Then They Came for Me_ A Family's Story of Love, Captivity, and Survival - Maziar Bahari [69]
Mohammadzadeh became serious again. “What does being married have to do with it? You look like someone who would do anything.”
“I’m sorry about that, but I’m not who you think I am.” I paused, then asked Mohammadzadeh, “Was I arrested for my work as a journalist or for having illicit affairs?”
Mohammadzadeh didn’t answer me, but the guy behind me kicked my chair with all his force, startling me. “Look at you!” he said. “Even execution isn’t enough for you. You should be more than executed. Guys like you deserve to be put in a hot tar bath by Saddam Hussein.”
“Okay, okay,” said the judge. “That’s enough. Mr. Bahari, here are your charges: undermining the security of the nation; propagating dissent against the holy government of the Islamic Republic; insulting the supreme leader; and taking part in illegal demonstrations. Write down on this paper if you don’t accept them.”
The man behind me got up to pass a sheet of paper to me. I just stared at it. The charges listed there didn’t register. I couldn’t think of anything but the sexual masquerade I had just witnessed. How can you call yourselves Muslims? I thought. How can you justify what you’re doing? I was burning with anger. I felt so sad for my country and terrified for myself.
“Hey!” the judge said. “Why don’t you sign?”
“I’m reading the charges, sir. Just give me a second.”
“What?! Give you a second?!” he howled. “May God be my witness, if you don’t sign this paper now, I’ll kick and punch you so hard that your mother will mourn you.”
I wrote that I didn’t accept the charges and stood up to hand him back the piece of paper.
“Get him out of here,” Judge Mohammadzadeh said. “Give him back to his owner.”
Outside, Rosewater was waiting for me. He was a proud owner. “This is just the beginning, Mr. Bahari,” he said. “In fact, Mr. Mohammadzadeh is one of our kindest judges. The one who will be issuing a sentence for you will not be as nice. Do you have anything to say?”
“May God help me,” I said. But only to myself.
· · ·
In the interrogation room that night, Rosewater was not alone. The man he was with—a man whose voice I had not heard before—complained about my tak nevisi, the answers I’d written about my friends and acquaintances. When he came closer, I saw through the crease in the blindfold that he wore shiny, polished black shoes. His trousers were neatly ironed and creased. “Mr. Bahari, your answers are very general. We hope that you can give us more details,” he said. He sounded more mild-mannered than Rosewater.
“I just write what I know, sir. If I were to give you more details, that would mean I’d be lying.”
“Well,” said Rosewater, who had been fairly quiet up to this point, “we have some interesting video footage of you. We think it may persuade you to be more cooperative.”
I could not imagine what he meant. They had confiscated many videos from my house, as well as external hard drives with the unused footage of two of my films: one about AIDS in Iran and another about an Iranian serial killer who had murdered sixteen prostitutes. Although both films were banned in Iran, there was nothing in them that would incriminate me in any way.
I saw the flicker of a laptop screen through my blindfold. Then I heard someone speaking. It was a recording of another prisoner’s confession. “It’s not that one,” said the new interrogator. “It’s the one marked ‘Spy in coffee shop.’ ”
Before the elections, Tehran had had a vibrant café society. Young men and women got together, their green bands fastened around their wrists, talking about the campaign and what they planned to do after Mousavi was elected president. I spent a lot of time in different coffee shops in Tehran, conducting interviews, in order to get a sense of what young people were thinking. Perhaps