Rosewater (Movie Tie-in Edition)

  Copyright © 2011 by Maziar Bahari

  Foreword copyright © 2014 by Jon Meacham

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Random House, an imprint and division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

  RANDOM HOUSE and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.

  Originally published in hardcover and in slightly different form in the United States as Then They Came for Me by Random House, an imprint and division of Random House LLC, in 2011.

  Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to reprint previously published material:

  Arcade Publishing, an imprint of Skyhourse Publishing, Inc.: Seven lines from “In This Blind Alley” by Ahmad Shamlu, translated by Ahmad Karimi Hakkak, from Strange Times, My Dear. Reprinted by permission of Arcade Publishing, an imprint of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.

  Maryam Dilmighani: Translation of “The Wind Will Carry Us” by Forough Farrokhzad.

  Reprinted by permission of Maryam Dilmaghani.

  Sony/ATV Music Publishing: Excerpt from “Sisters of Mercy” by Leonard Cohen, copyright © 1967 by Sony/ATV Songs, LLC. All rights administered by Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, 8 Music Square West, Nashville, TN 37203. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

  Wixen Music Publishing, Inc.: Excerpt from “Everybody Knows” by Leonard Cohen, copyright © 1988 by Sharon Robinson Songs (ASCAP), administered by Wixen Music Publishing, Inc. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Bahari, Maziar.

  Rosewater : a family’s story of love, captivity, and survival / Maziar Bahari with Aimee Molloy.

  p. cm.

  eISBN: 978-0-679-60419-8

  Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-4000-6946-0

  Trade paperback ISBN: 978-0-8129-8180-3

  1. Bahari, Maziar. 2. Bahari, Maziar—Imprisonment. 3. Bahari, Maziar—Family. 4. Iran—History—1997– —Biography. 5. Iran—Politics and government—1997– 6. Political prisoners—Iran—Biography. 7. Journalists—Iran—Biography. 8. Journalists—Canada—Biography. 9. Motion picture producers and directors—Canada—Biography. I. Molloy, Aimee. II. Title.

  DS318.9.B35 2010

  365′.45092—dc22

  [B]

  2010053882

  www.atrandom.com

  Jacket design: Misa Erder

  Jacket photograph: Shutterstock

  v3.1_r2

  They smell your breath

  lest you have said: I love you,

  They smell your heart:

  These are strange times, my dear.…

  They chop smiles off lips,

  and songs off the mouth.…

  These are strange times, my dear.

  —AHMAD SHAMLOU, 1979

  Foreword

  Jon Meacham

  Documentarian and journalist Maziar Bahari has long been committed to telling the stories of others. In these pages he has his own tale to share—a compelling, unsettling account of how a regime, fearful for its power, decided to imprison a man whose only crime had been to report what was actually happening on the ground in Iran in a period of potential revolution. It is a particular story of global significance, for in it we see universal archetypes that recur again and again: a jealous, nervous state; a truth teller buffeted by forces beyond his control; a family in crisis.

  Bahari was a correspondent for Newsweek magazine, covering protests that sprang up in the wake of the June 2009 elections in Iran, when—in the words of the title—they came for him. And we soon learn that he was only the latest of his family to be persecuted by whichever regime had gained power over Iran. The Baharis offer us a unique window into the tumultuous history of Iran, a history still unfolding.

  I was serving as the editor of Newsweek in those days, and Nisid Hajari, then the international editor of the magazine, and Christopher Dickey, our Paris bureau chief and Middle East editor, did brilliant, selfless work in attempting to secure Bahari’s release. Part of that campaign involved publishing op-eds calling on the regime in Tehran to do the right thing. In one such piece, for The Washington Post, I wrote: “Some in the government of Iran would like to portray Bahari as a kind of subversive or even as a spy. He is neither. He is a journalist; a man who was doing his job, and doing it fairly and judiciously, when he was arrested. Maziar Bahari is an agent only of the truth as best he can see it, and his body of work proves him to be a fair-minded observer who eschews ideological cant in favor of conveying the depth and complexity of Iranian life and culture to the wider world. Few have argued more extensively and persuasively, for instance, that Iran’s nuclear program is an issue of national pride, not just the leadership’s obsession.”

  When he was arrested, Bahari was at work under trying circumstances, which he describes early on. “Having grown up under the despotic regime of the Islamic Republic—a regime under which information was controlled and severely limited—I understood that a lack of information and communication among a populace leads only to bigotry, violence, and bloodshed,” Bahari writes. “Conspiracy theories about unknown ‘others’—the West, multinational companies, and secret organizations—being in charge of Iran’s destiny had stunted my nation’s sense of self-determination and, as a result, its will, leaving generations of Iranians feeling hopeless and helpless. I felt it was my job to provide accurate, well-reported information and, in doing so, help the world to have a better understanding of Iran and in my own way build a gradual path toward a more democratic future.” I felt it was my job: We are better off because he believed that was his mission.

  Journalists who put themselves in harm’s way are special people; theirs is an uncommon courage. Like many readers, many editors in the comfort of New York or of Washington can have only the slightest sense of the dangers faced by correspondents covering shooting wars or repressive regimes. Reading Bahari’s account of his arrest and imprisonment, I am filled anew with admiration and respect for those who do what I have never done, which is to confront the realities of war and of revolution eye to eye. I suspect you will be, too.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Foreword by Jon Meacham

  Prologue

  PART ONE

  The Tunnel at the End of the Light

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  PART TWO

  Neither Departed Nor Gone

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  PART THREE

  Survival

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Who’s Who

  Time Line

  Glossary of Terms

  Further Reading, Listening, and Watching

  About the Authors

  Prologue

  I could smell him before I saw him. His scent was a mixture of sweat and rosewater, and it reminded me of my youth.

  When I was six years old, I would often accompany my aunts to a shrine in the holy city of Qom. It was customary to remove your shoes before entering the shrine, and the caretakers of the shri
ne would sprinkle rosewater everywhere, to mask the odor of perspiration and leather.

  That morning in June 2009, when they came for me, I was in the delicate space between sleep and wakefulness, taking in his scent. I didn’t realize that I was a man of forty-two in my bedroom in Tehran; I thought, instead, that I was six years old again, and back in that shrine with my aunts.

  “Mazi jaan, wake up,” my mother said. “There are four gentlemen here. They say they are from the prosecutor’s office. They want to take you away.” I opened my eyes. It was a few minutes before eight, and my mother was standing beside my bed—her small eighty-three-year-old frame protecting me from the four men behind her. I sleep without clothes, and in my half-awake state, my first thought wasn’t that I was in danger, but that I was naked in a shrine. I felt ashamed and reached down to make sure the sheets were covering my body.

  Mr. Rosewater was standing directly behind my mother. I would later come to learn a lot about him.

  He was thirty-one years old and had earned a master’s degree in political science from Tehran University. While at university, he had joined the Revolutionary Guards, a vast and increasingly powerful fundamentalist military conglomerate formed in the wake of the 1979 Iranian revolution. I would come to know that his punches were the hardest when he felt stupid. But when he appeared in my bedroom early that morning, the only things I understood about him were that he was in charge, and that he had a very large head. It was alarmingly big, like the rest of his body. He was at least six foot two and fat, with thick glasses. Later, his glasses would confuse me. I had associated glasses with professors, intellectuals. Not torturers.

  I wrapped the sheet tightly around my body and sat up. “Put some clothes on,” Rosewater said, motioning to the three men behind him to leave the room so that I could get dressed. I found comfort in this: whatever their reason was for barging into my house, he was still respectful, still behaving with a modicum of courtesy.

  They kept the door slightly ajar, and I walked to my closet. Things were beginning to come into clearer focus, but his rosewater scent lingered and my thoughts, still confused, remained back in the past, at the shrine. What does one wear in a shrine? What’s the best way to present oneself? I had just finished putting on a blue collared shirt and a pair of jeans when the men pushed their way back into my room: Rosewater and another man, who wore a shiny silver sports jacket and a cap.

  They circled the room, surveying everything. I had been spending most of my time over the last two years with my fiancée, Paola, in London. We had gotten engaged six months earlier, and had been preparing for the birth of our child in four months’ time, and I had never really settled in at my mother’s house. I could sense their frustration as they took stock of the mess in my small room. Heaps of books sat on the floor beside stacks of videotapes and DVDs and an untidy pile of laundry. I had not organized my desk for months, and it was covered with old newspapers and notebooks. All journalists working in Iran have to be accredited by Ershad—the name is shorthand for the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance—and I had given my mother’s address as my place of work. They’d thought they were going to find an office at my mother’s house. Instead, they were picking through piles of underwear.

  “If you want, I can organize things and you can come back tomorrow,” I said with an apologetic smile.

  “Zerto pert nakon,” Rosewater said sharply. “Stop talking shit. Sit down and shut up. One more word, and I’ll beat you so badly, I’ll make your mother mourn for you.” He scratched his side under his jacket, revealing the gun strapped to his body. I sat down, feeling my body grow heavy with fear. I, like most Iranians, knew of far too many people—writers, artists, activists—who had been woken up like this, then taken somewhere and murdered. I thought of my father and my sister, each arrested and imprisoned by previous regimes; I thought of my mother, who had been forced to live through all this twice before. I could hear my mother’s voice in the kitchen, and my fear was joined by an overwhelming sense of guilt. How could my mother go through this again? Why hadn’t I been more careful? Why hadn’t I left Iran sooner?

  “Would you like some tea?” I heard her ask one of the men in the kitchen.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Why not? It seems that you are going to be here for a while. You should have some tea,” she said.

  “No, really. I don’t want to impose.”

  I heard my mother laugh. “You arrived at my house at eight A.M. You are going through my son’s personal belongings. I am going to have to put everything back in order after you leave. What do you mean you do not want to impose?”

  The man ignored the question. “Madam, please put on your scarf,” he said.

  Though I could not see my mother’s face, I could imagine the condescending look she was giving him at that moment.

  My mother’s unveiled hair was illegal under Islamic law. I knew that her halfhearted obeying of the Revolutionary Guards’ order was her attempt at defiance. She was telling them that while they might be able to control her body, they could never control her mind. The Guards rightly thought of my mother and me as parts of the “other Iran,” those citizens who did not want to be the subjects of an Islamic ruler and would have preferred to determine our own destinies.

  “I am eighty-three years old. Why should I put on my scarf?”

  My mother’s name is Molook. Growing up, we called her Molook joon, which in Persian means “dear Molook.” Because my older brother, Babak, couldn’t pronounce the k, he called her Moloojoon. The name stuck, and it was this name I used as I called out to her, doing my best to keep my voice from trembling: “Please, Moloojoon. Don’t argue with them.”

  I heard her quick steps, and a few moments later she walked past my room, a blue floral scarf covering just half of her hair.

  “Fine,” I heard her say with polite disdain.

  My room had a large bookshelf full of Western novels and music, with volumes signed by prominent Iranian reformists on one side and HBO DVD box sets and copies of Vanity Fair, The New Yorker, and Newsweek stacked sloppily on the other. It was surely foreign territory to Rosewater. He continued to thumb through my papers and books, despite the look of obvious bewilderment on his face.

  I sat on the bed watching him until, a while later, he told me I could go to the kitchen and eat breakfast while they continued to search my room. In the kitchen, my mother poured me a cup of tea and placed a few dates on a small china saucer. She then took a seat across from me at the breakfast table and silently pushed the dates toward me. “Bokhor,” she said with a smile—“Have some”—hoping, I knew, to assure me that I would find the strength to survive this ordeal, whatever was to come.

  I was humbled by her courage, though it didn’t surprise me. My mother’s strength has been a source of inspiration throughout my life. But I felt guilty as I thought about how painful it would be for her to watch yet another member of her family being carted off to prison for defying an Iranian regime.

  · · ·

  It had been December 1954 when they came for my father. At the time, Iran was ruled by the shah, Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, a pro-Western autocrat. Of course, my mother didn’t like to speak of the experience—of what it was like for her on that cold winter night when the shah’s secret police and soldiers of the Royal Iranian Army raided their house. She was twenty-nine and my father twenty-seven, and they had been married for just two years. They lived in my mother’s family home in the Sangalaj neighborhood of south Tehran with their first child, my older brother, Babak, who was then only ten months old, and two of my aunts. I was told that while my father’s future interrogator, a thuggish man named Rezvani, insulted my father in front of his wife, child, and sisters-in-law, the soldiers ransacked the house, taking whatever they wanted for themselves. “They even went through your father’s clothes,” my mother remembered with her unfaltering sense of humor. “I caught one of them stealing some of his underwear.”

  For many years, my fat
her had been a member of the Tudeh Party, the communist party of Iran. The party had been banned a few years earlier, after one of its members had been accused of an assassination attempt against the shah. But my father had continued his party work, organizing strikes and demonstrations against the government on behalf of the Union of Metal Workers of Iran, and finding hideouts for persecuted party leaders. After being held for many months, during which he endured solitary confinement and torture, he was charged with belonging to a treasonous organization and sentenced to fifteen years in prison.

  Each week of my father’s incarceration, my mother carried my brother, Babak, to one of two prisons, Ghezel Qal’eh or Qasr, and waited outside for hours to find out if she would be allowed inside to visit her husband. Very often, she and the family members of other political prisoners were turned away. Meanwhile, as she raised Babak on her own and worked as a primary school teacher, she fought tirelessly for his release, using every connection she could. Eventually, it worked. My father’s sentence was reduced from fifteen years to two. The man who came home to her was even stronger than the one who had left.

  Although my father had been tortured so badly by the prison guards that he had lost all of his teeth and his toenails were deformed, the many months he spent in solitary confinement had made him only more resilient and determined. The shah’s torturers crushed the Tudeh Party, but not my father. After his release, he was just as large a figure to his friends and relatives as he’d been before. As far as I could tell, he enjoyed this role. He was an impressive man, with large, beautiful eyes and full lips. He had dropped out of high school, but he knew hundreds of classic Persian poems by heart and spoke like a university-educated orator. He had tried to shape himself after the heroes of Soviet socialist realist novels: enigmatic proletarian revolutionaries who could have been successful in any profession, but instead chose to dedicate their lives to the ideals of the communist revolution. Helping the helpless and fighting for a better future for Iran had become part of my father’s identity.