even the blind must not be sent outside."
Â
As he read, he underlined every word with his fingernail. "All the effort, all the trouble it took me," he said excitedly, "to get this printed, to convince Savak that it could appear! In this country where everything is supposed to inspire optimism, blossoming, smilesâsuddenly 'the time of sorrow'! Can you imagine?" Golam was wearing the face of the victor, elated at his own courage.
It was only at this moment, looking at Golam's cunning face, that Mahmud believed for the first time in the approaching revolution. It seemed to him that he suddenly understood everything. Golam can sense the coming catastrophe. He is beginning to maneuver shrewdly, to shift his battle lines, to try to purge himself of blame, to pay tribute to the rumbling force that already resounds in his frightened and besieged heart. Golam has just sneaked a thumbtack onto the scarlet cushion the Shah sits on. This is hardly a bomb. It won't kill the Shah, but it makes Golam feel betterâhe has joined the opposition, however hermetically. Now he will show off the thumbtack, talk it up, seek the praise and recognition of his friends, and revel in the feeling of having shown his independence.
But Mahmud's old doubts come back in the evening. He and his brother were walking along streets that grew more and more empty, past faces deprived of any vitality. Exhausted pedestrians were trudging home or standing silently at bus stops. Some men were sitting against a wall, dozing, their faces on their knees. Mahmud pointed at them and asked, "Who is going to carry out this revolution of yours? They are all sleeping." His brother replied, "These very people will do it. One day they will sprout wings." But Mahmud could not imagine it.
("And yet early in the summer I myself began to feel something changing, something reviving in people, something in the air. The atmosphere was indefinable, a little like the first glimmer of consciousness after a tormenting dream. In the first place, the Americans forced the Shah to release some intellectuals from prison. The Shah cheatedâhe released some and locked up others. But the important thing was that he'd given in, and the first crack, the first little gap, appeared in the rigid system. Into that gap stepped people who wanted to resurrect the Iranian Writers' Organization, which the Shah had dissolved in '69. All organizations, even the most innocent, had been banned. Only Rastakhiz and the mosque remained.
Tertium non datur.
The government continued to say no to a writers' union. Accordingly, secret meetings began in private homes, most often in old country houses outside Teheran where it was easier to maintain secrecy. They called these meetings 'cultural evenings.' First there would be a poetry reading, and then the discussion of the current situation would begin. It was at one of these meetings that I first saw people who had been in prison. They were writers, scientists, and students. I looked closely at their faces, trying to see what scars great fear and suffering made. I thought they were behaving abnormally. They acted hesitantly, as if the light and the presence of others made them dizzy. They kept a watchful distance from their surroundings, as if the approach of any other person could lead to a beating. One of them looked awfulâhe had burn scars on his face and hands, and he walked with a cane. He was a student in the law school, and fedayeen brochures had been found in a search of his home. I remember his telling how he was led by the Savak agents into a big room, one of whose walls was white-hot iron. There were rails on the floor, a metal chair on the rails; the Savak men strapped him into the chair. Then they pushed a button and the chair began moving toward the wall in a slow, jerky movement, an inch a minute. He calculated it would take two hours to reach the wall, but after an hour he could no longer stand the heat and began shouting that he
Â
As he read, he underlined every word with his fingernail. "All the effort, all the trouble it took me," he said excitedly, "to get this printed, to convince Savak that it could appear! In this country where everything is supposed to inspire optimism, blossoming, smilesâsuddenly 'the time of sorrow'! Can you imagine?" Golam was wearing the face of the victor, elated at his own courage.
It was only at this moment, looking at Golam's cunning face, that Mahmud believed for the first time in the approaching revolution. It seemed to him that he suddenly understood everything. Golam can sense the coming catastrophe. He is beginning to maneuver shrewdly, to shift his battle lines, to try to purge himself of blame, to pay tribute to the rumbling force that already resounds in his frightened and besieged heart. Golam has just sneaked a thumbtack onto the scarlet cushion the Shah sits on. This is hardly a bomb. It won't kill the Shah, but it makes Golam feel betterâhe has joined the opposition, however hermetically. Now he will show off the thumbtack, talk it up, seek the praise and recognition of his friends, and revel in the feeling of having shown his independence.
But Mahmud's old doubts come back in the evening. He and his brother were walking along streets that grew more and more empty, past faces deprived of any vitality. Exhausted pedestrians were trudging home or standing silently at bus stops. Some men were sitting against a wall, dozing, their faces on their knees. Mahmud pointed at them and asked, "Who is going to carry out this revolution of yours? They are all sleeping." His brother replied, "These very people will do it. One day they will sprout wings." But Mahmud could not imagine it.
("And yet early in the summer I myself began to feel something changing, something reviving in people, something in the air. The atmosphere was indefinable, a little like the first glimmer of consciousness after a tormenting dream. In the first place, the Americans forced the Shah to release some intellectuals from prison. The Shah cheatedâhe released some and locked up others. But the important thing was that he'd given in, and the first crack, the first little gap, appeared in the rigid system. Into that gap stepped people who wanted to resurrect the Iranian Writers' Organization, which the Shah had dissolved in '69. All organizations, even the most innocent, had been banned. Only Rastakhiz and the mosque remained.
Tertium non datur.
The government continued to say no to a writers' union. Accordingly, secret meetings began in private homes, most often in old country houses outside Teheran where it was easier to maintain secrecy. They called these meetings 'cultural evenings.' First there would be a poetry reading, and then the discussion of the current situation would begin. It was at one of these meetings that I first saw people who had been in prison. They were writers, scientists, and students. I looked closely at their faces, trying to see what scars great fear and suffering made. I thought they were behaving abnormally. They acted hesitantly, as if the light and the presence of others made them dizzy. They kept a watchful distance from their surroundings, as if the approach of any other person could lead to a beating. One of them looked awfulâhe had burn scars on his face and hands, and he walked with a cane. He was a student in the law school, and fedayeen brochures had been found in a search of his home. I remember his telling how he was led by the Savak agents into a big room, one of whose walls was white-hot iron. There were rails on the floor, a metal chair on the rails; the Savak men strapped him into the chair. Then they pushed a button and the chair began moving toward the wall in a slow, jerky movement, an inch a minute. He calculated it would take two hours to reach the wall, but after an hour he could no longer stand the heat and began shouting that he
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