critic and a writer. Another was Mahdi, my family friend and one of Aydin’s best friends. Mahdi was suspicious of Mr. S. He believed that Mr. S. was visiting a powerful religious leader named Talaghani before he joined us. Talaghani was said to have had some connections with the Communists. Mahdi believed that the Communist Party was helping the clerics get rid of the Shah, in hopes of eventually turning Iran into a Communist country.
Another friend of ours was Ali, whom we called Professor Ali for his endless knowledge in every field, especially in philosophy. Professor Ali believed the collusion between the clerics and the leftists may have been true, but it would be the clerics who would get rid of the leftists.
The rest of our friends joined us one by one during those revolutionary nights in Tehran. Among them was another of my closest friends, Margan. She was a petite beauty with a short, shiny black bob, and emerald green eyes. She and I checked after friends in different neighborhoods even after the curfew was passed. Margan had a Mini Minor, a British car, which we could drive through even the tiniest alleys in Tehran.
By the imposed martial law, everyone had to go home before nine o’clock in the evening, except for emergencies. But our gatherings started at nine o’clock, and we made up stories to tell the authorities if we ever got busted, such as “I’m visiting my father on his deathbed.”
Wherever we went, or whomever we visited, we could smell the fear, the fear of the unknown, the fear of losing one another and our country. The uncertainty filled the air, and nobody could trust anybody. The lights on the streets were turned off after nine o’clock, and power shortages added to the creepiness of the dark nights.
We kept having meetings and discussing politics in the candlelight, behind closed curtains, listening fearfully to the most popular slogan of the time, “Allah Akbar”—meaning “God is great”—from nearly every rooftop night after night.
I was visiting my colleagues and friends at the theater workshop where I started acting when I heard the Shah’s last speech on Iranian national radio. He urged Iranians to open their eyes and not to fall into the trap of fundamentalism. He promised everyone that he would do his best if his people stood by him. We all looked at one another, wanting to believe that everything would get back to normal under his power. But a thick cloud of doubt hung over our heads.
In a few weeks, the Shah left with tear gas in the air. This was January 1979. I will never forget his last gesture. He bent down and collected a bit of Iran’s soil before he flew off in his plane. He looked much older than his age. His eyes were filled with tears and disappointment. He was suffering from cancer, though none of us knew about it. It was truly heart-wrenching.
The rioters, mostly young men, were holding up enlarged copies of the morning headlines, stating in big black letters, THE SHAH HAS FLED IRAN . Students chanted in unison, “Allah Akbar, Khomeini Rahbar” (“God is great, Khomeini is our leader”). They were soon joined by the leftists, socialists, Communists, Islamic Marxists—and even the rightists. In my heart I still loved the Shah, but witnessing the hatred and dissatisfaction of hundreds of thousands of Iranians marching on the streets, demanding the Shah’s abdication, was telling me that perhaps Iran was ready for a change, under someone who came from the people, and worked for the people. Could it truly be the end of the Shah’s dynasty? Has he really left for good? Will he ever return? People kept asking one another the same questions. The speculations were endless. Some believed that he would soon regain power with the help of the CIA, as he had in August 1953, claiming, “History repeats itself.”
The overall picture was as macabre as reading The Trial by Franz Kafka. Only this time, a kingdom was on trial by its own youth, demanding the king
Another friend of ours was Ali, whom we called Professor Ali for his endless knowledge in every field, especially in philosophy. Professor Ali believed the collusion between the clerics and the leftists may have been true, but it would be the clerics who would get rid of the leftists.
The rest of our friends joined us one by one during those revolutionary nights in Tehran. Among them was another of my closest friends, Margan. She was a petite beauty with a short, shiny black bob, and emerald green eyes. She and I checked after friends in different neighborhoods even after the curfew was passed. Margan had a Mini Minor, a British car, which we could drive through even the tiniest alleys in Tehran.
By the imposed martial law, everyone had to go home before nine o’clock in the evening, except for emergencies. But our gatherings started at nine o’clock, and we made up stories to tell the authorities if we ever got busted, such as “I’m visiting my father on his deathbed.”
Wherever we went, or whomever we visited, we could smell the fear, the fear of the unknown, the fear of losing one another and our country. The uncertainty filled the air, and nobody could trust anybody. The lights on the streets were turned off after nine o’clock, and power shortages added to the creepiness of the dark nights.
We kept having meetings and discussing politics in the candlelight, behind closed curtains, listening fearfully to the most popular slogan of the time, “Allah Akbar”—meaning “God is great”—from nearly every rooftop night after night.
I was visiting my colleagues and friends at the theater workshop where I started acting when I heard the Shah’s last speech on Iranian national radio. He urged Iranians to open their eyes and not to fall into the trap of fundamentalism. He promised everyone that he would do his best if his people stood by him. We all looked at one another, wanting to believe that everything would get back to normal under his power. But a thick cloud of doubt hung over our heads.
In a few weeks, the Shah left with tear gas in the air. This was January 1979. I will never forget his last gesture. He bent down and collected a bit of Iran’s soil before he flew off in his plane. He looked much older than his age. His eyes were filled with tears and disappointment. He was suffering from cancer, though none of us knew about it. It was truly heart-wrenching.
The rioters, mostly young men, were holding up enlarged copies of the morning headlines, stating in big black letters, THE SHAH HAS FLED IRAN . Students chanted in unison, “Allah Akbar, Khomeini Rahbar” (“God is great, Khomeini is our leader”). They were soon joined by the leftists, socialists, Communists, Islamic Marxists—and even the rightists. In my heart I still loved the Shah, but witnessing the hatred and dissatisfaction of hundreds of thousands of Iranians marching on the streets, demanding the Shah’s abdication, was telling me that perhaps Iran was ready for a change, under someone who came from the people, and worked for the people. Could it truly be the end of the Shah’s dynasty? Has he really left for good? Will he ever return? People kept asking one another the same questions. The speculations were endless. Some believed that he would soon regain power with the help of the CIA, as he had in August 1953, claiming, “History repeats itself.”
The overall picture was as macabre as reading The Trial by Franz Kafka. Only this time, a kingdom was on trial by its own youth, demanding the king
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