I, caught in the trap, pretending death
Like the parrot who “died” and did escape
Khaqani (12th century)


As said by an English statesman, “In politics an afternoon could be a
Lifetime.” In my case the afternoon began with a telephone call from Hoveyda, the Minister of the Imperial Court, in early January 1978. His called to inform me that an urgent article was on its way to me. It was His Majesty’s order to get the article published immediately.

Next day, I was attending a convention of the Rastakhiz Party, as chairperson of the by-laws committee. After lunch a group of party members were gathered around me discussing different related issues. Mr. Ali Ghafari the executive secretary of Hovayda, formerly holding the same position when his boss was the Prime Minister, came forward and handed me the envelope containing the urgent article. It was a large white envelope. I was extremely busy at the time, and liable to forget the article and leaving it somewhere. I noticed my friend, Mr. Ali Bastani, correspondent from the Etela’at Newspaper and handed him the envelope to be delivered to the newspaper editor-in-chief. It was at that moment that I noticed the large gold seal of the Imperial Court. I opened the envelope and saw a few typewritten pages; kept the envelope and returned the pages to Mr. Bastani.

The following day I was in the midst of a meeting at the Ministry when I was interrupted by a call from Mr. Shahidi the chief editor of Etela’at. He asked, “Do you know what is the content of the article that you had sent to me”. Of course I did not know anything since I had not read the article. Mr. Shahidi continued, “It is an attack on Khomeiny!” My answer was, “It does not matter. It was an order from higher up and has to be published.” The editor replied in distress, “To publish this article would result in people attacking and setting the newspaper office in Qom (the most important religious center in Iran) on fire.” I simply replied that there was no other choice, and that he was aware where the order came from. “Why should we publish this article?” he insisted. I Replied That “somebody has to do it and Etela’at has benefited most in the past.”

A couple of hours later, the Prime Minister Dr. Jamshid Amouzegar called me. He wanted to know the story regarding the article. Mr. Farhad Massoudi the Etela’at publisher-owner had called the Prime Minister questioning the wisdom of the content of the article. I simply answered that it was an order that it be published. He agreed by saying that of course it must be published. So two days later the article appeared in an inside page. As anticipated by Mr. Shahidi, a group of religious students attacked the newspaper office in Qom. Still worse there was a mass demonstration in that city. Six people were killed as the result of the military over-reacting and using combat ammunition instead of tear gas to disperse the mob.

The article was read by a handful of people. But the killings sparked a series of anti Regime demonstrations and acts of violence. In a few months the violence and atrocities culminated in setting afire a movie house, Cinema Rex in Abadan. In that wanton act by the Islamic terrorists, some 470 people were suffocated to death. This incident totally broke the spirit of the Shah, setting a trend of making ill-advised concessions, withdrawal, and eventual surrender. His every move was to weaken his own position and reinforcing the dissidents that fast became full-fledged revolutionaries. Our cabinet was forced to resign after that catastrophe. The next three cabinets, replacing each other in rapid succession, did only what Khomeiny and his ever-increasing devout followers could only expect in their wildest drams. This policy of emboldening the revolutionaries went as far as arresting a number of key former officials. Of course a great deal of old personal and political accounts were being settled in this operation as well. My turn came with the second and much larger wave, when the so-called military cabinet was appointed as a bulwark against the revolutionary tide. It was its one decisive act and people in no time recognized the real nature of the men with iron fist. The Military cabinet was as an old Persian fable recounts, a donkey in the hide of a lion. It broke all records in begging the opposition’s understanding.

A few days after my resignation as the Minister of Information and Tourism, Etela’at published a scathing article exaggerating and falsifying my role in the fore-mentioned episode. The paper did not make the slightest reference to the fact that the publication of that article was ordered by the Shah in response to Khomeiny’s attack on him. A few weeks before that Khomeiny’s elder son had died in Iraq and the SAVAK (Security) was falsely blamed for his death. Khomeiny from his exile in Iraq and some of his followers in Qom, openly and from the pulpit attacked the Shah and called for his abdication. In Tehran the bazaar merchants and the Shah’s opposition arranged for a big memorial service for him, just to demonstrate public opposition to the Shah.

The Shah’s policy as usual was to retaliate with similar articles. He always wanted to pay in kind and was hoping to damage Khomeiny. Etela’at of course knew perfectly well that the author of the article was a veteran journalist, turned businessman, another Ali, who was working with the press office of the Court Minister; but I would have made a better target and less dangerous.

Henceforth I became the enemy of the people who were gradually becoming Khomeiny worshipers. Not one in a thousand of them had even read the article in question. As the poet said, “ I was the target of destiny”. My friends insisted that I should leave the country, but I refused to take flight. In spite of threatening remarks and calls, I stayed home and people came in groups to see me for different reasons. During those days the new Minister of Information and Tourism called me about the article. I told him as I had told the Shah’s office that I was not going to involve the Court in this matter, and that I would not answer any of the accusations in the press. I visited Hovayda twice. In our last visit he told me that both our names were on the same list. A few days later I received a prank telephone call, which I attributed to making sure that I was still in the country and had not escaped.

THE ARREST

Two weeks later, a day in October 1978, my wife and I were invited to have lunch at the house of my good friend Mr. Mahmoud Kashefi, the former Minister Without Portfolio. There were other former colleagues including Dr. Amouzegar. One o’clock in the afternoon Tehran Radio &Television announced a message from the Shah. The military cabinet had been installed. We sat with our eyes fixed on the screen at the Shah’s image, thin and broken down, reading from a statement with difficulty. The message, on the wake of announcing the Military cabinet that had already shook the opposition, was no less than raising the white flag. The Shah was telling people that he had heard their revolutionary message, and was begging them to be kind enough to let him fight along with them against what actually was his own past. In fact the essence of the speech was to assure the revolutionaries that they have nothing to fear from the military cabinet.

None of us present had any idea what to say. Bewildered, we bid good-bye and went home. At one o’clock in the morning the servant knocked at our bedroom door to wake us up, saying that a group of people had come to the door to see me. I dressed and went down, knowing what was it all about. At the foot of the stairs I saw three men waiting. They told me that they had something to discuss with me for a few hours. It was then that I woke up from my indifferent negligence during the past three months. I realized that my end was in sight and that I had to be careful and depend on my good luck. I said good-bye to my wife, who spent the next 12 hours calling in vain the authorities. Outside, I was conducted to a car followed by an armed military jeep. One of the men in the car called his superior and informed him that he had arrested me.

My prison was in the Military Police headquarters at Jamshidabad barracks. It was a large room with beds separated by a small chest of drawers. I saw about fifteen detainees from former high military and political figures, and a few lower ranked functionaries who had been arrested that same night. The first night was spent in conversation. Next day the families brought the necessities for the prisoners. Some days later the first group of former political and military leaders, who had been arrested in the first wave, were brought from the city police prison to join us. Eventually we were provided with better accommodations, such as small individual cells, that a great many army officers had occupied before. Our meals were the same as the army officers. A few people had their meals brought from home. Prison uniforms, something on the order of cut-down army uniform were issued. I was the only person who wore the prison uniform. Other prisoners sent their laundry home to be washed. There were a few sentries on watch and to carry our occasional requests and to shop for us. The attitude towards us was a mixture pf prisoner and ex-cabinet minister. Twice a week we could have visitors in the presence of the officer in charge.

Seasoned and substantial men, as those ex leaders were, they in general kept their spirit and composure. But after the Shah left the country, the bitterness could very well be detected in those who had served him and the country for a lifetime, and had clean records. From then on they were at the mercy of their long and sworn political and ideological enemies. A few started to write their defense. As an example was the account written by late Mansur Rouhani, a former minister both of energy and agriculture. This that I read years later is about the development of agriculture in Iran after the Land Reform. It is a valuable document and should be published.

One of the prisoners, the Deputy Mayor of Tehran, happened to have an identical name to that of the former head of the guild Hall. The Deputy was an honest simple man, contrary to the other one. He followed the cleric Khoee in Najaf, and kept reading his book ‘Explanation of Problems’. It was the only thing he read. Apparently he had been imprisoned, instead of his namesake, who had strong SAVAK connections, intentionally. A couple of times we asked him to read parts of the book for us. He stopped reading for us when he saw our uncontrolled laughter. After that, every evening, we would force him to give us the book and entertained ourselves by reading it. Never before did we have time to make the acquaintance of such things. We could not believe that these were the people who had defeated us, and how was it possible for our nation, under the leadership of their intelligentsia, to long for the government of such characters in preference to us?

Two former cabinet Ministers who were among the original designers of the strategy of sacrificing to the altar of the revolution, themselves fell in their own trap – one of them at the last weeks of the Monarchy. Nobody spoke to them, except Dr. Abdolazim Valyan, A dear friend and former Minister and Governor General, who indirectly gave them some of his famous tongue-lashings. Dr. Manuchehr Azmoun, one of the two, who was arrested at the same time as myself, showed where his hope and loyalty resided. His morale went up and down with any success or setback of the revolutionary movement. He saw his future in the hands of the clerics. When he escaped from prison he went to the next leading mullah, Taleghani, at his own will, and straight to the firing squad.

After reading a few books from the prison library, notably the excellent Persian translation of Moby Dick, by late Parviz Dariush – a great experience -- I spent a great deal of my time reading the books that reached me in prison. This was an immense opportunity to benefit from the time on hand. But the political events in the outside world, moving so fast, were forcing us to follow and analyze them. Dr. Freydoun Mahdavi, the ex-Minister of Commerce, a very good friend and a man consumed by politics, and I had our ears tuned to the news and our eyes fixed on any newspaper that we could lay our hands on. What we could see was the sheer hopelessness of our situation. Whoever the winner in the unfolding conflict, we were the certain losers.

We had been arrested under Martial Law. We were not accused of any wrong doing, but the talk in the Parliament and the press was about our execution. The Bakhtiar government tried, but failed, to make a case against us. Besides time ran out on them. A team of prosecutors from the military Intelligence, were stationed near our prison and started questioning us. But there was no charge and it went nowhere. The head of SVAK did what he could to use the fake list of people who had moved foreign currency out of Iran against us. This list was the brainchild of the (later) secretary General of the National Democratic Front with cooperation of a few employees in the Central Bank. All told, the political and psychological pressure for our execution was coming from every direction. A ruling elite that was steadily losing ground over the past six months, and unable to have any strategy, saw the easiest way out in making a group who for whatever reason, had become the escape goat of a failed regime. (It is ironic that fewer of us were executed, than those who wanted to sacrifice us so that they could hold on to their seats.)

By the end of the fall, there was no doubt in my mind that the end had come for us, if not sooner than the regime. We saw on television hundreds of thousands of people filling the streets shouting “Death to….” Later the same crowd believed and assured everyone else that the entire uprising was a foreign plot. We saw multitudes of men and women all over the country, shorn of logic and reason in their unquestioning devotion, their Rancor giving way to barbarity, they were ready to fall down into whatever abyss their Imam was leading them. The political leadership, which paralyzed by fear, in its sheer cynicism, and in an environment devoid of any moral considerations and common sense was not even able to act in its own self interest. With unbelievable cowardice and shabbiness it was pushing the splendid vessel of the imperial government to the rocks. We were looking at a society experiencing its worst historical period, as far as the eye could look back to the distant millennia, since this time it was a disaster of its own making. What hope there was amid such ignorance and vindictiveness?

FAMILY DEBATE

I was insisting for some time that my wife leave the country, arguing that it would be even good for me. With her in Iran I would be traced and trapped. She would not consent. She had stayed to defend me if necessary in the highest court of authority, the royal household and the parliament. She repeatedly would ask “What will happen to you?” I would jokingly reply, “I would wear a turban and go to Khomein (Khomeiny’s home town) and preach. I had grown a beard from the first day. I am not sure whether it was from being lazy or that I had an intuition that it would come in handy some day. No doubt in my innermost I was hoping to escape.

The combination of several factors in the family came to my assistance. Our older daughter, adamant not to leave, found that she was expecting a child; our son-in-law had to go to Switzerland to attend to his dying father. So my wife and daughter left the country six days before the Shah. Her intention was to return home to Iran. The ordeal of their departure is a good example of the declining state of affairs in Iran at that time. With all the connections of my wife with the royal family, she had to prove with a great deal of difficulty that she had not taken money out of the country and her name on the faked list had no significance. She departed with only the clothes on her back.

The defection of soldiers began in the middle of autumn. The morale in the army was generally very low. The army did not have sufficient fuel supply to heat the barracks. In the wake of the strike by the oil company workers the barracks were not heated. (We kept ourselves warm by walking around the prison). There was no gasoline. Walking around the compound we noticed many stalled tanks and other vehicles sitting idle. Outside in the streets the soldiers were either hapless spectators, or once in a while in extreme anger would aim their machine guns at the demonstrators. Six hundred soldiers ran away from our barracks. We tried to persuade our guardians not to defect!

On February 12, 1979, the day of the final collapse of the old regime, about three o’clock in the afternoon we heard the noise and movement of a large crowd outside. Someone in our group climbed on the heating radiator in order to be able to look outside through the window. He told us that a group around two to three hundred people were gathered at the entrance of the barracks, that already had a large sign hang at the gate reading, “The Islamic barracks of Jamshidabad.” We also heard good many of shots being exchanged. Some of the shots even reached us making holes in the walls. According to the accounts of the prison guards, the shooting started because at the beginning the demonstrators approached the base with friendly, brotherhood slogans. Once inside the premises, they lured the soldiers and tried to disarm them, and the shooting and throwing hand grenades started. The leftist groups had been attacking and storming army barracks and polices stations for some time, trying to arm themselves for their next bid for power. Some of the shots came from the apartments across the barracks, occupied by the revolutionaries.

Dr. Shaykh-ol Eslami Zadeh, the former Minister of Health and a co prisoner was hard at work attending the wounded soldiers. He did not take the opportunity to escape, and was captured by the attackers. He remained for many years in the Islamic prison. At about six o’clock in the evening a few of the remaining soldiers came and opened the doors announcing that the prisoners were free by the order of the revolutionaries. We went downstairs and joined some six to seven hundred army personnel who had been prisoners. I dressed properly and put on my reading glasses that bothered me. My thick beard disguised my well-recognized television face. The early darkness of winter nights came to our aid. A large group of army prisoner came out chanting, ‘La elaha el allah’ (There is only one God). Soon they retreated in fear of flying bullets. We who preferred death to a second captivity, left with the second wave. I bent down and walked as fast as I could. The compound was dark except for the headlight from some cars outside. Somebody in the crowd asked “Is Hovayda here?” “No. He is in another place,” another one answered. One or two men stared at me but they did not recognize me.

From our group, General Nassiri the former chief of SAVAK who was in in a room away from us, always in deep grief, and not speaking to anyone; Gholam Reza Nikpey the former Mayor of Tehran known for not getting along with others, and Lt. General Sadri the former head of the Police, were possibly arrested right there by the revolutionaries. Rohani and Dr. Gholamreza Kianpour, a dear friend and one of the best civil servants of that era, were later on arrested. The last one, as mentioned before, turned himself in voluntarily. They were all executed. I do not know how many of the revolutionaries of that evening survived their victory.

Home

I took to the narrow, empty streets towards a main thoroughfare to find a taxi. More than once I noticed some young men carrying firearms from cars into apartments. I decided to go home and did not desire to impose on anybody unexpectedly. I was hoping and counting that nobody would think of me in that on-going chaos. I knew I could depend on the loyalty and secrecy of my household staff and the watchmen of our neighborhood. They were like members of family. I stood in front of Laleh Park in Amirabad waiting for a taxi that never came. A young man was also waiting along with me. The streets were full of cars and trucks filled with young people who were happily celebrating and a few who waved their guns in the air. It was the end of us, and the beginning of their end. A Volkswagen stopped and the driver said that he was going towards Mahmoudiyeh. I sat in the front seat. The taxi-driver would not accept money when I reached for my pocket to pay and seemed annoyed. It was a gift of brotherhood, in the general spirit of the moment. The other passenger gave him a bullet for a souvenir. A short distance away another young man hailed for a ride. He was going to Mahmoudiyeh also. I got out of the taxi to let the new passenger into the back seat. Getting in and out of the vehicle put me more in view of the first passenger.

When the taxi reached the turn into Mahmoudiyeh, the first young man and I got out. He turned to me and said, “Are you Mr. Homayoun?” I said, “yes.” “What are you doing here?” I told him that people stormed the prison and told us that we had not done anything. “Yes.” he continued, “You have not done anything, but put on your glasses.” He was right. I had continuously taken my glasses off, since they hurt my eyes. Another car gave us a ride to Tajrish Bridge. Long after, I heard that the driver had been a friend of one of my brothers, and had told him about this encounter. At Tajrish Bridge we both waited for a ride. A car passed and my friend yelled, “Abbas”. The car stopped. There were two young men inside. We sat in the back seat. One of the friends turned to my fellow passenger and said in a scolding way, “Where have you been? In Eshratabad we got this baby.” He handed a Usi submachine gun to his friend as I looked at both of them with bemused apprehension. We reached the Tajrish Baazar. I got out, thanking them profusely. Another free ride took me to a few blocks away from my house. That first night was a prelude to my moving from place to place for many years to come.

I have repeated the story of the young man to dozens of people with the hope of finding him. Several years later in Washington, my good friend Dr. Asa’ad-Nezami recalled, “The fellow that saved your life saved me too.” The story goes that during the first week of the Revolution Dr. Asaad-Nezami was caught in a heated discussion with a group standing in front of the University of Tehran. He had made the remark that the era of monarchy was not all that bad. If the young man had not come to his rescue, and introduced him as true believer of the Revolution, my friend would have had to deal with the Committee and even worse places. The young man had told him, “You are the second man that I have saved. I also told Homayoun to put on his glasses!”

The watchmen of our neighborhood looked at me but they did not say anything. The cook was the only person left in the house. At first he did not recognizes me. It was late at night and I was not hungry but extremely thirsty, as if the agitation of the past few hours must have dried up all the water in my body. The cook said that the city water had been poisoned -- another of the countless rumors of those days. I kept drinking water and looking over the house and did not know what to do. I never thought that I would set foot in my house again. During the three and a half months of imprisonment, the people and the system that I was a part of, were hard trying to do away with me. I had slowly resigned to death or at least a life of a wanderer. The escape of my colleagues and myself from death was like the miracle of Poland. During World War I no matter what, Poland was doomed. It did not make any difference if Germany or Russia won the war. The result would have been loss for Poland in both cases. Nevertheless, against all logic, Russia was defeated first and Germany afterwards. The same happened to us. The first enemy was the last governments of the imperial regime, which collapsed before ending our lives. The second enemy was the armed revolutionary groups that in a state of ecstasy, being able to have their long awaited armed struggle, and using their deadly toys, were not patient enough to wait and catch us in our cage like birds. To their regret they came to our rescue and set us free.

The only thing that occurred to me was to destroy names and addresses of our friends and family. I contacted a friend through my father, and made an appointment for the next morning early. Late at night the phone rang asking for the cook in a very rude tone of voice. I replied that we did not have such a person. A few minutes later the call came again. This time I answered in English and said that it was the wrong number. The caller imitated me in English. I pulled out the telephone cord. Henceforth worry did not and would not leave me. I called one of my neighbors, a former colleague in the government, and asked him if I could spend the night at his house. I had a good rest there that night. I told the cook not to expect me. The next day I took my two passports, a small suitcase and left the house, that does not exist any more, forever. A friend informed my wife that I have had safely escaped. On that day the fear of death left me. From that moment no fear was going to stop me from my goal. I should have died then; each day was one day more than my share. The dangers encountered later on the way out of Iran were not taken but as daily events. Never again did I feel as thirsty as that night.

PLACE TO PLACE

I spent the first week in a small apartment near the Radio-Television Station. The former occupants of the apartment had moved somewhere else. There was constant traffic of armed militia in and out of this neighborhood, along with the sound of a great deal of shooting. One day I saw the militia take over the street. Some had climbed on the rooftops. Looking through the curtain into the street, I could hear the armed men talking through the microphone. I was not sure what I was going to do, should they come inside the apartment. I was determined not to fall in their hands. I was not going to tolerate the humiliation of being subject to the Revolutionary functionaries. Finally they left in half an hour. Apparently their prey was a police officer. In the evenings it was a torture to see on the television the sadistic investigation sessions of the former cabinet ministers and wounded and desperate generals being humiliated by that certain Iranian-American Doctor, a member of the Revolutionary Council who was both “nationalist and religious.” It was not long before the parade of the bullet-ridden bodies at the Refah School (where Khomeiny was residing) came to view. Soon it was the turn of my friends and colleagues. All these events have embittered my soul, hurting to this day. I still feel a deep pain, whenever I hear the song ‘Happy Spring’ that was repeatedly broadcast on Tehran Radio-Television. That tune was so inappropriate in that blood stained winter that was befalling over Iran.

My next abode lasted another three to four months, in the house of a friend. One day the militia occupied the office of Ayandegan Newspaper that I had established. My father was the treasurer of the paper. He was arrested with a group of employees during the takeover. He knew of my whereabouts, so I decided to move to another place. My host contacted a friend and I moved during the night. My new host had sent his wife and children abroad. A poster of a smiling Khomeiny was hung on the wall. The explanation was to laugh at his own stupidity each time that he looked at the picture. A few days later my former host came very disturbed, since the militia had raided his house twice, once while he was away and another time when he was at home. The reason being that he was mistaken as one of the big capitalists. It took a long time for him to prove that he had inherited the house from his father, with same name but no relations to the capitalist, and long dead. Thanks to the cautionary measures we had taken, since my escape -- rare visits and absolutely no telephone calls -- my father succeeded to prove to the investigators that he did not know where I could be. His most effective argument had been that I knew that they would go to him first. My life was spared once more. If they had not arrested my father…

It was in the fall of 1979 when I moved to an apartment that a friend had rented for me in his own name. He visited me regularly and supplied my daily needs. This was my last home until I ran away from Iran. In all, I was fifteen months in hiding. During this time I had plenty of time to think, and more time to read. I read more than 200 different works such as complete dramatic works of Bernard Shaw, Ibsen and Strindberg; theater substituting for the actual world that was beyond my reach. I also devoured most of Saul Bellow’s novels, and many others. I had learned since the prison blackouts to read by candlelight, moving the candle over each line. I made up for my past recklessness and did not forego any caution. The very few friends that were in touch with me had started the rumor that I had gone to the United States. I did not even contact my sister and my two brothers who lived in Tehran. I left them without any news of me. I made no telephone calls to anyone, a habit I have kept even after I left Iran. It has been more than twenty years, but I do not desire to cause any problem for anyone. In all those months and regardless of the false rumors, the authorities continued their search for me, questioned everyone they could; even my enemies who would have been willing to give me away.

My life was similar to the story of “The Three Fish” in the fables of Kalileh and Dameneh. The three in a pond one day saw some men looking at the water. One of them sensed the danger and threw itself out of the pond and into the stream nearby. Next day the men came again with their net. The second fish acted as lifeless and one of the men took and threw it away and the fish also made its way to the stream. The third one wandered around in panic and was caught. Shedding the fear of death had made me optimistic. I was confident that I would be spared from all dangers. When I bid good-bye to my father for the last time he observed that there was a great deal of work awaiting me in the future. I believed in his judgment. I sensed that perhaps the second life that I was granted was to leave behind my first life that died on that winter night when the gates of the army barracks opened. As said by Sanaee ( 11th century poet ) I had died before death came, and the first gift of a second life is freedom. I did not see my father again. He died after eleven years without ever seeing me. At least I accomplished a few of his expectations. He was content to live his final years living through and inside me. I think of him often and he is still alive in me.

It was during these months that I realized that I was unable to return to be what I was before. Therefore I ventured on an extensive remaking of myself, which still continues to this day. I died on the eve of the Revolution. Hundreds of thousands of people would have loved to see me dead. There was the daily danger of falling into the hands of the militia. It was then that I made the resolution to begin a new life built in the depth of where fear and death had once invaded me. I decided to forget the past and avoid being handicapped by it. I have achieved my goal beyond expectations. Unfortunately I have also forgotten names and faces and many memories. But I have been able to face with greater freedom any new circumstance ahead of me.

Slowly I realized the great value that came out of my arrest. If I had not been imprisoned and forced to stay undercover, my death would have been inevitable – I was too outspoken and politically active in the fight against the leftists and Islamic radicals. I had been a target of terrorism long before the revolution. My enemies had twice planted bombs in the office of Ayandegan, my newspaper. Had I not gone through the two years of 1978-1980, it would have taken me longer to be reborn, if a highly successful active life would have allowed me – a man who usually thinks by action -- time for pure thinking at all.

ESCAPE

In the course of the past 15 months I sent only one short letter to my wife through a friend who was going to Europe. The short message was a true picture of me at that time. The words came out of the depth of my soul: A spirit hardened and stilled; no remorse, no sorrow, no grudges, no debt to anybody; no apology for the past, no fear of the future. A present submerged in books. With the hope of, “One fine day…”

I was not thinking very much about leaving Iran. I was afraid of being captured, since I had so many enemies and I could be easily recognized. A few months went by, and the revolutionary ardor was cooling down.
My decision to remain in Iran became firmer. I was counting on the opening of schools and universities and the expected mass demonstrations by the disillusioned youth, that could bring the shaky rule of the revolutionaries to an end. The American Embassy hostage incident put an end to all my calculations. Once more the Iranian intelligentsia proved their unlimited ability to self-deception and wrong headedness. Khomeiny gave them a puppet to play with, while consolidating his own power. It was at that time that I contacted an old friend who, despite his unique place in my life, had been kept in dark over my whereabouts, for arranging my second escape. Dr. Zia Modarress was a brave patriot, a personification of loyalty. He remained in Iran in that dangerous atmosphere in spite of being advised by our friends and me especially to leave. The executioners captured him. In the courtroom he defended himself bravely to the point of making the clerics angry. He faced the firing squad as a hero. If he had listened to our advice and had left Iran, how much further we would have been in the battle against the mullahs.

***

Departure time was set around Nowrooz, being a busy time with more traffic. Dr. Moddaress was the kind of man whose circle of friends was not just from one region or a particular social class. He brought a Kurdish gentleman from Western Azarbaijan to my place. I gave him my passport so that he could obtain entrance visa on my part at the frontier of Turkey. We set six o’clock in the evening of a certain day to meet in the city of Orumieh (Rezayye) in the square under the Municipal Building clock. Before my departure I dyed my beard and hair light brown. I resembled one of those central-European professors. With my special glasses on I could not be recognized easily. There were three fellow travelers with me. On the way to Orumiyeh our two cars faced many technical problems. In the city of Khoy a small truck fully loaded, hit one of our cars which caused a great deal of shouting from the truck driver wanting to take us to the Committee. It was his fault but we paid him so that he would leave us alone. All along, the highway between Tehran and Tabriz on both sides was filled with abandoned, half built industrial projects. A people who had preferred the Islamic Revolution, had suffocated an Industrial Revolution!

We reached the city square under the clock with an hour and a half delay. It was already dark and no one was expecting us. We waited around for a while. Finally I sent one of the cars to our guide’s house to find out. The news was that our guide to be was arrested the night before, charged with smuggling firearms. His wife said that my passport was safe in the village and did not fall into the hand of the Committee. (In most cities, neighborhood hoodlums and thugs formed the committees. For years they operated as police and court of justice. Today they occupy a branch of the law and order apparatus and operate as they please.) It was late and the roads were not safe, we decided to spend the night in a hotel. We took two rooms. It was dangerous for me to go to a hotel, because of my job in the past, most of the hotel people should have known me, but I had no choice. I showed the copy of the fake birth certificate. If the hotelkeeper recognized me, I don’t know because he did not say anything. One could see perfectly well in his face how disgusted he was with Islamic regime and the Islamic Regime and the rule mullahs and thugs. The return to Tehran was free of any unexpected event. We had a good lunch at the neat, still well run hotel from the era of Ministry of Information and Tourism. A European lady and her two beautiful Dalmatians were also having lunch. The Revolution had not matured as yet.

The next attempt was in May of 1980. This time Dr. Modarress came with a former member of the Parliament. After the usual pleasantries, the gentleman said, “I suppose you don’t recognize me. I am the same person whose name you left out of the list of candidates to represent the Rastakhiz Party.” I still did not recognize him, but he was telling the truth. I was at the chair of the election committee for Azarbaijan, during the 1975 elections. In order to bring new blood into the Parliament, we took out the names of many former deputies, landowners, and influential people from of the list of candidates. My point was to break down the political machines and make more room for change.

I had nothing to say. The surprise made me laugh in embarrassment. The man himself soon came to my rescue and started to discuss the main purpose of his visit. He demanded a certain amount to take me to Turkey. It was much more than what I had on hand. I told him my price and he accepted wholeheartedly and said “ Mr. Homayoun requests something for once, there is no room for argument.” Later I asked the same gentleman to help three of my friends out of Iran. We became good friends though we have not been able to see each other. I gave him my diplomatic passport - a leftover from my official trips to Austria and Turkey in 1978, to secure the border crossing. We set a date for the middle of May. When I entered the car I noticed another passenger in the front seat. He made a discreet acknowledgement while sinking his head more inside his overcoat. We made a stop by the roadside near the thick jungle approaching the city of Ahar for my friend, who had come to help me through, in the other car to catch up with us. He did not show up, so we continued. During this stop while admiring the hand planted forest, the other passenger in the car recognized me from my voice and his anxiety increased. He was Mr. Akbar Lajevardian a well-known industrialist, who was running away because of the crime of establishing a huge acrylic factory in Esfahan.

In the afternoon we came upon a dirt road on the way to Salmas (Shapour) towards the frontier of Turkey. Some distance down the road we reached a jeep that was making a lot of dust in front of us, and would not give us way to pass. Suddenly the jeep put on the breaks and our car rear-ended the jeep very hard. The hood of the BMW was damaged. Three bearded men wearing semi military overalls and carrying machine guns came out of the jeep. I came out of the car first acting very calmly as did the other two. Our cool attitude was our best help.

The Pasdaran (revolutionary guards) spoke in Turkish to the Guid who was protesting, asking him why was he chasing them, and that they almost started shooting at us. The driver explained the situation, while they looked at us with suspicion. They asked who we were and what we do. We had decided ahead of time to pretend as a businessman, and an engineer looking for a marble mine. They seem to know our guide. This information did not satisfy them, they wanted to inspect our belongings. We had very little that was any use to them. The driver translated this information to us later. All told, the militia let us go and kept following us. A change in our plans was essential at this time. Instead of going to our appointed meeting place we went to a small village, stopped and asked for information about the marble mine from a young guy on a bicycle. The guy insisted that there was not such a mine in this area, but we kept pointing in different directions. This act apparently satisfied the Pasdaran and they finally left. Immediately we left for our original rendezvous at the edge of the river with the Kurdish guides.

Our driver was shaken and now trembling. As he saw the jeep with a few people sitting around it, he decided to turn around and go away. I questioned his decision. In response he said that they might be the militia and shoot us. Obviously he could not judge properly because he was so frightened. He took us to his place and we had a worried lunch. An hour later the Kurdish guide came and started an angry discussion. It was agreed for us to follow them. As soon as we approaches the same dirt road, the militia’s jeep appeared in the distance and they started to talk to the Kurds. We turned back in a hurry to the guide’s home, in great anguish. In the next room I saw a large poster of the Mujahedin (a religious revolutionary group now mainly working from Iraq,) a fact that made us worry even more. The Kurdish guides came back, upset, wanting to know what was going on. We managed to satisfy them. Since night was approaching, we told them that tomorrow our guide would get in touch with them. We spent the night without being able to sleep. Our worries were unnecessary since the Pasdaran had not seen us at all. We were saved for the second time.

I told the guide that as it is said in English ‘I am a hot potato. Don’t hold me in your hand too long’. It is better to contact the guides as soon as possible. However he did not want to be seen with us any more. Finally it occurred to him to ask the head of the town’s Committee for help. He was a famous scoundrel. Our guide said that in the past he had rescued him from jail many times, and the man owes him a few favors.

The head of the Committee was a perfect example of the “new class” in looks, behavior and language. The first thing that he did was to go through our small suitcases, which did not have anything for him either. We told the story that we were factory owners and tired of disorder and bribery; so we left everything behind and wanted to leave. He promised to return in the afternoon. Our guide promised two thousand dollars, and later made new arrangement with the Kurdish guides. In the afternoon we said goodbye to our host and left with the head of the Committee in his latest German model car. We traveled for an hour without any incident until we reached the Kurd’s jeep coming from the opposite direction. We transferred to the jeep and thanked the Committeeman.

There were two guides, each wearing side arms with a hand grenade hung from the belt. We drove as far as a small river where two men with two horses were waiting for us. The head of the party who knew me very well handed me my passport saying, “Fight against the regime.” I answered, “Partly that is my purpose for leaving.” We said good by and with their help I managed to mount. One of our guides joined us. He and the owner of the animals each took the rein and we set out.

THE LAST STRETCH

I had never ridden a horse before, and was slightly uneasy looking down from that height. Our Kurdish friends were having fun looking at me. I looked down and noticed that four feet were negotiating the water in a perfect way. I felt better, and waved at the Kurds and smiled. In a little while I became one of them. We came upon a sky-high mountain. We were told that we would soon climb that mountain. It was hard to believe. In three hours we reached the summit with many stops. I insisted on stopping and letting the horses to rest. They claimed that a horse never gets tired. But I could feel the animal’s heavy heart beat under my legs. Mr. Lajevardian was riding a younger horse. Sweat was running down his body like rain.

Many times the animals slipped on the rocks towards the bottomless ravine. But I had confidence in my horse. Along with the dogs, the horses were the most revered animals for ancient Iranians. I also had confidence in our Kurdish guides. In all my experiences with them I saw nothing but honesty. Climbing a mountain on horseback was an adventure not to be repeated. This was the dividing line between Iran and Turkey. It probably was a point that Ata Turk and Reza Shah had agreed on being the frontier dividing line ending a centuries’ old dispute. We were out of Iran. The horses were treading through fields of wild rhubarb. We breathed the clean cool mountain air like drinking the chilled Alsace wine on a summer day. Night was upon us, while I saw the nearest and most beautiful sky of my life. Going downhill was steep, sometimes as if going down a straight wall. The horses’ knees were shaking. As our friends and guides had advised, we were leaning back almost on the tail of the animal, contrary to the position while climbing the mountain. It took us one hour and a half to descend.

We said goodbye to the friend who had provided the horses; petted the animals, our dearest and closest friends for so many hours. I never had a pet of my own. My mother fed the cats, the dogs and the pigeons, but did not let them inside the house. After my mother passed on, for two years I lived alone. I was home only to sleep and did not have time to think of a pet. My wife is friendly with domestic animals from a distance. But on that day I discovered how animals and humans could become so closely related until death. At the foot of the mountain there was a house consisting mostly of a large room serving as the guesthouse of the village headman. It was a resting place for the smugglers crossing the mountain. Rollaway sleeping covers served as backrests lined up around the room. We were offered the place of honor. There were some twenty people sitting around. We had seen some of them with their load of wool overtaking us during the climb. Apparently they did not stop to rest their horses.

The windows were closed, perhaps not have been opened all winter long. I opened the window above my head. In prison I was in charge of cleaning the restrooms. I taught the prison guards how to use and clean the modern facilities. Once I disinfected the whole area. A few minutes after I opened the window to let in the cool spring air of the mountain region, protesting murmurs started from those present. I recited a couplet from the our poet Molavi, Mevlana in Turkish, who is a revered poet and saint among the Turks and asked the guide to translate. The poem roughly reads, “The Prophet told his esteemed disciples/ Don’t cover your body from the spring air. ‘Cause it will do your body and soul/ what it does to the leaves of the trees.” They gave in reluctantly; the combination of Mevlana and Mohamad proved irresistible. Fully clothed, I stretched out on a cover-comforter that perhaps had never been washed. I must have slept some. To avoid using the “restrooms” I did not eat.

The guide supplied us with a car and we went to the city of Van. We stayed at an inn, similar to a place in Kerman where I had been trapped for a few hours some twenty years earlier. It was unbearable. We said goodby to the guide that by this time had become a good friend. He had stood by all his promises. We took a taxi to reach Diyar-e Bakr. From the frontier onward, several times the Turkish gendarmes stopped and looked over our passports. The closest road to Ankara was through Arzerum. But I wanted to have a historical site seeing. We chose the long way to Diyar-e Bakr, the ancient Amed, which was renowned for its impenetrable walls. Amed had twice withstood the forces of Shapour II, the Sassanian emperor. I wanted to look at the River Tigris from the still formidable remnants of the mighty walls. Mr. Lajevardian, a most accommodating fellow traveler, agreed with my passing fancy. After two thousand years we were in the same place where the Roman archers shot their many arrows at the elderly King of Kings, who wanted to have a closer look at the famous walls. He did not fear the archers, as his officers threw away the arrows with their skillful sword-play. In Diyar-e Bakr we finally managed to have a shower after three days.

At the hotel I was able to call my wife and speak to her after such a long time. Later I learned how she had received the news. I do not believe in fortune telling, but this time it involves a very surprising coincidence. The day I left Tehran my wife and our younger daughter were attending the Cannes Film Festival. At luncheon on that day Mrs. Farah Nikbin had read cards for my wife and told her that I would arrive within a week. My wife had called my father immediately. He had answered, “Where have you been? We can’t find anyone at home? We have sent the package.” My wife and daughter managed to get tickets back to Paris. Surprisingly enough I arrived in a week. I have repeated the story to a party of friends in Stockholm in Mrs. Nikbin’s presence a few years ago.

It took two days to reach Ankara from Diyar-e Bakr. We stayed at the Grand Hotel that I knew well, having stayed there many times before. As soon as I registered I was surprised to be informed by the clerk that the President of Turkey was expecting my call. Mr. Ehsan Sabri Chaglyangil was acting president at the time. Two years ago as the Minister of Foreign Affairs, he had hosted a reception for my wife and me. He had become a very close friend with my wife’s brother, Mr. Ardeshir Zahedi, from the time that my brother in law was Foreign Minister and later Ambassador to the United States. It was the kind of friendship that Mr. Zahedi is famous for establishing and nurturing, both at a personal level and to promote Iran’s interests – friendships that he cultivates with great expenses in money and time even today. I asked the hotel employee for a one-hour dry cleaning service for my one and only suit. A car came for me to go and see the President. Afterwards I met Mr. Suleyman Demirel who became the president later. I also had several talk with the President’s advisor whom I had met from my previous trip. Mr. Chaglyangil told me that the Turkish Security Service recognized me from my passport the moment I stepped on the soil of Turkey. After the phone call from my brother-in-law, by the order of the President the security followed me every step of the way, relaying the news to Mr. Zahedi and on to my wife.

Speaking with the authorities in Turkey I told them that the regime was in Iran to stay for the time being. There was no alternative for the Turks but to establish relations with them. Some day the regime will come down since the people are not for it as much. Meanwhile Turkey has to help the people of Iran who seek asylum as much as possible. Both leaders of Turkey conveyed their best wishes for the Shah, which I sent through my brother-in-law.

The help came for Mr. Lajevardian and me anyway. A single transit pass was issued for us. The French Embassy gave me a visa. My friend wanting to go to United States, stayed ten more days in Ankara. I finished my visiting and proceeded to Istanbul where Mr. Shokrai and his wife, the daughter of the President, lived. They were so kind. We went to a football game. Our picture was in the paper. This was my last experience with the world of high politics and its rewards. I had to get used to life in exile. I did not know what to do or what was going to happen. My experience and education was geared for work in Iran. I was not ready to take orders. I had hardly any savings. In the first place I had to organize my thoughts, and write. I wanted to live the life of mind. In all I counted on the solid character and high spiritual and ethical standards of my wife.

I had an unknown sense that better times were to come. My dis- advantages would be compensated with being able to express myself with greater freedom. I was optimistic for my future and felt well towards the people in general. During that exceptionally tough 15 months no one had betrayed me or disappointed me. Anybody I trusted, ended up to be trustworthy. Whatever I requested from anyone, he put himself and his family on the line for me. I have heard many stories about the disloyalty and treachery from friends, servants, colleagues, and smugglers during the Revolutionary times, but I did not experience any, not even once. And the Iranian people in general, If they had started to recover from their spell of madness and suicide, I could again pin my hopes on them too.

I bought a ticket with what money left that I had managed to conceal from the greedy eyes of Pasdaran and the Committeeman. At the airport my wife did not recognize me at first, with the beard and the eyeglass. I don’t know if it was her excitement or my changed looks?

Translated from the Persian
By Nayer M. Glenn Easter (April) 02

Publication in Persian (‎زندگی پس از مردن پيش از مرگ‎)
Ketab Corporation
‎1419 Westwood Boulevard‎
Los Angeles, CA 90024, USA