Rooftops of Tehran by Mahbod Seraji Page A

what fate would await Doctor in jail. My father has told me numerous stories of what they do to kharab-kars , subversive activists, like Doctor. They would put him in a cell for a few days to increase his anxiety in anticipation of his interrogation. Then they would take him to a room and beat him up. They would ask him a bunch of questions, and then beat him up some more. They would threaten him with heart-wrenching descriptions of their newest torturing techniques, and make casual comparisons to some of the traditional favorites: pulling out fingernails, breaking fingers, and submerging the prisoner’s testicles in boiling water. They might talk about bringing his closest female relative to the prison, where she’d be gang-raped while he watched. They could carry out the threats, but often don’t have to. Doctor is too young and too small a fish in the ocean of political opposition to face a punishment so severe. They’d keep him in jail for a while, beat him up occasionally, then one day they would simply let him go, hoping they had scared him enough that he would never try anything foolish again.
    I can see that more and more neighbors are watching from their darkened rooms. No one wants to be seen, but everyone wants to know how this will end. I think of how helpless Doctor must be feeling at this moment. My father once said that nothing leaves you feeling as unprotected as facing the government’s secret police. There’s no authority to appeal to, and no one who can save you from the abyss of pain and misery you’re about to be thrown into. I remember telling Doctor about the day the SAVAK agents raided our house. That was when he told me I had That .
    In prison, the agents will take away Doctor’s most valuable possession, his time. They will lock him up in a small cell away from his beloved books. To infuriate him, they may even give him a couple of trashy novels to read, the kind with a picture of a seminude woman and a handsome man on the cover. The kind he considers garbage.
    I can’t take my eyes off the scene that has frozen in time in Zari’s yard. A sound suddenly diverts my attention to the end of the alley. The man with the radio is looking at me. I quickly sit down behind the short wall, but it’s too late. He must have been watching me for a while, and from the direction of my gaze he has pinpointed the house in which Doctor has taken sanctuary.
    I look up briefly and see him. He smiles wickedly, and slowly begins his walk toward Zari’s house. The other two guys show up quickly, and a car pulls up in front of the house. The man with the radio knocks on Zari’s door. Doctor lets go of Zari. Zari’s mother begins to drive her head into the wall. I will never forget the dull sound of her skull thudding against the brick. Zari’s father looks like a helpless warrior. He moves around aimlessly, as if facing an enemy he shouldn’t fight. Zari is weeping.
    Doctor opens the door and walks out, with Zari holding tightly on to him. His head is up, his shoulders square; he will not allow anyone to take away his dignity. One of the agents punches Doctor in the face. Zari shrieks as if a harpoon has pierced her heart. I feel my blood rising, slamming in my ears. The other two agents are watching, and a fourth is sitting behind the wheel of an agency sedan, smoking a cigarette.
    Doctor is on the ground now. The man with the radio kicks him in the face. Blood spurts all over the sidewalk. Zari’s cries reach a new peak. Zari’s mother begins to chant while hitting herself in the head and pulling her own hair. Mr. Naderi is looking at the agents, perhaps thinking that he could kill these detestable, repulsive creatures with his bare hands—but these are secret government agents, and his interference would only make things worse.
    Some of the neighboring families—including my parents, who were asleep until Zari’s screams woke them—have rushed out into the alley. The agents detest crowds witnessing