“Oh my God,” the girl whispered from the back seat. “Thank you so much. God bless you both. Okay. I’ll slip out now.”
“Why don’t we give you a ride?” Sarah offered. She was feeling generous again now that the danger had passed.
“No thanks,” the girl declined as she opened the back door. “I don’t live far. I’ll get there faster walking. God grant you a long and happy marriage. Thank you again.”
When she was gone, Sarah wished she’d asked the girl’s name. It would be nice to have a name when telling this story. Sarah could already imagine how impressed her school chums would be by her brush with danger.
“You okay, azizam?” Ali reached over and pinched her cheek softly.
“Is life with you always going to be this eventful?” Sarah teased her husband. “What a wedding night!”
“Just you wait and see what I’ve got planned once we get—”
Ali’s rejoinder was interrupted by the sound of the door opening again. Sarah looked to see if the girl had returned to the car before realizing that it was actually the driver’s door that had opened.
A burly man with an ample belly, unkempt black curly hair, and disturbingly red eyes had opened the driver’s-side door and was looking in.
His voice was soft and respectful. “Agha befarmayeed payeen. Please get out of your vehicle.”
Ali protested “Yanni chi? What do you mean? What for?”
“Befarmayeed payeen! Out! I don’t want to ask it again.”
Ali stepped out, still protesting “This is crazy. We’re just trying to get home from our wedding, and we got stuck in traffic that you people created. And now you’re giving us a hard time over nothing. Vellemoon kon. Leave us be!”
Sarah watched the red-eyed man pass Ali on to another plainclothes Basiji and return to the car. Her heart raced as he sat in the driver’s seat, fiddling with levers to move the seat back and make room for his belly. Sarah noticed food stains on his beige button-up shirt and dirt-colored pajama-like slacks.
“Bebakhshid khahar. I’m sorry, my sister,” he finally addressed Sarah, “but who was the girl that just left your car?”
Sarah’s heart beat so violently against her corset she thought it might snap. She wasn’t prepared for this. She’d never been a good liar, and even if she was, she and Ali hadn’t coordinated a story. Should she take a stab at making something up? As she thought through her options, the man spoke again.
“You should know that my friend is asking your husband the same thing.”
What could she say? What answer would deliver them? She couldn’t breathe. She really was going to faint.
A long sigh from the red-eyed man. “Khob. I think I understand.”
The man rubbed his forehead. “But what should I do with you two? A bride and groom. Why did you have to involve yourselves?”
Sarah didn’t have an answer. She had no idea what had possessed her to think letting that girl into their car was a good idea. It had been an impetuous decision. There was something about the beautiful girl’s gaze that had mesmerized her. And it was the first time Sarah had felt connected to one of the nameless protesters she’d heard so much about. But it wasn’t as if she had any sympathy for what the protesters were doing to their country. She just felt sorry for that one girl.
The man opened the door, set one foot out and then turned back to her.
“Do you know how to drive?”
Yes, Sarah did.
“Once this traffic clears up, head straight home. Mobile phones won’t work tonight, so just go straight home to your family.”
“What about my husband?” Sarah asked in a small voice. A part of her wanted to shriek at this dirty, unkempt, and uneducated man that he had no right to detain her husband and that under normal circumstances he would be lucky if Ali hired him to be his office water boy. But she was scared. She didn’t want to make things worse.
“Listen to what I say,” the man sighed. “Just go straight home. Don’t wait for him.”
Sarah did as she was told.
Roger Cohen, “Iran: The Tragedy & the Future,” New York Review of Books 56, No. 13 (August 13, 2009).
CHAPTER 2
Friday, June 26, 2009—fourteen days after the election
If after every election, the losers take to the streets to protest and then the winners take to the streets in response, then what is the point of holding an election?
The use of force in the streets since the election is wrong. Because it goes against the principle of democracy and the will of the people. I want everyone to put an end to this behavior. If they do not, then the consequences are theirs to bear.
—Supreme Leader Khamenei in his first Friday prayer speech after the 2009 election
Sadegh’s mother greeted him at the door.
“Sadegh-joon, kojai ? Where’ve you been? You’re late.”
Maman-Mehri held the house phone delicately within a folded Kleenex, as she often did as a protection against germs. She wore a breezy sky-blue house chador draped loosely around and framing a black headscarf, long-sleeved blouse, and skirt. As always, the air around her carried the saffron smell of her kitchen and the rosewater of her prayer rug.
“Bebakhshid, Maman-Mehri,” Sadegh answered his mother as he helped Sumayeh and the kids inside. “I’m so sorry. Traffic is awful. Everyone’s headed to Friday prayers.”
“It’s okay, azizam. I’m just glad you could take time to visit your mother. Between your work at the shop and with your Basiji friends, you don’t seem to have time for me anymore.” Sadegh tried to protest but Maman-Mehri kept talking over him as she greeted Sumayeh and the children, but not her son, with kisses. “Salam, Sumayeh-joon. Salam, little ones. Everyone’s in the living room. Go on in while I finish talking to your Aunt Mahdiyeh. Don’t forget to wash your hands!”
Sadegh’s mother walked back toward the kitchen, returning the telephone to her ear.
“She’s talking to Mahdiyeh?” Sumayeh asked. “Praise God, maybe Sarah and her mother called to apologize,” Sumayeh said as she awkwardly removed her heavy black outside chador and unfolded her green-patterned house chador, all while balancing their baby daughter Sana on her hip.
Sadegh knelt to help five-year-old Mahdi remove the Nike shoes Sumayeh’s mother had purchased for her grandson during her most recent visit with family in Ohio. “Maman-Mehri is too forgiving for her own good,” he said. “Aunt Mahdiyeh better make a proper apology. I swear, If I’d known the full story last night, I’d have . . .” Sadegh got stuck as he tried to figure out what he would have done and simply frowned and shook his head to indicate it would have been bad.