of what was happening in Tehran that day. I pulled out my phone, and saw that I had five missed calls from Mohammad.

“Khaled told me about what happened in Ershad yesterday,” he said. “Can you get a ticket to leave for London tonight? It’s not safe for you here.”

I went home as quickly as I could, spurred on by the anxiousness in his voice. He knew far too well what the Iranian government was capable of. Mohammad had been like a brother to me since he and Maryam had married; in many ways, he was closer to me than my own brother, who had spent most of his adult life in the United States. Mohammad was just as worried about me as Maryam would have been.

Yet as much as I wanted to be back in London with Paola, as Mohammad had urged, I felt I couldn’t leave. The biggest question had yet to be answered: What was Khamenei going to do? It had been announced that the supreme leader was going to lead the public prayers at Tehran University on Friday. Typically, Friday prayers are led by a rotating roster of imams from throughout Iran, chosen by the supreme leader. Their job is mostly to relay his message every week, and, except for a very few of them, they act as the leader’s propaganda agents: speaking about the domestic and international issues of the day and advising people of the importance of following Khamenei’s guidance. When Khamenei delivers the sermons himself, making a rare public appearance, it means there is something very important at stake.

Even though Khamenei had supported Ahmadinejad’s reelection and had asked other candidates to refrain from opposing him, that didn’t stop many people, myself included, from dreaming that Khamenei would find the courage to call for a recount.

I knew that Mohammad had a point, and that it was time for me to take the threats seriously. At the same time, I felt I could