Then They Came for Me_ A Family's Story of Love, Captivity, and Survival - Maziar Bahari [61]
“The more you tell us about the anti-revolutionary and seditious activities of each person, the more we can have an understanding,” said Rosewater. “And a better understanding means that you can have an easier time in prison.”
He interrupted me as I wrote, asking me questions about why I’d been to certain countries, how I’d met certain people. Rosewater was particularly interested in anyone named Jonathan and Mary. He gave me a list of all the people I knew with these names.
“Write down where you have met each one of them and how you know them,” he said.
I stared at the list. The Jonathans I knew included three broadcasters and a cameraman. I knew more than a dozen Marys from different periods in my life. I couldn’t imagine why he had singled out these people; there were no connections between them. I started with my friend Jonathan Miller, a correspondent for Channel 4 News in England. I explained that we’d worked together on several programs about Iran and Iraq.
“Good,” Rosewater said from behind me. “Now write down which spy agency he works for.”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Am I talking Turkish here?” he asked brusquely. “Tell me which intelligence agency this Jonathan works for.”
“Sorry, sir,” I said desperately. “He’s not a spy. He’s a filmmaker.”
“You are lying, Mr. Bahari.”
“No, really. I don’t think he’s a spy.” I paused for a few seconds, then continued. “Even if he were, he probably wouldn’t tell me that.” I explained that we had worked on a series of programs about human-rights abuses in Iraq after the American invasion, as well as on a few films shot in Iran. Rosewater seemed to know all of this already. He mentioned a program we had collaborated on about Hossein Ali Montazeri, an ayatollah who was a vociferous critic of the Islamic regime. The film showed footage of Montazeri questioning the legitimacy of the government.
“It’s so interesting,” Rosewater said. “You’ve worked on anti-revolutionary television programs together. His name is Jonathan. Yet you say he’s not a spy.”
“I don’t understand the connection,” I said. In high school, one of my favorite subjects had been logic. I’d always thought I could follow people’s reasoning, even if it was riddled with non sequiturs. But I had no idea what Rosewater was talking about.
“With friends like that and making films like that, how can you tell me that you are not a ringleader of the foreign media in Iran?” he asked.
Years of covering Iranian politics and trying to draw conclusions about the irrational behavior of the Iranian government had not prepared me for understanding Rosewater. All I could do was follow out a logical sequence of my own:
These people are in charge of my life.
They are ideological, ignorant, and stupid.
I am screwed.
· · ·
Back in my cell afterward, I lay down again on the green carpet and talked to my father. “Mazi jaan, whatever you do, just don’t name names,” I heard him say in my head. My father had always told us about how prisoners who revealed information about one comrade would only be pushed to reveal more information about others. “Be careful, Mazi. You name one name, and the list of questions will go on forever.”
Over the next two days, between interrogations, I did my best to remember the kinds of conversations I had had with my father, and I concocted further dialogues with him in my head. Meanwhile, Rosewater made sure that I understood that he was going out of his way to be polite and patient with me. “Please answer these as well,” he would say sarcastically as he handed me page after page of questions about different Iranian journalists working for the foreign media. It was clear that the aim of the questions was