was ominously quiet.
I held Somaya’s hand, her palm wet and cold. The heat I had felt only moments before was now gone from her body. I brought her close to me and she pressed me tight beneath the night sky, shivering. Then the shrill whistle of Iranian antiaircraft guns screamed only blocks away. That meant the Iraqi fighters were somewhere close by. Just that day, I’d promised Somaya’s parents that I would take care of her. But how could I protect her from this madness? I looked at her innocent face illuminated by explosions and antiaircraft fire. She had stayed in this conflagration to be with me. If not for me, she would be safe with her parents in England now. I felt her chest beating hard against mine.
“I am okay, Reza. I am not afraid,” she said as her voice broke. She was afraid, of course, but she was not a coward.
“I know,” I said, “but I am
not
okay. Hold me tighter!”
This got a small reaction from her. She pinched me and told me to stop joking, smiling as she said it. I prayed to God to let this attack pass without any harm coming to her.
A loud blast shook the wall against our backs. I knelt down, pulled Somaya with me, and covered her body. We huddled in that position for the longest minutes of my life, as the explosions and missile fire continued.
Finally, the green siren announced the all-clear signal.
The attack was over.
For now.
That night, neither of us could sleep. Instead, we listened to reports on the radio with growing trepidation. The next day, I pleaded with Somaya to leave for London. I told her it wasn’t too late, that Kazem would help her get out. She wouldn’t hear of it.
In the midst of this, another war continued. The Mujahedin increased their violent fervor, attacking anyone associated with theIslamic forces, including the Revolutionary Guards, the Komiteh (the revolutionary police), and the Basij. Officials of the Islamic regime were assassinated one after the other, some at the very base where I worked. Now Kazem and I were in no less danger than Naser.
At the same time, Hezbollah (Party of God) gangs of radical Islamists, sporting uniforms of dirty long beards and buttoned-up shirts, roamed the streets on motorcycles, brandishing sticks and chains, shouting
“Allaho Akbar”
and
“Khomeini Rahbar”
(“Khomeini is our leader”), and attacking people who did not adhere strictly to Islamic rules.
These rules were extreme, and few among us agreed with all of them. They included a dress code for women that required they wear no makeup and that they appear in public with a proper Islamic
hejab
covering their hair and body. Men could not wear shorts. Only married couples could be seen together in public places. Alcohol was banned. No parties or music were allowed, even within the walls of homes. Failure to follow these rules led to arrest and lashing in public.
The radicals called people who objected to the mullahs
mohareb,
or “those waging war against God.” Khomeini issued a fatwa on the Mujahedin, calling them hypocrites and ordering their arrests. He asked people to inform authorities of anyone they suspected of belonging to that group. Neighbors began turning one another in, and I shuddered to think of where Naser’s inability to censor himself would lead him.
Mainstream Iranian society cheered for neither the Mujahedin nor the clerical government. We were caught up in three wars: Iraq against Iran, the Mujahedin against the mullahs, and Hezbollah against the people. Our youth were slaughtered on battlefields and our citizens were rounded up, whipped, beaten, and humiliated as punishment for disobeying some arbitrary rule of decorum.
Somaya was constantly worried about me and I was beside myself with worry for her. She always wore a
hejab
in public andshe adhered to the Islamic laws, but I never knew if this would be enough. It seemed that people were being arrested for no apparent reason.
The violence kept creeping closer to our home. One day, a
I held Somaya’s hand, her palm wet and cold. The heat I had felt only moments before was now gone from her body. I brought her close to me and she pressed me tight beneath the night sky, shivering. Then the shrill whistle of Iranian antiaircraft guns screamed only blocks away. That meant the Iraqi fighters were somewhere close by. Just that day, I’d promised Somaya’s parents that I would take care of her. But how could I protect her from this madness? I looked at her innocent face illuminated by explosions and antiaircraft fire. She had stayed in this conflagration to be with me. If not for me, she would be safe with her parents in England now. I felt her chest beating hard against mine.
“I am okay, Reza. I am not afraid,” she said as her voice broke. She was afraid, of course, but she was not a coward.
“I know,” I said, “but I am
not
okay. Hold me tighter!”
This got a small reaction from her. She pinched me and told me to stop joking, smiling as she said it. I prayed to God to let this attack pass without any harm coming to her.
A loud blast shook the wall against our backs. I knelt down, pulled Somaya with me, and covered her body. We huddled in that position for the longest minutes of my life, as the explosions and missile fire continued.
Finally, the green siren announced the all-clear signal.
The attack was over.
For now.
That night, neither of us could sleep. Instead, we listened to reports on the radio with growing trepidation. The next day, I pleaded with Somaya to leave for London. I told her it wasn’t too late, that Kazem would help her get out. She wouldn’t hear of it.
In the midst of this, another war continued. The Mujahedin increased their violent fervor, attacking anyone associated with theIslamic forces, including the Revolutionary Guards, the Komiteh (the revolutionary police), and the Basij. Officials of the Islamic regime were assassinated one after the other, some at the very base where I worked. Now Kazem and I were in no less danger than Naser.
At the same time, Hezbollah (Party of God) gangs of radical Islamists, sporting uniforms of dirty long beards and buttoned-up shirts, roamed the streets on motorcycles, brandishing sticks and chains, shouting
“Allaho Akbar”
and
“Khomeini Rahbar”
(“Khomeini is our leader”), and attacking people who did not adhere strictly to Islamic rules.
These rules were extreme, and few among us agreed with all of them. They included a dress code for women that required they wear no makeup and that they appear in public with a proper Islamic
hejab
covering their hair and body. Men could not wear shorts. Only married couples could be seen together in public places. Alcohol was banned. No parties or music were allowed, even within the walls of homes. Failure to follow these rules led to arrest and lashing in public.
The radicals called people who objected to the mullahs
mohareb,
or “those waging war against God.” Khomeini issued a fatwa on the Mujahedin, calling them hypocrites and ordering their arrests. He asked people to inform authorities of anyone they suspected of belonging to that group. Neighbors began turning one another in, and I shuddered to think of where Naser’s inability to censor himself would lead him.
Mainstream Iranian society cheered for neither the Mujahedin nor the clerical government. We were caught up in three wars: Iraq against Iran, the Mujahedin against the mullahs, and Hezbollah against the people. Our youth were slaughtered on battlefields and our citizens were rounded up, whipped, beaten, and humiliated as punishment for disobeying some arbitrary rule of decorum.
Somaya was constantly worried about me and I was beside myself with worry for her. She always wore a
hejab
in public andshe adhered to the Islamic laws, but I never knew if this would be enough. It seemed that people were being arrested for no apparent reason.
The violence kept creeping closer to our home. One day, a
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