Then They Came for Me_ A Family's Story of Love, Captivity, and Survival - Maziar Bahari [75]
“Do you agree with my points, Mr. Bahari?”
I had tried my best to listen to what he was saying—knowing that I was about to be used to shore up an illegitimate government that I abhorred—but I was distracted by thoughts about Paola. What was she doing right now? How was she feeling with the pregnancy? Were she and Khaled in frequent communication? “Of course, sir,” I said automatically.
“Good. Then you can repeat this information in front of television cameras tomorrow,” Haj Agha said.
Our conversation was interrupted by the morning call to prayers from the courtyard. It must have been around five A.M. I could hear the other people in the room stand and gather their things to pray.
Haj Agha wanted to wrap things up. “Well, Mr. Bahari, I have a few pages of notes for you. You can practice in your cell.” He pushed several pieces of paper toward me. “I suggest you read these words carefully so you can repeat them as naturally as you can.” He grabbed my hand and held it. “You’ll have a haircut tomorrow, and a shave.” Before saying good-bye, he made his last point.
“If it doesn’t look natural, we will not broadcast it. The counterespionage unit is always ready to greet you.” He let go of my hand. “Have a good night, sir.”
· · ·
Jafaa. In Persian, this very poetic word refers to all the wrongs you do to those who love you. According to Haj Agha, I was guilty of jafaa against Khamenei. Now I was to repent. But it wasn’t Khamenei’s forgiveness I needed for what I was considering doing. It was everyone else’s: all the people I loved.
I moved to a corner of the cell and curled myself into the fetal position. I screamed into my blanket, trying to muffle the noises so no one would hear me. My father and my sister had not been high-ranking members of the Tudeh Party, and they had not worked for the media. They had never been forced to confess. They had endured years of imprisonment—as painful and torturous as it was—with their integrity intact. I needed their help.
I called in my mind for Maryam. “Maryam joon, you are a ghost, why don’t you come and help me?” I cried. I shook with pain and anger. I was a coward. I was weak. I was going to confess.
“Just don’t name names, Mazi jaan,” I heard my father say. “No one believes in the koseh she’r”—the bullshit—“that you’re going to say.” I smiled. How I missed my father and his swearing. “Everyone knows that these bastards will do anything to force you to confess,” my father said. “Just say whatever they want and get out of here as soon as you can.”
I got up and began to pace the room. I was so tired. My steps were slow and clumsy. Six forward. Six back. “I have to sleep,” I told myself. I couldn’t allow them this—I couldn’t become a zombie.
Instead, I lay down, closed my eyes, and carried the green carpet of my cell to our bedroom in London. There, I placed it on top of the bed I shared with Paola. When I opened my eyes, she was in the living room, wrapping Christmas gifts. I walked as silently as I could into the living room and stood there for a few moments, watching her. Her long hair was tied into a messy bun.
She was startled when she turned to find me standing there. “Gosh, Mazi,” she said. “You scared me. What are you doing?”
“The strangest thing just happened to me,” I told her.
She stopped wrapping the gifts and turned to me, a look of concern on her face. “What? What’s wrong?”
“I realized something just now. I have a huge chip on my shoulder.”
“What are you talking about? No, you don’t.”
“No,” I said. “I really do. I think I need your help.”
“What do you mean? A chip on your shoulder about what?”
“I’m not sure,” I said, walking toward her. “Come here. Feel it.” I put my hands around her waist and extended my right shoulder toward her so she could see the bump under my sweater.