Journey of a Thousand Storms Read online

  ‘I’m from the slums, so I’m familiar with violence.’

  ‘No, brother, this is not Iran. They can do anything to you – the police here are corrupt. Make sure you put your money in the bank. Never carry it with you.’

  ‘How do I open an account?’

  ‘It’s very simple. Go to Iş Bank, show some ID and they’ll open an account for you. You can access it whenever from anywhere in Turkey. But don’t change your money into Turkish lira because its value drops all the time. Leave it as US dollars and each morning withdraw just enough for the day.’

  ‘Thank you so much for your help.’

  ‘I’m Saeed, by the way, from Tehran.’

  I shake Saeed’s hand. ‘Karim.’ I don’t want to reveal my identity. I leave the bar and am walking towards the stairs when the receptionist calls me over to him.

  He leans forward and speaks quietly. ‘I noticed you talking to the smugglers.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Listen, most of these guys are criminals, especially the last one you spoke to. His name’s Mustafa and he’s an armed robber on the run. He’s very dangerous.’

  ‘But he promised to take me and my family to Greece.’

  The receptionist grins. ‘He doesn’t know which way is Greece. All he wants to know is how much money you have.’ Then he looks at me intently. ‘You didn’t tell him you have money, did you?’

  I admit I did and he shakes his head. ‘How silly. He might even come to your room tonight and turn his gun on you. Just make sure you lock your door and don’t open it for anyone. Never talk to him again.’

  I thank the receptionist for his advice and go back to the room, downcast and now also scared for my children’s safety. I lock the door and hardly sleep all night.

  FOUR

  I’d been in prison for about three weeks, maybe longer. On this day I was taken to a different room and placed on a metal chair, my eyes covered and my hands tied behind my back. I had no idea what was about to happen, but was sure it would involve further torture.

  A man came into the room, told me his name was Samadi and stood next to my chair. ‘How are you, Dr Karimi?’ he asked sarcastically. I told him I was fine. I wondered if he was going to hit me.

  He said, ‘I’m going to give you a pen and paper and leave the room. While I’m gone, I want you to write down the names of all the Zionists you’ve ever been in contact with, and the names of all the women whose pregnancies you’ve terminated and the girls whose virginities you’ve repaired. You must also tell me about the book you’ve been writing.’

  ‘What book?’ I asked. A hard blow almost sent me off the chair. The left side of my face was numb with pain and flashing lights appeared behind my eyes again.

  ‘We know everything,’ he said. His face was so close to mine I could smell onion on his breath. ‘You can’t hide anything from us. Write those names on that piece of paper. You have half an hour.’ He untied my hands and left the room.

  I removed the blindfold, grabbed the pen and started writing. I explained that I did believe in Islam, that my father was a Muslim, that I’d never terminated a pregnancy or restored anyone’s virginity. I wrote that I had no Zionist friends and no sympathy for Israel or Jews, that I respected the Islamic government and was obedient to the Supreme Leader. I knew it was unlikely they’d believe me.

  Before Samadi re-entered the room he ordered me to put the blindfold back on. I could see his black boots as I heard him pick up the paper.

  ‘What is this bullshit?’ He threw it at my face. ‘When we searched your house, we found the Torah and pictures of Moses. You’ve written hundreds of pages about Jews. Are you denying all this?’ His foul breath made me gag. ‘Do you remember Mrs Razavi? You terminated her pregnancy. Are you telling me this didn’t happen?’

  I was shocked. I’d treated Mrs Razavi almost two years before. She had become pregnant after committing adultery with a man she loved.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m going to make you talk.’ Samadi turned on his heel and slammed the door.

  This time they left me alone for several painful days. My mind drifted over events from the past, events that had led to this moment, such as when I sat my final high school exam.

  Almost three hundred thousand students also took the exam that day, all over the country. The Iran–Iraq war was at its height and about one and a half million people had died. Saddam Hussein had started using chemical weapons against the Iranian forces and both countries were firing missiles into each other’s major cities. I was eighteen and knew that if I failed, I would go straight to compulsory military service and that after forty-five days’ basic training I would be at the front line, where I would probably be killed in less than three months.

  The exam lasted eight hours with only a thirty-minute break. I’d memorised all the formulae, all the information I thought I’d need for biology, chemistry, physics, literature, religion, history, sociology, mathematics, algebra, geometry and geology. I’d studied as hard as possible, knowing I had to get at least ninety-seven percent to qualify for medical school, fulfilling my promise to my mother. When it was over, though, I was despondent: I was sure I’d failed.

  I had to wait five weeks for the results to arrive in the mail. My mother prayed, and Koorosh was nearly as nervous as I was. On the day the letter arrived, Koorosh collected it and handed it to me without a word.

  I stared at the envelope for a few moments, took a deep breath and lifted the flap. Inside was a small slip of paper with computer-generated numbers and letters on it. I scanned through the list of subjects with my results next to them, and saw my total result at the bottom. I had to read it several times, unable to believe my eyes.

  ‘Ninety-nine point two percent. I’m ranked eighty-seventh in the entire country!’ I was absolutely exhilarated. A second later Koorosh, my mother and I were jumping and dancing around the room.

  With my excellent results, I was eligible to go to any university in Iran. I chose the medical school in Mashhad and sent off the application forms. A month later, when the university entrance results were due to be published, I rushed to the newspaper kiosk early in the morning. Hundreds of students were already waiting there.

  When the truck finally delivered the newspapers I fought my way through the crowd, managed to grab a copy and began searching feverishly. I saw pictures of the top ten students in the country, but mine was not there. I started checking eleven pages of numbers and university places. I couldn’t find my name.

  I walked home numb and full of shame. My mother and Koorosh also looked through the paper several times but without success. Then Koorosh saw an official notice: The people whose names are not printed in this newspaper have been rejected by the Islamic Investigation Committee because they have not qualified as pious Muslims deserving to be accepted into a university. Nevertheless they can send a letter of appeal to the Committee and have their case reviewed if they believe that they have strong reason to do so.

  We were in shock. Koorosh and I’d thought we were doing a great job of pretending to be Muslims. My closest friend, Masood, who had grown up with me and gone to the same school, never had the slightest clue I was anything but a devout Muslim. This was the first time I realised I couldn’t keep any secrets from MOIS. I hadn’t been able to convince the ayatollacracy that I was a loyal dog.

  I wanted to leave, to escape this vile regime. I spoke to Jewish relatives in Isfahan who promised to get me a fake passport, so I could go to Turkey and from there to Israel.

  For three nights I couldn’t sleep, planning my escape. And then on the fourth day my friend Majid Vahidi came to visit me. I’d been tutoring him in maths, physics and chemistry, and my mother was his family’s cleaner for two years. Majid’s father was one of the top respiratory physicians in Iran, a graduate of a reputable American university, the dean of the medical school and the principal of Imam Reza Hospital, a vast modern teaching hospital. He was also a member of Imam Khomeini’s medical team.

&
nbsp; Majid said that when he told his father about my rejection from university, Dr Vahidi was furious and had insisted I appeal, putting his name as a referee. According to Majid he said, ‘They will then contact me and I’ll fix it using my connections. If there’s one student who deserves to go to medical school in this country, it’s Kooshyar.’

  I sent the appeal letter. After an agonising four-month wait, during which there was no news from my Jewish relatives, Dr Vahidi asked my mother and me to come to his house one afternoon. We went to their mansion, which was full of luxury furniture and expensive paintings.

  Dr Vahidi said, ‘Two Revolutionary Guards came to see me today. They were asking about you, Kooshyar.’ He looked at me seriously. ‘I told them you’re a very pious Muslim who prays three times a day on time, that you fast at Ramadan and are faithful to the Islamic government.’

  Dr Vahidi was well aware none of this was true.

  ‘I agreed to sign a guarantor form to allow you to go to the university, but you have to behave or I will be in trouble. Do you understand, Kooshyar?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you so much . . .’ His generosity overwhelmed me.

  ‘I’m from a poor family too, and I know how hard it is to make it to this level. I helped you because I truly believe you deserve to go to university, and I’m sure you’ll become a wonderful doctor.’

  I had tears in my eyes. My mother went to Dr Vahidi’s chair. ‘Dr Vahidi, you are an angel sent by God to save my son’s life.’ And she bowed to him.

  When we left the house Dr Vahidi said to me, ‘Go and celebrate tonight with your family, Dr Karimi!’

  I wish I could’ve kept my vow not to upset the Islamic regime in any way. But when a 22-year-old woman told me she’d attempted suicide because her secret boyfriend had made her pregnant and refused to marry her, I agreed to terminate her pregnancy. I did it to save her life. I couldn’t refuse her cry for help, nor the cries of many other women. And so I became an abortionist.

  On the sixtieth day after my arrest, Samadi came back and interrogated me for four hours. At the end, he gave me one option to avoid execution: ‘You work for us.’ I had absolutely no choice.

  Two days later I was released, and my life as a traitor began.

  The next morning I tell Azita about the people smugglers. She says that under no circumstances would she go with them. It’s too dangerous.

  We go to Iş Bank and I open an account with my driver’s licence. The teller treats me like a king. Because Turkey’s in an economic crisis, its banks are grateful for deposits of any amount.

  Not knowing what else to do, we get on a bus and go to the Indonesian embassy. We spend four hours there just to be told we can’t get a visa unless it’s for a short visit. Another waste of time and money on bus fare.

  We return to the hotel disheartened. In the lobby I meet Saeed again and he invites me for a drink. I tell him about the conversation with the people smugglers.

  ‘Stay away from them, Karim,’ he warns me. I feel bad giving him a false name when he’s been so kind to me, but I have to be careful around Iranians.

  ‘I have to get my family somewhere safe.’

  ‘Turkey isn’t safe for you at all. Iran exchanges Kurdistan Workers’ Party members for Iranian dissidents who’ve fled to Turkey. A lot of Iranians disappear here.’

  Suddenly he becomes excited. ‘You must go to the United Nations in Ankara, to the UNHCR. My cousin went there and they supported him and sent him to Germany four years ago.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. The UN helps people like you. You’re basically a refugee. But you only have ten days from your arrival to go to their office; otherwise, it becomes more difficult to apply. You have to wait at least a year for an interview and in the meantime they make you regularly exit and re-enter the country. How long have you been here so far?

  ‘Nine days.’

  ‘Karim, you must go now! There are buses to Ankara till midnight. If you make the last one, you’ll be there in the morning and can go to the UN office straight away.’

  I look at the time: nine o’clock. I put down my beer and start running towards our room, but turn around when Saeed yells, ‘The UN is “Birlashmish Milatlar” in Turkish.’ It’s the last time I see him. He’s been a true friend.

  When I rush into the room, Azita has just got Niloofar to sleep. ‘We need to pack, Azita. We’re going to Ankara.’

  With Newsha asleep in my arms, I pay for our stay while Azita tries to calm down Niloofar, who’s woken up screaming in panic. The hotel cost three hundred and sixty dollars for nine nights. As we leave I bump into Mustafa in the doorway.

  ‘Hello, brother,’ he says. ‘Ready to go?’

  ‘We’re actually going to a friend’s house for the night. I’ll be back tomorrow and we can discuss more details about our deal then.’

  Mustafa looks at the four of us. ‘You go to friend this time of night?’ He checks his watch.

  ‘Yes, I just realised one of my friends from Iran is in Istanbul and he’s willing to lend me some money. I need to see him tonight.’ I move past him.

  ‘I see you tomorrow here, hey?’ he yells as we hurry away.

  We catch a taxi to the bus terminal, a vast dark area. I walk as fast as I can to the ticket counters of each bus company but most of them are closed. I ask the ones that are open, ‘Ankara?’ and people keep shaking their heads. After fifteen minutes I realise we’re too late. I’m distraught. We can’t go back to the hotel – we’ve spent a lot of money to get here. The thought of sleeping in the street overnight and being too late for the UN is making me panic. Then at the far end of the terminal I see two offices with lights still on.

  ‘Come on, Azita!’ I start running, Azita and the girls trailing behind me. I go into the first office. ‘Ankara?’

  ‘Konya,’ says the Turkish man behind the desk.

  ‘Ankara, please!’

  The Turkish man says something and points at the office next door. I race over. ‘Ankara? Please?’

  A young man is yawning at his desk. ‘Kach keshi?’ he says.

  ‘Ankara!’ I repeat.

  He looks at Azita, who’s just stepped into the office, and raising his index finger says, ‘Sadejeh birkeshi.’ I realise he’s trying to tell us there’s only one ticket left.

  ‘Okay,’ I say. But he shakes his head, counting us. I indicate that Azita and I will hold the girls on our laps and I’ll sit on the floor. He shakes his head again, gets up and starts turning out the lights.

  ‘Please, abi,’ Azita begs. The Turkish man looks at Niloofar crying in Azita’s arms and hesitates.

  ‘Okay.’ He sits back on his chair. ‘A hundred and forty-five dollars.’ I know this is four times the normal price but I hand over the money. We run to platform 12, at the other end of the terminal, carrying the children. The bus is full but it’s there, waiting for us, it seems. When we get on, the driver glares and mutters the same word the passengers on the bus to Istanbul called us: evsiz. I later learn this means ‘homeless savages’.

  We find the last empty seat, which is at the back of the bus. Azita sits in it with Niloofar in her arms and I settle on the floor between two rows of seats, holding Newsha. The Turkish passengers look at us and whisper.

  At ten minutes past midnight the bus starts moving. Just like on the bus to Istanbul, when Azita changes Niloofar’s nappy several passengers complain loudly about the smell, and even the bus driver yells out something I don’t comprehend.

  Eventually everyone falls asleep, except for the driver, Azita and me. ‘What does “abi” mean?’ I ask her.

  ‘ “Brother”. I learned it in Istanbul from an Iranian woman,’ she says. We smile at each other for the first time in nine days.

  The trip takes the whole night. We go through a series of mountains and plains, but it’s too dark to enjoy the scenery. At four in the morning the bus stops at a café. Most Turks are Sunni Muslims, who pray five times a day, so the passengers get off for a quick t
ea and prayer. Azita and I leave the bus for some fresh air. A young Turkish family passes by with a little girl who’s licking a candy. Newsha stares at her.

  ‘Would you like a candy, sweetheart?’ I ask her.

  She just shakes her head.

  ‘Why not? I know you love candies.’

  ‘No, Baba jan, they’re expensive,’ she says. Her words shock me. I’m appalled she even knows what ‘expensive’ means. ‘I know we don’t have money and we shouldn’t buy candies or toys,’ she tells me.

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘You said to Maman yesterday not to buy that shirt and those expensive nappies because if our money runs out we’ll be poor.’

  This makes me feel terrible. I realise how intelligent and sensitive children are.

  ‘Newsha, I was just kidding. Husbands sometimes say these things to their wives, and wives sometimes say them to their husbands, just to stop wasting money.’ I tell her we’ll soon be going to Disneyland, and buy a candy for her. It costs one dollar, more than a loaf of bread, but I want my daughter to feel safe and happy.

  At seven-thirty the bus arrives in Ankara. Azita and I are exhausted. Though we know the driver will rip us off because we’re foreigners, we take a taxi to ‘Birlashmish Milatlar’. After half an hour, we stop in a small street.

  About forty people of all ages and skin colours are standing in front of a building with a United Nations sign on it, and more people join the crowd every minute. A man in his mid-forties walks over to the group and sits on the ground. A wave of noise erupts around him and when I go closer I see that he’s stitched his lips together. A woman and four small children are sitting near him, and I keep Newsha away. Azita finds a young Iranian couple and starts conversing with them. The man’s name is Arya and his wife is Shadi. They’ve been living here for a month already and know a few Turkish words.

  ‘The UN is hopeless,’ he tells us, shaking his head. ‘When you first go in, they make a file and give you a time for an interview, which you have to come back for. In the interview, you have to prove you’ll be executed for non-criminal reasons if you go back to Iran. If they do recognise you as a refugee and send you to a third country, you don’t get to choose which one.’