A TIME TO BETRAY (6 page)

While Naser was going to school for engineering (receiving excellent grades with little effort), he talked about politics and injustice constantly. Kazem, still struggling with his studies, was a full-fledged devotee of Islam. He mostly agreed with Naser’s critique of the shah’s policies, but he objected to the encroaching Westernization of the country because he saw it as a key contributor to growing decadence among Iranian youth—girls wearing miniskirts, drunks in the streets, and the preponderance of nightclubs and bars. Kazem and the other members of his poorer religious class were hurting financially, and the fabulous profits from oil had not filtered down to them. The shah’s modernization had left Kazem’s people behind while at the same time assaulting their moral principles.

As Naser pulled into our driveway, I grew anxious. My heart felt heavy because my father was not going to be there and I would never greet him again. When I saw my mother, we hugged each other tight and she cried hysterically. I tried to console her, but nothing could stop her sobbing. My grandfather and grandmother were there and they seemed to be suffering horribly from the loss of their son, but as my mother and I huddled close together, Agha Joon whispered, “Your son is here, be happy.”

Kazem and Naser stayed up late with me that night. We talked about my dad and some of the more memorable events of our childhood. Before long, though, our conversation turned back to politics. Little time ever passed before one of these two veered back toward that topic.

“This tyranny has to fall,” Naser said. “People are suffering. This is the twentieth century and we still live under a dictatorship. There is no freedom of speech. No freedom of the press.”

Kazem nodded in agreement. “Many people still live in poverty
while the shah’s family and those around them are obscenely wealthy and stealing what belongs to the people. We have to bring justice to our society. We are becoming a nation of corruption and decay. We need to turn to our faith. Only Islam can rescue us and our country.”

“But it’s only through Dr. Shariati’s view of religion and society that we can find our true selves in all human dimensions and fight tyranny and its moral decay,” Naser added. I knew virtually nothing about Ali Shariati. Naser explained that he was an Islamic scholar, sociologist, and critic of the shah and the mullahs. Shariati was so popular that citizens who weren’t even students overflowed his lecture halls to hear him speak.

At the time, I did not share Naser’s keen interest in politics or Kazem’s devotion to Islam. Their well-informed dialogues aroused my interest, but I did not have much to contribute. I had not until this moment understood the intensity of moral outrage against the monarchy. It made the American outrage at Nixon seem like a minor irritation. And maybe that was appropriate. After all, while Nixon had an enemies list, the shah had an execution list.

That night, I also learned about the most famous case of arrest and execution, that of Khosrow Golesorkhi, the Iranian Che Guevara. He was a Marxist-Leninist poet and journalist arrested for a plot to kidnap the shah’s son. “In truth, he and other leftists had only speculated about it as a means to trade for the freedom of political prisoners,” Naser told me. He also said that since the shah was courting the West and conscious about the declarations by the UN human rights committee on various issues, including the treatment of political prisoners, he allowed what he thought would be an open-and-shut case to be aired on television. The court permitted Golesorkhi to speak, ostensibly to recant his crimes. Instead, he spoke with stirring eloquence on behalf of the peasants laboring under the shah’s land reform, comparing their struggles to those of the great martyr Imam Hussein himself and detailing the shah’s crimes against humanity. Golesorkhi refused to defend
himself; he would defend only the people. When asked if he would continue his terrorist activities against the shah, he brazenly said that he would.

“You know what Golesorkhi did when they took him to be executed? He refused the blindfold and stared his executioners in the face when they fired at him. He was a hero, Reza.” Naser shook his head. “No man should live under oppression. You have to stand up for your rights.”

Naser then recited a poem by Golesorkhi:

“On your breast lay

the deep scar of your enemy

but, you standing cypress did not fall

it is your way to die.”

Both Naser and Kazem sat up with me until I fell asleep. They were by my side when I woke up. I was very thankful that they were there because sleep had caused me to forget temporarily that my father was gone. When I awoke and remembered, the grief overwhelmed me anew. I don’t know what I would have done if I didn’t have my dearest friends by my side.

Naser and Kazem remained with me during my father’s funeral, when every vulnerability in me was exposed and raw. I was my mother’s only son and I felt a great deal of responsibility for her, but I knew she would not allow me to quit my studies to care for her—especially since my father had so strongly wished for me to get a degree in America. She was secure financially, but I was not convinced that she could cope emotionally without my father. Kazem and Naser assured me that they and their families would look after her and check in frequently. They did this because they loved her and they loved me. They knew I had an enormous opportunity in America—an opportunity they couldn’t have—and they wanted to make sure I made the most of it. This outpouring of support brought me light in these dark days. I could hardly believe that I had
allowed myself to neglect my two best forever friends as much as I had the past few years.

I returned to California determined to devote myself to my studies and to do my father proud. Home would not leave my mind this time and letters from home took on new meaning. Naser wrote about the mounting opposition to the shah. In sending me letters, he risked arrest by the SAVAK, as they monitored communications in and out of the country. I admired Naser’s bravery and the passion of his commitment to the Iranian people. One of Naser’s letters came with copies of some of Shariati’s books. Reading these changed my life forever.

Shariati reinterpreted Islam through the lens of sociology, reviving its original principle of social responsibility. He decried both the stodgy mullahs, who replaced scholarship with cant, and capitalism, which encouraged a human being to be a mere consumer, “an economic animal whose only duty is to graze.” Shariati foresaw a new type of religious leader who modeled himself after Mohammad, one who earned his leadership not by tyrannizing people, but by inspiring the best in them. The Quran proclaims that God and the people are one. Thus, to know God’s will the leader must look to the deepest longings of the people. This radically democratic interpretation of Mohammad’s teachings invigorated me.

The Prophet and the great Imams were transformational figures, said Shariati. They were not conservatives. They were radicals. The essence of Islam was dynamic, vibrant, and revolutionary. Shariati reminded us of the radicalism of Hussein, who stood up against the tyranny of his ruler and was beheaded for it. His final words were “Dignified death is better than humiliating life.” Shariati said that any modern Muslim who accepted injustice was living a humiliating life. He believed that if every Muslim lived by the example of Hussein, injustice on this earth would end.

Shariati practiced what he preached and this led to his expulsion from colleges, the banning of his books, his arrest, and his exile. The monarchy did everything they could to stop him from talking—yet
he wouldn’t let up. His words rang so deeply that Iranians like Naser were sending his books and tapes all over the world to those of us living abroad.

I must have read ten Shariati books. Often, I would break down and cry from the power of his writing.

… My Lord, grant me such a life that on my death-bed, I may not be resentful of its worthlessness. And grant me such a death, that I may not mourn for its uselessness. Let me choose that, but in the way that pleases you the most. My Lord, You teach me how to live; I shall learn how to die.

Shariati taught me that I’d allowed the ridiculous mullahs of my youth and the hypocritical leaders of the clergy to disillusion me from the Islamic spiritualism and rectitude my grandmother tried to teach me. While corrupt leaders could bend religion to serve their purposes, the principles of God were always there, in the hearts of good people. I hadn’t allowed myself to embrace religion because I let the wrong people color my opinions. Now Shariati compelled me to dedicate my life to the pursuit of righteousness.

For the first time since I was a boy, I began performing my prayers routinely. I set up a prayer rug in the bedroom of my LA apartment, and while they didn’t completely understand it, Alex and Johnny were respectful of my needs. Shariati’s clarity of thinking reminded me of what was best in the human heart: justice, compassion, mercy, and courage in the face of injustice. I began to believe that Shariati himself was the leader he called for in his writings.

Then, in July 1977, I received another letter from Naser:

Salam, Reza,

I don’t know if you’ve heard the news about Dr. Shariati. After his release from the prison, he was kept under constant surveillance and he left the country for London last month. Reza, I just heard he was murdered in his residence. Damn this
injustice. This is yet another killing under the dictatorship of our monarchy. But believe me, his death is only the beginning. He has moved many, and his odyssey will bring changes in our lives.

I’ll be in touch!

Naser

My God,
I thought, tears welling in my eyes,
Shariati pushed his principles all the way to his own death, just like Imam Hussein.

I soon learned that assassins had killed Dr. Shariati in his daughter’s home. Such cruelty was so dishonorable. I vowed that I would not allow his words to die in my heart, immediately joining the Islamic Students’ Association (ISA) in Los Angeles. The swelling unrest and changes sweeping my country seized our attention. Farzin and Mani, my friends in the ISA, held meetings at their house. We knew that the political tension in Iran was building. People had started to criticize the shah openly. This led to the SAVAK turning Iran into something very close to a police state, which in turn drew the wrath of the international community. When Jimmy Carter became president, he denied U.S. aid to Iran in protest over the shah’s human rights violations. Consequently, the shah, in an effort to show the West he was making progress toward liberalizing his policies, released a few political prisoners.

He also assumed, incorrectly, that these token gestures would stop the protests. But the movement against him was already under way.

Iranians felt ready to sacrifice.

We needed a leader.

WHEN MY FRIEND
Mani at the Islamic Students’ Association called to ask me to come to a meeting in the fall of 1978, he had an almost uncontrollable sense of excitement in his voice. To say the least, this intrigued me. I skipped my evening class and instead jumped in my car and rushed to his house. When I got there, I found a group of young Iranian students listening intently to a man’s voice on a cassette tape. I asked someone what we were listening to and he told me to be quiet before returning his focus to the speech. Realizing that this had to be what had gotten Mani so excited, I listened as well.

“A nation that doesn’t have freedom does not have civilization. A civilized nation is one that is free. …”

Some in the crowd uttered, “Yes.”

“There should be freedom of the press and people should have the right to their opinion. …”

The people in the room grew more excited and I wondered about the man who was speaking. I couldn’t recognize his voice. Had he become an important figure in Iran while I was away? Did Naser and Kazem know about him?

“This shah, this Yazid, this servant of America, this agent of Israel, needs to be overthrown and kicked out of Iran. …”

Many erupted in shouts of approval. I grew more excited myself; I loved what I was hearing. The speaker was incredibly bold, even
comparing the shah to Yazid, the ruthless ruler who had ordered the death of Imam Hussein. Iranians view Yazid as one of the most despicable human beings of all time.

“We need an Islamic government, independent of the superpowers, where all Iranians enjoy the wealth and not a specific few. We want to improve not only your material life but also your spiritual life. They have taken our spirituality. We need spirituality. …”

He was speaking for all of us—for Kazem’s people, for Naser’s idealist family, for my spiritual grandmother.

“In our government, clergy will not govern but help you with your spirituality. In our government, women will be free, and officials can be publicly criticized. …”

These were the words of Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini, the man who would change Iran in ways we could only imagine then. He was a stirring speaker, even though he was not a great orator. He spoke plainly and sometimes repetitively. Yet his voice radiated a steadiness of purpose. His appeal was not intellectual. It was primal. Over the next few minutes, I would discover that he had inspired a movement in Iran, one that passed his tapes through the black market all over the world as if he were a rock star.

I had so many questions about him. I sought out Mani and Farzin, who were talking to each other at the corner of their kitchen.

“Glad you made it, Reza,” Mani said.

Farzin beamed with excitement. “What did you think of Ayatollah Khomeini?”

I shook my head in wonder. “I could not believe what I was hearing. He is a true leader. His message of political freedom and equality is stunning. But where has he been?”

Mani told me that the shah first imprisoned the ayatollah in the early sixties because of his strong criticism of the government before exiling him to Najaf, Iraq. The ayatollah had been calling for the fall of the shah ever since. He was now in France after fourteen years in Najaf, and he had begun to talk to reporters from all over the world.