Gifted: a memoire (یادنامه ایرج برومند موسس سازمان ملی پرورش استعدادهای درخشان - سمپاد) 9781706262749

Table of contents :
FOREWORD
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1: My Family
CHAPTER 2: My Education
CHAPTER 3: Returning Home
CHAPTER 4: The Appointment
CHAPTER 5: The Audience
CHAPTER 6: A Season of Change
CHAPTER 7: The Day I Was Arrested
EPILOGUE
APPENDIX

Citation preview

GIFTED A MEMOIRE

Iraj Broomand, PhD

Copyright © 2019 Catherine Broomand All Rights Reserved ISBN-9781706262749

FOREWORD

Iraj and I met at Pittsburg State University in the summer of 1963, when I was home from college for summer break. I was delighted when he asked me to go to a summer musical which was produced by the music department. We had such a nice time, but he spent a lot of the evening telling me why he could not get married (on our first date!). I assumed that was the end of the relationship, but when he walked me to the door, he asked me on another date, and we continued to see each other for the rest of the summer. In the fall, I returned to the University of Missouri. We kept in touch and wrote regularly for the next year. He didn’t ask me to marry him. In December 1964, Iraj went to my father and asked his permission then he said to me “We’re going to get married. OK?” We were married in June of 1965, after we both graduated from college. Little did I know what adventures we would have together over the next 54 years.

The first adventure was our honeymoon trip to see Iran and meet his family. They made such an effort to make my stay wonderful and they succeeded. We went from Shiraz to see the amazing Persepolis, then Isfahan, Qom and the Caspian. We saw mountains, deserts, the sea, beautiful gardens hidden behind tall walls, the bazaar and all its mysteries, football (I had never seen a soccer game before), narrow crowded streets, beautiful sprawling tree lined boulevards, and the unbelievable traffic. I should have known then that we would not be living a quiet, ordinary life. There we so many amazing times and so many stories and so many more adventures. Our life together was full of marvelous and sometime frightening chapters many of which you will read in this book. I would be remiss in not telling that our children and grandchildren were the loves of his life. He was so proud of their accomplishments and so concerned when things didn’t quite go the way they wanted. He was especially pleased that our daughter-in-law Catherine, agreed to edit and help him complete this book in his final days. Thank you, Catherine! Iraj was an inspiration to so many people. In addition to the schools and his mental health clinic, his leadership included encouraging many staff members—including myself—to get a doctorate degree or to enroll in college programs. He was also a dedicated servant to his community by serving on countless committees, serving on the local school board, being a member of the city council and eventually becoming mayor of our little city. Unfortunately, he was unconscious for the last few days of his life. We didn’t get to talk with him, but we all shared our love and admiration in our own way. Many of his friends and former students sent their thoughts and good wishes to help make his final days peaceful. I hope you will enjoy reading this book and hearing his perspective on some of the chapters of his life. -Caroline Broomand

PROLOGUE Much of what you are going to read in this abridged memoir is based on my notes which I diligently took during each significant event of my life. A good part of it pertains to the period following the conclusion of my formal educational pursuit and should be fairly accurate. It also spills over to my return to Iran from the United States after an extended period abroad. Obviously, these writings which deal with my early years are primarily based on the reconstruction of events either as I remember them, or as it is customary, were recounted by others. I have neither any recorded references nor can I swear to their accuracy because of the bias of people with whose love and affection I was blessed. However, I have tried like the dickens to be as factual and honest as possible. Not only have I tried hard to refrain from unnecessary embellishments, I have deliberately forgone mentioning certain events in detail, and some not at all, in the interest of reliability. Nevertheless, were I to deal with memories of my childhood, even recalling of adolescent years and some of my adult life faithfully, experiences can still be affected by distortions of perception that alter reality and provide contradictory narratives which bias recall of events in our favor. And despite my desperate efforts to the contrary, I am sure that I am guilty of that. Sometimes such distortions are not a deliberate attempt to make us look better than what we are, it is just because, subconsciously, you would have perceived them in such a way, or perhaps it is the way you wanted them to be. Research shows that often eyewitness accounts of an event are not commensurate with the facts surrounding those events. In this regard, however, while the memories of my childhood could be distorted, nevertheless, they are not going to change the realities as I vividly remember. Knowing the perception of reality is every bit as real to the person who experiences it as the reality itself

particularly when they are backed by repeated embellishment of recall. Knowing about the influence of your value system on your behavior in later life, I know now those values which I internalized in my younger years in many ways molded me into who I am today and gelled into a coherent philosophy by which I try to conduct my life. In other words, they have molded my personality to what I have evolved into and what I will be shaped into as a human becoming. I credit my parents for the positive parts as they never forced us to do anything but set forth an unmistakable model for a gaggle of seven kids to follow. I also blame some of my shortcomings on the negative influence of my limited analytical and intellectual ability to correctly distinguish between right and wrong and the subjectivity of good and bad. I hope you do not require me to apologize for the life I have lived, nor do I intend to abandon adherence to their philosophy or behavioral modeling during the rest of the life ahead of me whatever is remaining of it. I may, however, be a bit more reluctant to engage in some of my youthful behavior because I am a little more experienced and hopefully a bit more mature to sift through my behavior. But don’t expect me to be anyone other than myself from now on because this old dog resists learning new tricks. With that said, when reading this memoire, you may encounter things with which you may disagree, or with which you don’t find yourself comfortable, particularly later in these writings. Some of you may disagree with the degree of credit given to a lot of other people, dead or alive, with whom you are politically or philosophically at odds. You may disagree with my political beliefs and the way I have presented them. I also know that there are those who are critical of the whole idea of giftedness and what they think about our programs and our emphasis on the exceptionally superior mind, based on their philosophical convictions. I fervently hope you will at least afford me credit for my honesty and consider the merits of scientifically valid human differences and the logic of what I have observed in my studies, my own research and repeated

observations, as the basis of my unapologetic thinking and even my strong convictions, shaped by such experiences. Some of what I have experienced firsthand and some of what you will read may be different or diametrically opposed to your convictions or frame of reference. Even if you ideologically disagree with me, it really doesn’t matter, since at this juncture in my life I am neither likely, nor willing, to change anything I have done, even if I could. Whatever I have inadvertently experienced in the course of my growth, whatever I have decidedly experienced, never have been for glory but for cause, a cause which I have found, in my own view, worthy enough to which I could proudly dedicate myself. In order to understand me and my life one must become familiar with all the events, good and bad and anything in between. All the social conditions of my upbringing, the values that I inherited from my family, and the influence of the dominant culture, both at home and abroad have helped me in my journey as a human becoming. I am therefore going to briefly introduce them to you, the reader, if you like, because it is the story of my life the way I lived it. So, here is my life story, according to the way I can recall, or as it must have really been.

CHAPTER 1 MY FAMILY

L

et me tell you about the salient components of that personality structure which I call ‘Me.’ I still like to help people without boasting about it. I don’t lose respect for any other fellow human becoming no matter how different her or his ideas may be from mine, with one exception and that is when they knowingly behave in a way to hurt someone else. I like to help others to get ahead in their lives in any way I can even at my own expense, if I truly believe they are more qualified or more deserving than I am. I would rather be constructive and build than be a destructive spoiler. In my view, saying this is not to brag about myself, because I am ordinarily not a bragger. I believe in these values which make me proud to consider them the principles I learned from my parents and which were reinforced by all of my siblings including my younger ones as a result of a circle of love and affection which encompassed my family as far back as I can remember. The mutuality of family welfare was a source of strength for each member of the family in the face of any hardship or any need no matter what. In fact, there wasn’t a need required to keep us tied together. We didn’t need to be in proximity of one another to feel this support system or certainty of love for each other to have this unspoken mutual bond which strengthened our independence and stability. It was the most valuable asset that empowered us with the needed self-

confidence to forge ahead in the face of all challenges, and to move ahead in any endeavor in which we were engaged. I am to this date thankful and indebted for the invaluable, direct or indirect lessons but also the support I have received from all my family and particularly my sisters. Had it not been for their selfless support and their uncommon sacrifices throughout my life, I would have not been able to achieve what I have until now. *** Going back to the earliest stage of my life, I was the fifth of five children, with three girls and two boys before me. However, the oldest brother died at the age of two-years as a result of a heart wrenching accidental burn from boiling water on the stove, which was being prepared for the morning breakfast tea. This happened almost twelve years before I was born. I was born on May 30, 1932 and was told that I was a huge baby at birth weighing a bit over 5 kilograms. Others considered this a miracle, a monstrously huge animal for a woman who was so dainty as my 4-foot, 10-inch mom. In spite of this ugly phenomenon, she did not throw me in the trash can or bitterly complain at the time of my birth. According to my father, she did not even stop there until she had given birth to two more children—another girl and a boy, in that order, three and six years after my arrival. The family had grown to nine. We came from a middle-class family, four of us in the city of Masjed Suleiman and the eldest sister in Kazeroon. The city of my birth was the first hub of the Anglo Iranian Oil Company, a subsidiary of ‘British Petroleum’ in the southern part of Iran. Before the arrival of the youngest two, but even, I must say, as an adolescent and adult, I was and am being gently spoiled by my late parents until their passing away, and my older sisters, with unconditional love, affection and generosity as though I am still the baby of the family. I was often told that I was the gentlest and lovable one who would have a good future ahead, which I didn’t quite understand when I was

younger. Nevertheless, I developed a fairly healthy self-image. These positive remarks were made so often that I had no choice but to believe I was better than average. As a result, I tried to meet those expectations and respond in kind to affection, friendliness and politeness. More importantly, it gave me a strong but quiet sense of self confidence and belief that nothing could possibly stop me from becoming successful. As a result of this appreciation, I didn’t have a need to be arrogant, a jerk or demanding. In listening to my parents’ and older siblings’ loving treatment and affection, I inherently didn’t need to act as a brat or unnecessarily spoiled or burdensome. As the baby of the family, I was showered with unconditional love by my parents and my older siblings. Even my older brother Hooshie, whose position as the youngest child I had stolen without his permission, became my best friend and admired role-model as soon as I was able to mouth a few simple words and take a few wobbly steps. He was funny and innovative, a fearless playmaker who was a lot of fun to be with even when I knew that he may put us both in trouble. He was very creative. Sometimes dangerously creative. However, knowing that I had my parents’ forgiving protection, I had no problem willingly participating in his bold games. I soon realized that if I was to have his love and affection, I had to accept responsibility for his mischievous antics and follow him in whatever he wanted me to do and say, even if I knew I shouldn’t. And if I was reluctant to follow his request for participation, he would convince me by saying that he was going to let the coyotes and wolves eat him up. To a naïve three or four-year-old the prospect of losing him that way was unthinkable. It was too much to fathom for a young mind, particularly when we could hear the wolves and coyotes howling every night. All in all, he was my first teacher, mentor and guide. He never asked me directly to do anything troublesome. He would do it and I would follow him as his accomplice and the scapegoat. I looked up to him with awe. When I was six and Hooshie eight-years-old, he asked me to accompany him across the street from our house to the

stables. The stables housed cows, horses, and baby boars. In order to protect the building and keep the temperature cool it was covered in reeds. Hooshie decided that the piles of wheat and barley that were kept in the silo needed to be cleaned out, so he grabbed a container of gasoline, doused a large pile of the grains, grabbed a match and lit it. The flames erupted toward the ceiling. Of course, my father who was the fire captain, could see the flames from his office across the street and soon fire trucks and firefighters descended upon the building. To avoid detection, Hooshie and I ran to hide in the silos adjacent to the stable where we had hidden many times before. He hid in the silo where the feed grains were stored, and I hid in an empty water tank. Eventually, one of the firefighters found Hooshie and he made sure they knew where I was. And it was a good thing because the water tank was so hot that if I had not been rescued, I probably would have died in there. Obviously, my father was very upset about this, not only because the fire had been set but also for endangering the animals. There were other incidents like this with Hooshie and each time I would follow my big brother into mischief, and my father would respond not with physical punishment but in a way that was sufficient for him to look at you and make you really ashamed of something bad you had done. Despite the fact that Hooshie’s schemes were sometimes dangerous, Hooshie was extremely protective of me. If anyone looked at me wrong, he would immediately come to my defense even if it meant getting physical. In school, corporal punishment was not unusual. Our principal carried a large three to four-foot-long pomegranate branch which he would tap on his pant leg. One day, while standing in line, the boy behind me pushed me and I fell to the ground. Hooshie saw and came charging over, punched him in the nose and the boy’s nose began bleeding. The principal asked him why and Hooshie responded, “Because he was aggressive to my brother and I did not like it.” The principal looked at me and said, “As long as you were protecting that angel, I won’t punish you this time, but if you do that again you better be careful.”

As Hooshie grew up, his penchants for trouble subsided and he instead harnessed his creativity. After leaving the Air Force to help care for the family after my father’s illness, Hooshie, now a young man, used his creative talents to develop molds and began making jewelry, hair clips and even plates out of plastic, which was at the time not something that existed in the country. I remember the first thing he made was a small dog that you could wear as a pin on your clothing. He was semi-successful in this endeavor, but people still preferred the traditional adornments and china. Hooshie then moved on to become successful in pharmaceutical sales and, ultimately, found great satisfaction raising animals and running a pet store. There was nothing like that in Tehran, so this was an opportunity for Hooshie again to be very creative. Hooshie had always loved animals and now he was able to breed different animals and sell them in his pet shop. He was very successful and even the royal court became one of his biggest customers buying horses, dogs, and cats from Hooshie and his associates. One of my favorite memories is the macaw that greeted customers by saying, “Welcome to the pet shop.” People would come from all over just to hear the talking bird. Hooshie’s death at the age of 42 was devastating news to me. I was living in the United States at the time and my brother-in-law Peter called to tell me. All my memories with Hooshie passed before my eyes when I heard the news.

Back row: Iran, Hooshie, Taji, Mommy (Beigum), Papajon (Amanollah), Iraj, Fakhry. Front Row: Pouri, Touraj

***

My dad who had been the fire chief in Masjid Suleiman, where six of us had been born was transferred to Haft-Kel and given the title of Regional Fire and Security Chief for all of the oil fields and the company’s extensive facilities between Haft-Kel (Meaning Seven Monuments) and Gachsaran in South East Iran. A few weeks before his actual formal appointment, we went to visit the company house which was going to be our domicile for the next few years. The house was enormous. It was sitting on a fenced-in lot of about four or five acres of land and initially built as an adjoining duplex with a long and deep backyard. It housed two kitchens, two-bathroom facilities and two living quarters for domestic help. There was a large walled-in backyard between the main house and the buildings in the back of the house which backed to an alley separating the house from the company’s transportation department and auto mechanic shops. This was about it. There was nothing else to make us feel that either we belonged to that house or that the house could be a part of us, at least not yet. However, my dad had some ideas as usual for upgrading the whole area, beyond the fence which to us appeared a barren, god-forsaken piece of deserted land. He understood our disappointment and advised us to be patient. He wanted us not to rush to judgment so quickly. That was always his advice and many a time he proved us wrong on our quick judgements, without putting us down. His approach was always informative and educational instead of critical and demeaning. One of the advantages of the house was its proximity to a huge fire station which was compartmentalized into four different sections where his office and those of his deputies were located. Looking to the right of the offices were another structure which housed four or five fire engines, some British-designed sedans and what were called ‘Seven Seaters’ vehicles. His office was located such that he could see the house from behind his desk and through a large window which overlooked the house. Since there was nothing else to obstruct his view it, in theory, prevented my brother and me from engaging in any mischief.

I should correct myself about nothing else being around. Across the road in front of the house was a gas station which was company-owned and where we filled up our car almost every week. Behind the house was the fenced-in company transportation department that not only housed literally hundreds of company-owned old and new vehicles but also several bays of repair sections with hydraulic jacks. There were of course the administration offices and a huge parts department. Beyond that was a large corrugated sheet metal building that everyone called “the workshop.” Beyond the garage and behind the workshop was the ice plant, which supplied every home with ice for their insulated ice box, before we got our first refrigerator with a cooling system on top. The refrigerator was a noisy one but the whole system was far better than the old icebox. Beyond these facilities and across the road that separated the ice plant from the mechanical complex were all the necessary auto maintenance sections of the company’s huge garage, housing many unassigned cars and across from that we circle back to the enormous regional fire station and my dad’s offices. Then came the dispensary and the pharmacy and a whole lot of other housing for junior and senior staff as well as the school we were supposed to attend. The grounds in that area also included a club house with its own bar, the restaurant, the library, billiard room, ping pong area, and tennis courts where spectators could watch tennis players and tournaments with its covered section under a canopy with an outdoors observation section which ran across the clubhouse structure, ending at the swimming pool area which was lushly covered with Bermuda grass. Way beyond the clubhouse, the houses, and the school, on the top of a hill was a series of one-story houses for the British employees of the company. Incidentally, beyond the point between the industrial and mechanical complex across the street which separated the industrial section from the rest was the company store for senior staff, beyond which a development of several houses close to the main power station and the electrical grids, which was housed in a locked stone building. The building was also fortified and fenced in to

prevent unauthorized access, particularly curious boys like my brother and me who wanted to know what was hidden behind every closed structure. On the left side of all of this was an indoor-outdoor theater with a wood floor to accommodate Badminton players and a stage for live performances. The large hall was also used as an assembly room which doubled as a dance floor during large parties and was separated from the stage by a thick, maroon colored, velvet curtain, which aroused our curiosity as well. We desperately wanted to explore the area just because it could be used as a good hiding place. We didn’t see any of these inviting places the day we looked at our future home. I assume the reason my dad did not explain or even show everything to us was because he wanted to surprise us when we moved in. About a year or two later, I realized that this was also to be a lesson to make the move a bit more palatable. We still had a few weeks to get comfortable with being uprooted as a result of moving but there was another reason that I found out about later and that was to teach us “that with patience comes rewards.” Because after the move our life was far more enjoyable and richer. And truth be told, he was perceptive and correct in his predictions. Finally, the day came and the company trucks, which were called lorries, arrived and took everything with them. We all piled up in two cars, heading west towards our new life and its rewarding childhood. That was our first big move that I could remember. We had no clue as to what lay ahead, particularly for us kids, and what our destiny would be. *** The family continued its life in Haft-Kel before my brother and I were sent to Masjed Suleiman and then to Abadan for continuation of our schooling at a bigger and better educational institution. We spent a couple of years in Abadan when we were both accepted at Abadan Technical Institute, a highly regarded institution run by the oil company. However, we decided not to attend and instead enrolled in the high

school there in Abadan. It was during the second year of our residency that my father had a stroke and was severely paralyzed on the left side of his body. As a result, he retired from his position with the oil company. In the summer of 1950, as soon as he regained relative control of his body, my father decided to move the family to Tehran, where he had bought a house in a new development a couple of years before his stroke. Obviously, the whole family approved wholeheartedly of the move. My brother and I quit school and, although my brother joined the Air Force, I enrolled at the local Alborz high school. After my father’s illness, I decided to stay with the family and continue my schooling in Tehran. We were in Tehran for about a year when my dad had his second stroke and died. This was an emotionally devastating event and a horrendous emotional blow which practically incapacitated me and rendered me unable to concentrate on anything, including my studies and schoolwork. I was 18 years old and in high school at that time. The shock of losing my father had been so unbearable and the impact was so heavy on my shoulders that my life was turned upside down. I neither cared for anything nor could I possibly concentrate on my studies and dedicate myself to schoolwork. As a result of this aimlessness, my studies suffered greatly. I had to find a way to mask my strong reaction to the loss of my dad. To forget my wound, I became quite involved with an anticommunist group supporting the Nationalization of oil industries. While still in high school, I became so involved in the feverish political activities that my studies suffered, and I was in danger of completely dropping out of school. It was during this time that something in the back of my mind pushed me to finish high school. I was young and lost, yet I still had a great deal of my life ahead of me and a whole lot of ambition. The thought of achieving a dream was the strongest motivation that masked all other earthly plans. My whole dream of becoming an effective person depended on convincing myself to complete high school if my dream was to materialize. And realization of that fact started to occupy my mind, but it was

easier to think about that than to overcome the psychological barrier with which I was struggling. However, that psychological barrier had also a strong ring to it that repeatedly alerted me about what my father constantly hammered into my head. “You have to continue your education. No matter what happens in your life you don’t give up trying.” That was a strong motivational factor for me to seriously try to whip myself into shape and forced me to think more seriously about going abroad for that purpose. I needed to get a job and make some money to save for this purpose even though I knew I could count on my family for support.

CHAPTER 2 MY EDUCATION

A

fter I finally finished high school, I had several job offers. Over the ensuing years, I held positions as an elementary school assistant principal, a drug company sales representative, a regional sales director for Max Factor Hollywood and another small pharmaceutical company, none of which satisfied my thirst for higher achievement but nevertheless provided me with opportunities for great challenges and personal growth. One such opportunity was for Squibb & Sons Pharmaceutical. As part of that position, I was charged with handling the Johnson & Johnson and Revlon accounts. During that period, there was a Dutchman that had come over from Turkey and was representing the manufacturers at Squibb. At the time, we had a lot of expired ophthalmologic tubes. One day, when I went down to get some samples to visit the doctors, I noticed that there were a couple of people sitting there with a large bin of water soaking the labels off the expired tubes and replacing them with new labels. I was so upset about this that I went to Habib Sabet the head of the company. Habib Sabet was not only responsible for importing pharmaceuticals for Squibb, he was a huge leader in the business community and owned wholly or in partnership about forty of the largest companies throughout Iran. Habib Sabet was involved in the auto trade, woodworking and manufacturing, airplanes, heavy machinery, agriculture machinery, banking, importing and was responsible for introducing television broadcasting to Iran. But I barged right into his office and said, “This is criminal. This is criminal because this is an eye product, and this could blind people. I will not take this. You either order them to stop this or I will file a complaint with the Attorney General.” And then I walked out. About half an hour later, my direct boss came to my office and asked to see me. I sat down in his office and he said to

me, “I just want to talk to you like a father and his son.” And I responded, “Well thank you for giving me the honor of being my father.” He was being very respectful. “Well, listen, I was told that you were disrespectful to the boss, the owner.” “I was not disrespectful. I simply told him the truth, that I would not take this because I will not be participating in this criminal activity and he obviously knew about this and he had sanctioned that. And, therefore, I went directly to him and asked him to stop that.” “He said you threatened him.” I said, “Yes, I did threaten him, and I told him if he did not stop this, I will file a lawsuit.” He said, “Are you really trying to do this?” I said, “Yes, I am not a dog on a leash. And I am not going to do whatever I am told to do.” He said, “Let me tell you something. If you are working somewhere and you are working like a dog and you tolerate it, you’ll get used to it and you’ll become a dog.” I said, “Well, not me. Either it will be done the way I said it will be done or I will resign.” I left the meeting, walked to my office and wrote my resignation letter. I was 19 years old. *** After Squibb, I applied for a job at Max Factor Hollywood. The interview itself is one of the things I remember. They handed me broken glass in a piece of paper and ask me to sell it to them. I thought for a moment and then knocked on the table and asked to come in. I said, “I have something for you I think you will really like. I am representing a jewelry company and I know you are selling jewels. Let me show you something.” I very carefully lifted the package from my briefcase. “Before I open this up, I must tell you that you may not realize this, but these are pieces of polished diamond.” It all just started coming out. I had no idea where it was coming from, but it seemed to flow. I asked, “How much would you give me for this?” They offered me

the job on the spot along with what was a huge salary for a young guy and more then what I was making at Squibb. I immediately began traveling the country training for my new role which also included learning how to apply makeup. One of my earliest subjects was a trio of nuns who came in for a makeover and were delighted with their new faces. My initial goal set by the company was to sell about $1,000,000 worth of merchandise for the year. So, I decided to travel to Lebanon where I would spend a couple of weeks calling on shops and trying to secure contracts with stores, I was familiar with from my days at Squibb. My instinct paid off and I was able to secure several contracts totaling about $1,000,000 and a standing order for the next six months’ worth about $6,000,000! I always thought I’d be a good car salesman. *** While I was working at Max Factor, I enrolled in University studying both law and English literature. It was still in the back of mind that one day I would go study abroad. The final catalyst came one day when I was about 26 years old. I was playing volleyball on campus between classes with some friends when the ball fell into the center of a beautiful garden with a statue in the center. The area was round with flowers on the perimeter, grass in the center and the statue as the focal point. To retrieve the ball, I had to walk through the flowers to the grass area. The vice-chairmen of the Department of Literature saw me and ran over, stepped into the center grass where I was retrieving the ball and yelled, “Do you know who steps on the grass like that?” I said, “No, please tell me.” He said, “The donkeys.” “Then why are you in here?” I asked. Oh boy, that really created havoc. “To hell with you and your University.” I said. That was it for me and at that point I knew I had to go to the United States. I knew that those who had gone to the United States and returned were getting very good jobs in Iran. My English

had improved greatly through my experiences at Squibb and Max Factor as well as University. And I was beginning to feel like all my friends had degrees in law, engineering, in literature and I thought, What the hell is wrong with me? Why shouldn’t I be one of them? Throughout the years, I had several good friends who were attending Pittsburg State University, Kansas, and they were encouraging me to join them. So, in the summer of 1959, it was decided. I took some time to travel around Europe with a friend of mine who worked with me at Squibb. He was a well-traveled, welleducated person who spoke several languages including French and German. He served as my tour guide. One night, he told me he was going to take me somewhere I would like. As we were walking down the street in Germany, there were half naked prostitutes. He then took me to a nightclub with hundreds of booths and a vast stage. There were dancing fountains with changing colors. The booths had columns on the corner that were numbered with tubes. Each table had note paper and pencils. You could write a note to any table and send it through the tube to that table. The other nightclub was one in which the women asked the men to dance. We were nicely dressed, handsome guys. Every time the music stopped; we were inundated with women. While we didn’t live in the religious area of Iran and I had a girlfriend at the time, this was definitely a different experience then I was accustomed to. In Iran, you had a girlfriend and the whole idea was you had a girlfriend; you were going to get married. Love is ultimate imperative in Iranian culture. That was a fun summer. But then I returned to Iran, broke up with my girlfriend and left for the United States. *** It was 1960 and my first day of classes at Pittsburg State University in Kansas. Little did I know, but several important life events were about to unfold during my time here. During high school, I developed a proclivity for politics during my attempted distraction from my father’s death. Now I would explore that further in several very rewarding positions. First, I decided to run for president of the International Club. There

were at least 23 nationalities represented in that club and many Iranians including some of my old friends. One of the other presidential hopefuls, a boy named Samad, was another Iranian who encouraged several of my Persian friends to ask me not to run since Samad had been there longer and it was his last year. I refused to withdraw from the race and said, “I’ll either win or I’ll lose.” I ended up winning the election which allowed me to get to know the faculty quite well. From there, I was subsequently elected president of People to People, a cultural exchange program founded by President Eisenhower in 1956 as a diplomatic alternative to the Cold War. Walt Disney, who was one of the founding directors of People to People, drew inspiration from the initiative to create It’s a Small World. While I was president of People to People at Pittsburg State, President Eisenhower and Walt Disney invited all the People to People Presidents from the universities in Kansas to meet with them. Because of my presidencies in several on-campus organizations, I was often asked to speak at various events or to various groups in the community. One of the speaking engagements offered to me was at the Church of Jesus Christ Fire and Baptist Church around Christmas. Usually, we received about $10 per speaking engagement which was a good amount of money for a student whose tuition was $89 per semester. On this particular day, the pastor told me to make sure to include something about how difficult it is to be away from home during Christmas. So, I got up and went out in front of the curtain and there were these large decorations hanging from the ceiling all around. I began to speak off the cuff; I don’t recall what I said exactly. But then I looked up, clasped my hands in front of me and said, “God,” I really don’t remember what I said next, but when I clasped my hands, looked up, and said “God,” all of the decorations came tumbling down onto the stage and all over the congregation! There was incredible commotion. They collected so much money that night that I received $100. And every time they invited me to speak after that I said no because I knew I could not repeat that performance.

Despite the highlights of this year, I also developed a serious illness during which time I was hospitalized for two months. The doctors did not expect I would live and even contacted the Dean of Students since I did not have family in the country. However, I did recover and went on to complete both my undergraduate and master’s degrees in psychology. I was also involved in supporting many liberal causes such as marching for civil rights and opposing the Vietnam War. It wasn’t all work and political activity. I did manage some time for leisure and enjoyment. I met my wife, Caroline Bush, who was home for the summer visiting her parents. Toward the end of my master’s program, I attended a lecture by Dr. Bill Gardner, the head of the Department of Psychology at the University of Wisconsin, who became a major influential authority in the field of intellectual and developmental disabilities. At the time, there were two programs in the Department of Psychology at Pittsburg State College, a traditional psychology and a behavioral psychology program based on Skinner’s behaviorism. During Dr. Gardner’s lecture, I asked him several questions. One of the questions I asked him had to do with whether there was a way to reconcile some of the issues of traditional psychology with behavioral psychology and cognition. I gave him several different examples of why I asked that question. After the meeting, he came to my office and asked, “How would you like to come to Wisconsin for your doctorate?” I said, “I’ll have to come and take a look at the place.” Although the center was a major university center, one of the largest of its kind in the country, it was housed in the basement of an apartment building. In order to entice me they said, “We won’t be here for a long time.” And they put a building plan in front of me for a huge center called the Harry Waisman Center, named after the original director of the research center, and said, “You are going to be a major component of that.” And I was. ***

I ultimately obtained a Ph.D. from The University of Wisconsin in Madison, Wisconsin with a specialization in Psychology of Behavioral Disabilities and Human Development. This was a highly rewarding experience for me, even before I obtained my doctoral degree. During this time, I was treated not as just another graduate student, but in many ways, both educationally and socially, as a faculty member. The reason was that I had brought with me a rich clinical and research experience from Parsons State Hospital and Training Center and reputable affiliated clinical and research establishments, but also because my age put me somewhat on par with the rest of the faculty. These advantages were instrumental in my selection as the Chairman of The Behavioral Disabilities Section of the University’s Center for Human Development, even before I formally acquired my license. It was in that position that I was honored first as the President of the Madison Area Center for Rehabilitation of the Retarded Persons and soon after as the State Chairman of Behavior Therapies Association. I was also concurrently appointed as the Clinical Director of the Rehabilitation Center. Meanwhile, I was elected as the Chairman of the Committee for the Development of the “Twenty Year Plan” for the Center, while I started working on the development of a private practice.

CHAPTER 3 RETURNING HOME

I

n January of 1974, at the age of 42, I received an invitation to join the Ministry of Health and Social Relief Services in Iran, to head the Rehabilitation Department, which was right up my alley. I went to visit and assess the situation. I had a royal reception by the Minister and his Deputies in a get acquainted session in the huge office of the Minister. After that glorious reception, I decided to accept the invitation on the spot, and move my family which now included my daughter Anahita, 2, and son Hooshie, 1, and as much of my household belongings back to Iran. I went back to consult my wife whom I knew would support me with all her heart as she had always done. She also got excited, as I had anticipated. So, the deal was sealed. Soon after that, we put our house on the market and arranged for international movers to come and pack all our household belongings, lock stock and barrel. We bought a Cadillac as by law all returning students were entitled to a taxfree car as an incentive for repatriation. The anticipation and the excitement of our pending move with my family were palpable. We bought our air tickets and arranged for conversion of our appliances from 110 volts to 220 volts. Everything was to be shipped on ocean liner to arrive at customs soon after our arrival in Tehran. However, we heard nothing about our belongings, including the new Cadillac, for over six months after our arrival because, we were told, the shipping company had not properly addressed the recipient. Therefore, they sat in the customs yard in Khorramshahr under the scorching sun, boiling in salty and humid vapors. Most of the packaging and their contents and literally thousands of books, both professional and nonprofessional, the books that I had collected throughout my life in the United States, were destroyed either aboard the ocean going cargo ships, by the salty sea water or by the scorching sun. Our car did not have a

better fate than our books, partly due to its sitting on the open deck of the cargo ship and partly at the customs yard for months under the sun. Thanks to the kindness of my sister the car was restored almost to its original state after days of rubbing and polishing the salty soot. However, it seemed to be also partially cannibalized between the US and the time it went through restoration. Tehran is a fascinating city if you look at the incredible contrast from south to north and east to west particularly for outsiders but also for locals. Like New York City, Tehran never sleeps. The old part of town, the Bazaar, the mosques, the museums, the multitudes of restaurants, shops and street peddlers selling anything from tea to refreshing drinks and fruit juices to freshly caught sturgeon and unmatched Persian caviar(or as it is better known in the west as Russian caviar which is neither Russian nor caviar). The bazaar is particularly mind boggling when you look at it closely. It is not only the center of commerce but also the hub of political intrigue and religious activity. During this period of transition, my family and I spent our lives with my generous and kind sister Fakhry and her husband Peter in their beautiful house in a posh district of Shemiran, where all the neighbors were either high class foreign consultants or highly educated wealthy Iranians. This type of environment gave us a sense of social entitlement which drove us to look for a residence in another part of the city. Although most of such houses were either occupied by their owners or wealthy renters, we found an acceptable residence on the first floor of a decent family building area not too far from my sister’s. This was about twenty-five kilometers from the Ministry of Health and Welfare. I was not assigned a car by the Ministry immediately, so my other generous sister Iran loaned us one of her cars to meet our transportation needs. We tried to meet our survival needs as best we could until we found a larger place in the same section of North Shemiran. The day we moved from Shemiran to the heart of the city and closer to the Ministry to occupy an office and start work in the Rehab Department was when I learned the real meaning of

disappointment for the first time since I had decided to return home. Although not the last of more disappointing events. I was told by the deputy minister in charge of the rehab section of the Ministry that my salary was going to be a whopping eight thousand tumans a month, about eleven hundred American dollars. While it was a miserable amount, it wasn’t as shocking as the next news. He looked at some papers in front of him and said, “Since there is no vacant room in the building to be used for an office, a desk and a chair will be placed in the wide corridor of the building until such a time when one becomes available.” Which I thought was never going to happened. However, my response was not as negative as the ones that came later. This, however, was a blow to my high hopes that I had been indulging since I had met with the minister and his deputies. However, it reminded me of what my father in his unlimited wisdom had told me several decades before. “You will experience setbacks many times in your life. Don’t let them stop you from moving forward. Just remember there are possibilities of many successes in the future. Don’t let one defeat cloud your judgment and prevent you from seeing the future possibilities and what could be. Always be prepared for both of them.” My first few months at the Ministry of Health and Social Welfare were not as encouraging as I had hoped. So, I decided to let the higher ups, particularly the most powerful deputy minister in charge, who had initially invited me back to Iran, know about it. I emphasized it with my decision to resign and go back to the United States. This was contrary to the Shah’s explicit order for dealing with returnees. The next day, after a visit by the powerful deputy minister to the Department of Rehabilitation, I asked for a meeting. He invited me to ride back to his office with him and talk in the car. After getting in the car, without any preamble, I said, “I would like to resign and return to the United States.” He asked me why and I gave him my reasons and told him that not only were none of the promises I was given carried out but also how shabbily I was treated by his counterpart at the Department. As soon as we got out of the car and into his

office, he asked me if I would like to stay on as the Chief of Education and Training of the Ministry with about a 30% increase in salary and benefits. This was a huge change. The Ministry was hiring a substantial number of physicians and nurses as well as other professionals from various countries and they needed training in many areas, mostly Farsi speaking for the health workers who were to provide health services to a rural population in a vast number of the nation’s geographic areas. This was among several very important priority projects close to the heart of the highest authority in the land. A universal health and education goal to be achieved at any cost covering every male and female individual. I had come back to serve my people in the best possible manner and the most effective way. This was a part of what the nation needed the most and I was asked to be a part of it. I didn’t need to think too hard, so the answer was YES.

Iraj, Anahita, Caroline, and Hooshie

*** The recruitment of physicians and nurses had already begun and three physicians Drs. Amanpour, Hovick and Fahimi had been assigned to the projects training portion which was now to be headed by me. There was an enormous resistance to this appointment from the old timers, so I was told that I needed to work with the three men as a quartet rather than as the director of the project. It wasn’t an issue open to negotiation. It was much more important to just satisfy one man’s ego. It was the enormity of the need of the nation

who needed more than just a band aid on the health problems of a nation of thirty-five million. And that was far greater than even the inflated egos of any one of us. I decided to accept the challenge and started working on the training of planning an Emergency Medical Team. The project had been started with the employment of three members of a Texas-based EMT group. The team members were all monolingual English-speaking people. There were two issues that required immediate attention even before the training started. The basic use of medical information by the newly hired Iranian team, and skills in the use of medical equipment. Obviously, none of the hired people to be trained had any knowledge of Farsi or English medical terminology and none of the trainers were remotely familiar with the emergency problems and what to do with them when the time came. The solution was a bit less dire because several brand new and fully equipped Mercedes ambulances had already been purchased from Germany but unfortunately all the instructional material were in German. This problem was also resolved by a very talented multilingual physician friend of mine, Dr. Malek, who donated his time and efforts free of charge to the project. *** The project which had started with a lot of missing components started to gel together and proceed the way we had visualized. We had, thanks to Dr. Malek and some incredibly competent trainers, our first graduates a few months later. Many people including the Minister of Health and Social Services as well as Prime Minister Hovayda were invited to a graduation ceremony which included a demonstration of the competencies of the first newly graduated EMTs. I was designated to answer the questions from the invitees. The demonstration went impeccably as was planned. The prime minster was very pleased with the outcome and shook my hand, thanking me for the efforts. While still holding my hand, he turned to the minister saying, “I have read his books, where have you been hiding him?” I thanked him in return for his kind words and said, “None of this would have been

possible without the support and guidance of His Excellency Mr. Minister and all of these colleagues.” I named several of them who were close by. He shook everybody’s hands. We were all elated with the results of our collective efforts. That night, I was incredibly thankful for my life and my father’s words and for not giving up. I also thought that my future was going to be much brighter and more satisfying based on the strength of the Prime Minister’s remarks. When I finally fell asleep, I felt our decision to return to Iran was the right one, even though I did not know what was going to specifically happen. Nevertheless, my night was a tremendous one followed by a very comfortable sleep.

CHAPTER 4 THE APPOINTMENT

B

ecause of the success of the EMT program, several other program proposals I had submitted were getting close review. Regarding what happened next, and what really drove the following events, I think it is helpful to understand more about what was happening in the country. Mohammad Reza Pahlavi became the Shah of Iran during a power struggle between his father, then current Shah and Prime Minister Mohammad Mosaddegh. The Persian monarchy had ruled the country for nearly 2,500 years. During his reign from 19411979, Mohammad Reza Shah engaged in an aggressive modernization program which led to rapid urbanization and westernization. The program was economically successful leading to advances in agriculture and industry but also challenged long held traditional, conservative and religious beliefs. Under the Shah, education for all and civil rights for women became priorities. One of the proposals that I submitted involved the development of a program to identify, based on rigorous methods, the most highly intelligent students and provide them with educational programs by highly trained teachers. This program was well received by the Prime Minister and His Majesty and they were eager to move forward with its implementation. After an initial meeting with the Prime Minister to discuss the program, things moved with unprecedented speed. Not only was I to keep my office at the Ministry of Health and Social Welfare, but the Minister was ordered to provide me with everything I needed to start the project. This included the human resources, which the Ministry had in abundance as well as the necessary buildings for schools and central administration. At this time, the Ministry of Health and Social Welfare had merged with the Ministry of Health and was now named the Ministry of Health and Quality of Life. As a result, many of the employees of each ministry had to be either

retired or transferred to other organizations and my offices were to remain temporarily at the old Ministry of Health and Social Welfare building. The Minister, now in charge of the newly created Ministry also remained in his office. The Prime Minister had already allocated a substantial sum of funds out of his own budget and assigned one of his deputies, Hossein Rajabi, to manage the initial expenses and handle the bookkeeping out of his office. Moreover, the Ministries of Education as well as Science and Higher Education were instructed to approve the transfer of trained teachers to meet our immediate need. I was to meet with Reza Qotby, the Director of National Iranian Television, and Professor Fereshteh Ensha, a highly gifted scholar and niece of the Prime Minister who could talk with him any hour of the day or night. *** One morning, upon my arrival at the Ministry, my secretary informed me that the Minister wanted to meet with me. I went directly to his office where his Chief of Staff Javad Kalhor informed him of my arrival and was told to show me in. There were two other visitors in the room, both of whom stood up along with the Minister as I entered. He offered me a chair next to his desk and said, “We were just finishing up,” a signal that they should now leave. “I think congratulations are now in order, Mr. Assistant Prime Minister.” I was taken by surprise because no such matter had been discussed with me. I asked, “Who told you that?” “He did, about twenty minutes ago. He said he appointed you as his special assistant and to head the formation of an organization for identification and training of the bright and talented students.” He continued with a broad smile, “What can I do to help? Just anything to make it easier on you to perform this daunting mission. I know you can use a lot of it. This Ministry is at your disposal anytime and for anything.”

I thanked him for his generous offer and told him that I needed a couple of days to outline a plan of action and asked if he would be kind enough to have his secretary pencil me in for anytime on Saturday that would be convenient for him. *** On Wednesday of that week, following my Tuesday visit with the Prime Minister, I was in my office at about 6:45, when I got an urgent call from his office. My secretary, usually a bit nervous anyway, called me on the intercom and said in an excited and somewhat shaky voice, “Sir, His Excellency the Prime Minister himself is on the line.” This was not only utterly unheard of, it was against all official protocols for a man of his stature and position to call any one in my position, so far down the ladder of hierarchy. Ordinarily, the secretaries will make sure that the lower ranked person came on the line first. For a moment, I thought it was a bogus call and somebody was trying to pull my leg this early on a working day. A kind of practical joke friends pull on each other, particularly after all the fuss about my being Assistant to the Prime Minister. For usually the secretaries talked and if both parties were of same ranks, they would put them both on, simultaneously. Nevertheless, I pushed the button and calmly and casually, in a friendly tone of voice, said: “Good Morning to you, too, Sir.” It was very inappropriate and somewhat against the protocols to address a person of higher rank in this manner. I knew that, but hey, it didn’t occur to me that the man on the phone was really the Prime Minister. Much to my surprise, I immediately recognized his voice and the manner of addressing me, causing me to change my tone of voice and continued, “Mr. Prime Minister.” Without returning my greetings or any hesitation, he asked if I were dressed properly for an audience with His Majesty right away? “I am dressed as usual, Sir, in a dark work suit and white shirt.” I replied. “That’s much better than the way most of us in the Cabinet dress,” he retorted and continued to say, “Come to my office immediately. We have to be in his office before ten o’clock.”

“Do I need to bring anything, Sir?” “Just yourself and a clear head. Relax and be calm, be your usual self, and everything else will be fine. He doesn’t like insincere people. See you in fifteen minutes.” And he hung up. I took the comment of, “Be your usual self,” as a gracious compliment. His personal call and such a quick audience with His Majesty indicated the importance with which they both regarded this assignment. More important was the articulation of the implied confidence in my ability to perform this task with competence, hence such a speedy introduction to His Majesty. Ordinarily, you had to pass many tests before you proved you’re competent enough to be considered for a position of that significance and a responsibility of such magnitude. Despite his instruction to be myself, I found myself preoccupied with thoughts of how I could prove worthy of their confidence. What do either one of them know about my educational and experiential background that was sufficiently reliable to justify this appointment. This was not a repayment of a political I.O.U. I did not have all the connections that ordinarily promote you and push you up the ladder to such position. I had no credit to be cashed. I had not come from a highly prominent family with unlimited connections. The only prominent person I had met during these past few months who could have said anything complimentary about me to him was my sister’s boss, the eldest son of Princess Ashraf, His Highness Shahram Shafiq (Pahlavi Nia), with whom I had several casual discussions. I knew the Minister of Health did not have any reason to promote me, for he had tried to keep me on a short leash ever since I had started my work with the rehabilitation program. This was truly a dream come true for me, a dream that in one way or another I had secretly nurtured in the deepest layers of my subconscious since my high school days—a farfetched dream that someday I would make a real significant contribution to the advancement of human society. True, that it had started with a quixotic notion I would someday singlehandedly save the world, but as the old Persian saying goes, “Wishing is no vice for youth.” Or “Youth should not be

faulted for wishful thinking.” Moreover, that dream was well over a quarter of a century old and had gathered dust in the archives of my memory, though never completely buried and forgotten. Obviously, many things had happened to modify the go-italone part of the concept, but the whole idea was never completely erased from the slate of my consciousness. While the burning flame had subsided, and the passage of time had deposited a layer of ashes on it, it was never extinguished. It became a fire under the ashes of realism deposited by the vicissitudes of life, the recognition of my own limits along with objective appraisal of the enormity of the dream. It, however, required a bit of poking and some favorable wind to blow the ashes and uncover the quiet glow in my heart. I could now feel the energizing warmth of rekindled fire, being given the responsibility of forging the instruments necessary to make a difference. These would be the minds of tens of thousands of the most brilliant youngsters who have not been affected by the forces of corruption in society or having lost faith in ever being able to make a difference themselves. These thoughts, hopes and aspirations became more real, particularly after meetings with the Prime Minister and His Majesty. *** I quickly developed a deep appreciation and respect for the Prime Minister. I am sure that those who knew him, as I had come to, agree with me that the man himself was incredibly gifted. Not only was he intelligent, he had polished his intellect with a vast amount of diverse experience and acquired insight. He was an avid reader and a polyglot. He spoke several languages fluently. He had traveled all over the world since his childhood and had been exposed to various nuances of the cultures he had visited. All of that combined with a respectful sense of humor and incredible analytical quickness allowed him to evaluate each situation, make difficult decisions and provide sound solutions and logical advice on his feet. Obviously, his confidence in my ability to assume such an awe-inspiring responsibility had something to do with my

assessment of him. You are always deeply appreciative of the people of stature who affirm you as a worthy person, and for me that was the case in the beginning. But the more I got to know him and discover his sagacity the deeper my admiration for him grew, as a leader and a sagacious man which in all honesty had nothing to do with my personal biases. While he was not that much older than I was, I felt an affection for him that an admiring son would have for his father. And I loved and admired my father immensely. As I arrived at the Prime Minister’s compound, a smartly uniformed security guard approached the driver side of the car and said in a very respectful way, “How can I help you, sir?” while discretely looking inside. My driver who was by now familiar with the routine said in a barely audible voice, “His Excellency Dr. Broomand.” Obviously expecting us, the guard took one step back saluting with his right hand and showing him the way with his left toward the building. The car drove half-way around a large, meticulously designed and well maintained, circular flower bed and stopped at the foot of the wide semicircular, travertine stairways. A handsome, tall man clad in a standard, civilian, navy blue suit, white shirt and dark tie, came forward, opened the car’s rear door on the passenger side and held it by the handle until I got out. He then accompanied me up the few steps, to the large, open glass door of the split-level structure and into the spacious foyer of the building. Probably ten by fifteen meters, the floor was covered by a beautiful Persian carpet, which left about a meter on the four sides of the floor uncovered, showing the white marble floor. Right on the medallion design of the carpet stood a round table with an artistically arranged vase of fresh flowers. At the foot of the dual stairway to the second floor, where the Prime Minister’s offices were located, another man in the same kind of civilian uniform, whom I had seen several times before, greeted me by name, with formal pleasantry, and as usual guided me up the stairs to the front office of the Prime Minister’s private secretary, and opened the tall solid walnut double door to let me in.

Across the waiting room, in the right-hand corner, next to the door to the Prime Minister’s office, standing to the right side of her desk, was an elegant woman that I had met several times before, Ms. Jahanbani, the Prime Minister’s executive secretary. “Dr. Broomand is here, sir. Thank you,” and replaced the receiver on the phone. “He will be with you in a moment,” pointing to a sofa next to her desk, she said, “Would you like to have a seat?” and before I sat down she turned to a visitor sitting in the chair before her desk who turned out to be a reporter and introduced me in French. “J’ aimerai que vous rentcontriez Monsieur Docteur Broomand, le nouveau chef du programme pour les sourdoues en Iran.” I would like for you to meet Mr. Dr. Broomand, the new head of the programs for the gifted in Iran. After some pleasantries and discussion of a potential interview to discuss my program, the door to the Prime Minister’s office opened and he appeared in the doorway with his ever-present silver topped walking cane. He was still giving instructions to a couple of his deputies behind him. I knew, or I should say, I had met them both; one of them was his chief administrative deputy, more accurately Chief of Staff, Hossein Rajabi. The other one, Dr. Haqdon, was somewhat short, very young looking and impeccably dressed in a dark brown striped suit with thin red line striped fabric, a beige shirt and an expensive looking tie that was greenish with yellow patterns. Dr. Haqdon had told me previously that he envied me for being selected for the position. He apparently had hoped to have been appointed. As I greeted them in the customary Iranian way, the Prime Minister and both of his deputies shook my hand and inquired as to how I was. We all took a few quick steps toward the French reporter. The Prime Minister made a quick remark in French to the reporter and said that Ms. Jahanbani will make the arrangements for the interview. It was obvious that while he knew she was coming, she did not have an appointment,

and I assumed this was his way of telling her to make an appointment. As we were going downstairs, he said, “I know you must be very excited and have a lot to say about the program but relax and don’t try to impress him. He already knows about your background and has reviewed your program. Be your respectful self and just answer the questions accurately and briefly, everything will be fine.” We went down the wide staircase and into the huge front foyer, and out the door to the steps. At the bottom there was parked a light colored Paykan, a British Hillman built under license in Iran. Two guys ran to the car and opened the front doors on each side. The Prime Minister got in the driver’s seat. It was obvious that as long as he was going to drive, I had to get into the front passenger seat with the Prime Minister of the country as my driver. I had previously heard he was driving his own car, a Paykan, which was driven by most people of middle socio-economic status, as well as being used as taxicabs, but I had never seen him myself behind the wheel. While I could guess the reason behind this gesture, I must admit that it felt peculiarly odd to be driven as a passenger in a car chauffeured by the second most powerful man in the country. Surely, he had done this with many others before me, but to me it was a gesture of authenticity that defied all established cultural and official protocols and created a high level of admiration by the people who witnessed this act closely. It was to demonstrate to me, as well as others, that to him there was no difference in the level of dignity and value of individual humans, based on their job designation, whether a driver was Prime Minister or an ordinary government employee. As we were escorted by the security contingent out of the compound, he also confirmed my thoughts on the matter by asking me not to call him “Your Excellency” as the general public did, but to address him as Mr. Prime Minister, but I didn’t have the heart to call him just that. I had to call him Your Excellency Mr. Prime Minister, which was more respectful protocol wise. ***

The journey to Saad-Abad Palace began with an escort of two large, white, Chevrolet SUV’s, one in the front and one following us. Going north on the beautifully tree lined, Kakh Avenue, turning right on Shah Street and then after a short distance, left on Pahlavi Avenue, another beautiful street lined with lush sycamore trees and one of the longest streets in Tehran, stretching from the foothills of snowcapped Alborz mountains in the north to the elaborate train station in the south part of the city. Pahlavi Street is one of the most picturesque arteries of Tehran. As one looks to the north, you could see the cascading residential neighborhoods of Yousef Abad, Elahiyeh, Zaafaraniye, Saad Abad and the beautifully snowcapped background of Towchall Peak of Alborz Mountains, where you could ski year round on the ski slopes of Dizin and the surroundings naturally formed gentle slopes ending in a basin crowded with skiers on the other side of the mountains. While I had seen this magnificent vista countless times on my daily travel to the city and back to my home in Shemiran, today it looked as though I was seeing it for the first time. Traveling North on Pahlavi Avenue on any day is an experience which everyone, including myself, cherished. On this particular day, it felt like it was far more welcoming than ever before. The snow-clad mountains were brilliant from midway up to the top. Glowing brightly under the powerfully unhindered sun, the snow was whiter than ever or at least it looked that way to me. At least in my view it was bringing out more vividly the emerald green color of the trees’ jacket, which was washed by rain the night before. The roadside brooks were filled with crystal clear snow water gurgling southward down toward the city. Even the black asphalt pavement looked cleaner than earlier that morning when I was on my way to the office or at least it presented itself that way to me. The vista ahead of us had become an incredible view through the windshield, looking like a movie trailer in front of me, with the Prime Minister sitting next to me in a movie theater trying to explain the main feature yet to be started. As we drove north, the Prime Minister tried to quickly educate me about the protocols of meeting His Majesty by

telling personal anecdotes without telling me you should or shouldn’t do this or that. He used third person singular pronoun never telling me what to do or not to do. But it was gratefully obvious to me that he was trying to prepare me for the first time visit with His Majesty. He told me about the time when he first met him, instead of just waiting for him to offer a handshake by stretching his hand, that nobody had told him to gently touch his palm with an open hand. Instead, he had grabbed and squeezed and pumped His Majesty’s hand so hard that others noticed a wincing smile on his face. “It wasn’t until later,” he said, “When I was told by other more experienced colleagues, that the flinching look and the smile he got from His Majesty, were not his expression of pleasure of my presence or my hearty handshake.” I asked him a few questions regarding asking questions and who was to answer him if he asked any. “He is going to size you up, so you have to answer briefly unless he specifically asks for details. Even in that case being brief and concise is better than unnecessary details.” He also told me that, “You may want to answer all of the technical questions. I will answer all the questions regarding preparations and budgetary issues. At the end of the meeting we will wait for him to signal our dismissal by making a statement that he is looking forward to hearing of the progress made or something like that. If he is not receiving us in his office, he usually wishes us success, which means we are free to go. However, he has many ways to let you know that your allotted time is over. He will, very likely, shake hands with the visitors as a sign that the meeting is over while he makes a final statement or two. If we are to be received in his office,” the Prime Minister continued, “after the hand shake, he may go to his desk, to ostensibly sit behind it and the senior person will ask him if he has any further instructions and if he says “no” then he will ask permission to leave. A “yes” answer or a nod means we are done and free to go. If he receives us in his special reception chamber, everything will be the same as we discussed, except he will be sitting in a special chair or on the sofa. At the end he stands up from his chair and that is the sign that the meeting is over.” “Are we expected to ask any questions?” I asked.

“As for asking questions, he is the one who does that. We only answer as honestly and concisely as we can, unless he asks you for more details which is not unusual at all.” As he kept on talking, I began to think of the type of questions that His Majesty may have. But nothing came to my mind that I could formulate some intelligent answers around. I didn’t know how much he knew about such a specialized program. My mind was racing in a million directions. I tried to harness my thoughts and anticipate at least some questions to no avail. My thoughts kept racing a hundred miles a second and I couldn’t organize my thoughts fast enough so that I could formulate any possible response. This was not because I wanted to sound or pretend that I was more intelligent than I am. It was because I did not want to sound unnecessarily stupid or boastful. In a nanosecond I realized that I was trying too hard to be more than what I was, and that the more I tried the more anxious I would become. I decided to take the Prime Minister’s advice, relax and be myself. I told myself that I probably knew enough about intelligence, learning, and creativity from my years of psychological studies, practice, and teaching and that I had enough experience that I could hold my own. I had for many years worked with children of all levels of intelligence and ability that I could formulate and outline a decent individualized program spontaneously. I had also treated enough individuals with a whole range of social and emotional problems, including some gifted individuals with psychological problems, to be able to propose a respectable program of intervention and prevention. I was able to spontaneously propose educational curricula for a range of intellectual ability using the most advanced research based psychological and learning principals to which I had access. More importantly, I had had the privilege of professional and even personal association with many of the giants in the field, to be able to discuss the most complex issues without sounding like an ignorant jerk who tries to bamboozle someone, least of all a man who could not be bamboozled. With these thoughts and in-place relaxation exercises, I had now completely overcome my anxiety and regained my self-

confidence. But the excitement of meeting His Majesty and the prospect of getting his approval was way beyond any expectations. It was now time for a quick analysis of what I thought was my own anxiety response. I immediately decided it was the enormity of the responsibility and the challenge that excited me. At no time in the past had I ever felt luckier than when my lifelong dream was being materialized. This was a life-long dream coming true for me at a time when I least expected it. Prior to my first visit with the Prime Minister and before this opportunity arose, I was having serious regrets about having returned to Iran, thinking maybe I should go back to the U.S. My concerns did not emanate from the fact that I could not eventually become gainfully employed for I knew that I could establish a fairly lucrative private practice in no time. It was caused by the way I was treated so shabbily by the hierarchy at the Ministry of Health and Social Welfare. Meeting the Prime Minister and the prospect of an audience with His Majesty, a rightful giant, however, eradicated my negative thoughts and refocused me on my lifelong fantasies about being a true agent of change. It is amazing how something so distasteful could turn into a most pleasant experience and change your whole outlook so positively in life if only you give yourself a chance to withstand adversities a little longer than what you think you can tolerate. Having said that, I was still not one hundred percent sure how things would eventually turn out. A good dose of self-confidence plays miracles if you also have the stamina to withstand adversity a bit longer, even when you don’t have all the facts at your disposal to answer your own questions. I did have some questions to which I had no acceptable answers until the audience was over. “What if His Majesty did not think the same way that the Prime Minister did regarding me?” “What if, for any reason, he did not eventually and appropriately find me suitable for such an enormously important position?” “How does he know I would measure up to this task?” and more importantly the phenomenal challenge, a daunting doubt about what I could or could not do to meet his approval. It was an awesome

undertaking, and a gigantic responsibility. But it was a lifelong dream extremely close to realization, unless I screwed it up, which I didn’t intend to. How did I know I could meet all these expectations in the face of the resentment and obstructionism by the more senior hierarchy who could create a lot of problems in the road ahead? Those people with a sense of entitlement, who because of their seniority and their connections will think of themselves as a more legitimate choice for such an important position. That seemed to work in my favor until now, since it appeared that the whole idea was not a fleeting thought on their part to have something just for show. Because none of the top people in government had a clue as to what was involved in such a project. More importantly, even though they were told what was expected from them they were not able to plan for successfully implementing such an operation. My best allies in this endeavor, aside from my experiences were both His Majesty and the Prime Minister. And they were adamant about not creating another bureaucracy which could not adulterate the purpose. I had not come up through the ranks like all those who had for years served and got to where they were, which was way ahead of me in the governmental hierarchy, where they had solid connections in the power structure. The ones who were promoted one step at a time. I was thinking of those who had earned their status and place, on the ladder of governmental hierarchy, by being good foot soldiers with solid credentials and proven allegiance, those who had acquired more seniority and held a distinguished record in the governmental hierarchy felt a sense of entitlement, and those who had the confidence of highly placed people. Some of them, particularly those in the cabinet, thought the position not only belonged to them but belonged under their jurisdictional control, some notion that in reality was utterly out of question. I found this out why, later from the Prime Minister. The whole idea was to make sure that the old guard did not have anything to do with such a sensitive project and render it ineffective from the beginning. While in the past couple of weeks I had asked these questions and more and had come to the conclusion that, yes, I

can most likely do it, but there was still this nagging selfinterrogation, “Can you really ignore the pressure that could alter the fabric of this incredible structure from its inception?” I don’t quite remember how I phrased this significant question to the Prime Minister, which essentially was, “Why have I been selected for this position of such a magnitude when there are so many trusted, and experienced people who perhaps expect to be selected?” I had hoped that his answer would be along the line of my thoughts and was stunned when his comments affirmed that it was the case. He was quite reassuring and serious. He kind of laughed out loud and said, “That is exactly the reason why he doesn’t want a bureaucrat in this position. He wants a visionary person who thinks outside the traditional bureaucratic box, someone who is not beholden to anybody. He wants someone who is a knowledgeable and proven leader and carries no baggage. I have told him about you and studied your background and seen your proposal for exceptional people. He knows more about you than anyone else perhaps except yourself. You are not an unknown entity you know? You HAVE proven yourself.” He emphasized “HAVE” with a tone of voice which indicated sincerity and trust. In cases like this, slightest doubts can stop you from pursuing your dreams. The most dangerous thing in the road to success is self-doubt. But if a person you admire thoroughly for his ability to know people, tells you “you can” it would be enough of an affirmation that you will put every ounce of your ability, your talents and your commitment behind it to prove that you can. And that’s what I promised the Prime Minister. This conversation was so gratifying, so exhilarating that after I thanked him for his remarks I said, “I will do everything in my power not to disappoint you.” And I meant that with all the cells in my body. I am not a person given into the overt expression of extreme emotion or excitement, at least not easily or often. I am not, however, immune to the feelings of deep sympathy, empathy, or exhilaration without open physical or facial expressions that most other people in my culture display when

events affect them deeply. This occasion, for reasons which I have described elsewhere, created the strongest physiological response yet. I found myself like a good poker player with a royal flush, with a calm and unchanging façade but racing heart beats and unabashed anxiety. Nevertheless, anticipating all the possible challenging events, particularly when there is the possibility of predictable or unintended negative consequences, is a potent triggering mechanism for an anxiety response unless you are a sociopath and don’t care about what happens next. The courageous acts of heroism in the face of personal threats to help others, in situations where most people avoid the danger, is the difference between an ordinary person and a hero. Such a feeling is not based on rationality or logic. It is a physiological, driving force that overrides the embedded cognitive conviction that is a part of your values of whatever belief system you hold. The commitment that I made in telling him that “I will do everything in my power not to disappoint you” was prompted by several facts, at least the way I perceived them as facts. Paramount among them was the belief that I held since my adolescence: barring events beyond my ability to handle, it is possible for me to be a significant contributor to the advancement of human society. This conviction, while it was modified from its “single handedness” notion of its original form, still carried a significant load of my personal commitment to the betterment of human life. I needed the knowledge through education which I had received, the experience which I had obtained, a healthy mental status which I had cultivated, and the opportunity which was before me. The second fact was that I had very little reason to believe that these meetings and audiences were only designed to give me false hopes. I was convinced that His Majesty had many more important issues on his plate than to waste time seeing me for the heck of it. I was convinced that he had already approved my appointment on the strength of the Prime Minister’s recommendation and had neither any possible reason nor the time to play games with someone at my level.

Thirdly, I had no reason to fail this test, if it were indeed a test to gauge my knowledge, ability and ideas or even commitment to carry out a successful program. I am certain they had me investigated thoroughly. I had already outlined a detailed program and given much thought to the logical progression of steps to be taken. The content was well researched as to how to start and what and where to acquire the resources, particularly with the Prime Minister’s support. I was convinced that this was not just for show and they were both dead serious about it. In order to put the project together, I engaged my resources from the World Council for Gifted and Talented Children of which I had been elected Chairman. After numerous phone calls, approximately twenty prominent experts from reputable universities and gifted organizations in the United States and Europe enthusiastically accepted my invitation. I had developed, as best I could, a comprehensive list of everything we needed to start and had proposed a budget for every step of the conference that I had outlined. With regard to the larger program, I had meticulously prioritized components of each phase both laterally and horizontally, in terms of numbers and quantities, as well as areas of needs and the timeline that was needed to reach each objective. Most of the steps were to be achieved concurrently in the first year. I had also made projections for a subsequent four-year expansion, screening, assessment and selection of more students. I had projected acquisition of material needs, employment and training of human resources based on annual development and expansion. I had laid out a plan of specialized training at the university level, both at home and abroad for our students and staff and had gone over every step several times. I was well prepared to answer any questions about programmatic planning that His Majesty might have asked. All these mind-boggling plans excited me to no end which I interpreted as anticipation of the visit with His Majesty, a rare honor by any measure. However, when I quickly took stock of my feelings at that moment, I realized much of that feeling was anxiety about the unknown and social component and

educational content of the program. I could feel a faster heartbeat. My thoughts were running amok, thinking of a million issues that might come up in the meeting, but also concrete questions regarding issues coming up way in the future that I had neglected to fully address. Not being quite aware of certain social and political forces, each one of which could be entangled with others like a ball of yarn in the paws of a kitten and create confusion if I were asked. That was no good, for I knew that amount of anxiety could reduce my spontaneous logical and rational thinking and render me confused in re-organizing them for a coherent presentation of my plans at the last moment in the presence of His Majesty.

CHAPTER 5 THE AUDIENCE

B

efore I knew it, we were at Saad Abad Palace’s ornate black wrought iron gate. Obviously, the guards were expecting us. The commander was outside of his office which was in a brick building to the right of the gate. However, there were two other royal guards, one on each side just inside of the gate and two outside the gate which stood opened. None of the guards moved when the Prime Minister’s car entered the wide driveway. Before the car crossed the gate’s threshold the guard’s commander, who was standing on a raised concrete platform, moved to the left of the driveway, to the driver’s side of the blue car and saluted the Prime Minister and discretely looked at me. Although we were expected and the Prime Minister’s Blue Paykan was familiar to the palace guards, a sharply uniformed, trim and very healthy looking officer came to the driver side of the car ostensibly looking inside at the Prime Minister but obviously, while still saluting, bent his head looking at me. It was obvious that the escort car had called ahead of time informing them of our arrival. Without taking too much time, he erected himself and showed us to the foot of the stairs leading to the main sprawling building, where we were met by another smartly dressed gentleman in civilian suit and two guards who each opened a car door on either side for the Prime Minister and me. We were led by the civilian to the reception room next to His Majesty’s office. We were a few minutes early so we could sit down and relax. We were immediately served tea, but before we had finished with the tea the civilian re-entered the room. “His Majesty will receive you now.” We rose from the plush seats and followed him to the door. There he was standing next to the side of his desk ostensibly reading a one-page report. It didn’t take more than half a second to put the paper down and turn to us. His Majesty greeted us with a congenial smile but serious

demeanor. We were no more than two steps from His Majesty when he stepped toward us, extending his hand first towards me and then the Prime Minister. He seemed genuinely pleased to see us, but something seemed to pain his pale face. He picked up a royal blue folder and moved toward a comfortable looking club chair very close to one side of a very comfortable looking couch of the same upholstery. We waited for him to sit down before he motioned his hand and gently pointed to where I should sit on the right-hand side of the couch closest to the left of his chair. As the Prime Minister had casually mentioned in the car, I occupied the section of the couch closest to him between the two of them while His Majesty occupied a similarly upholstered winged chair. Just the proximity to him and sitting between the two most powerful men in the land was sufficient to overwhelm anybody. I experienced, however, an unexpected serenity. An indescribable feeling of restfulness, completely unlike the anxiety I felt on the way to the palace. Being this close to His Majesty, I felt his casualness and his relaxed manner transfer to me. Occupying this space with him, I felt that he was not the brutal man that people made him out to be. “Mr. Broomand,” he said, “the Prime Minister tells me that you have already made a remarkable start. We have read the report and feel it is in the right direction.” Then he turned to the Prime Minister and said, “We can go ahead and start implementing the plan as it has been laid out. We need, however, to go over some long-range policy matters to make sure our goals in every area, including social, economic and welfare interest of our nation are fully served in the shortest period of time.” I thought that he was going to say that the plan was not all encompassing and there were flaws in its comprehensiveness. I was itching to butt in and say something intelligent in that regard. The Prime Minister came to my rescue and said, “Your Majesty is absolutely right, and Mr. Broomand would like to hear more of Your Majesty’s recommendations. It appears, from the report, that while the report takes into consideration many of Your Majesty’s recommendations, it is open enough to make more detailed additions and modifications to make it

more comprehensive but also make adjustments in the course of its implementation to incorporate more of Your Majesty’s wishes.” “We agree that the plan is very thoughtfully laid out, but there are some issues for which there are no tangible measures of assurance,” His Majesty said without a hint of arrogance and continued, “I would like to see the approach bears fruit as soon as possible. What are we going to do about that? The individualization of the program can be very helpful in many areas, but how do we rapidly access the most advanced knowledge in various scientific and technical fields?” He continued, “The other issue is democratic leadership and their preparation to effectively convince the general, unsophisticated, and highly traditional population that a number of very young leaders could and should be followed? “We have to admit that there are many amongst us who believe reading and writing corrupts the mind and is contrary to their long-held values. They believe that educated people become automatically godless. They are so entrenched in this kind of mentality that makes it hard for them to follow, leave alone to emulate, a hand full of those who don’t practice what they advocate. Knowing that democracy cannot be achieved over night under these conditions, we must not give up hope making our efforts to be totally in vain and ineffective.” He was talking not in favor of dictatorship but in favor of establishing democracy in which even the most backward people could believe in and most importantly practice. There did not seem to be a single note of doubt about a democratic leadership in his recital of the need for a democratic nation. He was also quite aware that such a state needs an enormous amount of time but also an immense effort to neutralize or convert the opposing forces. He said, “While the conversion of uneducated people is the yeoman’s job, fighting those whose interest was served by keeping people ignorant would be a greater obstacle.” He pointed out that the efforts of ‘The Foundation for Mass literacy’ had already shown promises of remarkable success. “And these students can play a very significant role in organizing various communities in the future. In that regard, not only can they help the education of

masses but also boost their own leadership skills and as leaders among the general public establish credibility among uneducated masses, which sets their reputation as caring and capable leaders. “The other thing is making sure that our women have the same opportunity as men.” We had already ascertained that as a reality in our selection process and had selected a population equally divided between girls and boys without discriminating or favoring any group. “Is that the case with the socio-economically depressed population in all three schools in Tehran, Mashhad and Kerman?” “Yes, Your Majesty,” voiced simultaneously by the Prime Minister and me. I saw a small smile on His Majesty’s lips which I interpreted as a sign of approval. “In selecting these students, beside academic achievement, what other criteria did you consider, and how did you measure them?” he asked. “As Your Majesty has reviewed the plan, we had to start somewhere in our initial screening. We chose academic performance as our base criteria. Obviously, just academic achievement did not answer all of the questions we had. We had sixteen phases or additional steps, some of which were subjective and were based on the criteria that we had selected ourselves. In that regard, we brainstormed with some of the major university professors and told them to think about characteristics of outstanding leaders who had the best traditional values. In addition, we provided them with some of the major desired characteristics that were universally agreed upon. We also told them to develop measurable definitions for each one of those characteristics to make them as unique as possible and which could fulfill their goals of the project. The task force spent practically ten hours a day for two weeks and came up with a list that everyone agreed with,” I responded. “This process occurred concurrent with several initial phases of screening recommendation by teachers’ analysis of academic records and candidacy by parents and peers throughout this period. We looked at several other criteria that

gave us a good picture of candidates including social, economic and educational opportunities and established a factor of “Insufficiency” that would balance the weight of other criteria.” “How did this work?” asked His Majesty. “Very well, Your Majesty. We had children from the farthest corners of Tehran and even some from the outskirts of Kerman who were raised in far less ideal socio-economic conditions,” I said. “How are they going to attend classes if they have no means to travel such distances every day and be on time for their classes?” he asked. The Prime Minister answered this question by saying, “I am working with Iran Tour to provide sufficient buses at no cost on a daily basis. Mr. Bagherzadeh has enthusiastically embraced the idea.” “Very well, give him our gratitude for their generosity.” He then continued, by saying, “Obviously under those conditions not only the children but also the families need some sort of support. I see that there is provision in the proposed budget for hot lunch, but it is difficult to learn much on an empty stomach. A healthy breakfast should definitely be considered.” His Majesty continued, “This has to be done in a way to make sure that it is not considered a hand out which will hurt their pride but they can pay for it with a minimal amount, along with additional support to the parents for their non-monetary contribution to the organization.” He put his chin almost on the knot of his tie and seemed to think for a moment, then raised his head and with a determined look on his face said, “While you have outlined a very good plan we would like to emphasize a very important aspect of this program, if done properly in all respects it will guarantee a brilliant future for our country. While it seems increasingly important to emphasize academic performance, it is evident that such achievements have to be in the direction of pouring the foundation of a new generation of leaders in all areas worthy of our civilization.

“We must not forget that such an ambitious program necessitates population, a culture, a truly civilized society. We know that democracy is not a vaccine that could be used to transform a highly traditionalized society, but we must start with a leadership trained in the principles of democracy. In spite of the established outdated traditional myths, our nation is a resilient one and perhaps ready to see the benefits of such social culture. We must show these children not only by lecturing them about democracy but also by setting strong examples. First of all, their teachers should not only be aware of democratic principle but also put their selfishness aside and try to be wise guiding models of such behavior. They must show genuine respect for the student and treat them as legitimate individuals with all the rights and responsibilities of a truly democratic person. “They must not be treated as children but as young, worthy people. Their questions must be honestly answered. Their disagreements with their teachers must be genuinely acknowledged and honestly responded to. They must learn that although they are intellectually advanced, there are others who are far more advanced than they are in other areas of life. And because someone has been less fortunate than they are, they are every bit as deserving of their respect as a person, that it is their duty and their responsibility to use their talent to make life better for everyone. That they are not the only intelligent and talented person in the world or even in the country, but they have to dedicate themselves to do the best they can to improve the life of their people as though it was dependent on them alone, that in doing so they must not sell their honor at any price.” I wasn’t sure whether that was a lecture or a policy statement. Whatever it was it sounded magnificently encouraging. It was indeed a clear vision and a mission. It had all the marks of my adolescent dream. And I was given the honor and the responsibility to carry it out. His Majesty talked about what instruments were needed to make the program what it was supposed to be. In doing so, he seemed to display a thread of sorrow, particularly when he talked about the long term of the project’s outcome. At one

point, he frowned and said, “We know that this is an ambitious program, but we are obligated by our honor to do it for future generations.” And then he mentioned the story of the old farmer who planted walnut trees and when he was admonished by the king after telling him that it would take twenty years for the trees to bear fruit, the farmer answered, “Others planted and we ate, now we plant so that others can eat.” I remembered the story from second grade. My father had discussed with me the exact same story and the moral of it when I was only seven years old. I thought that maybe it was that story and the world of wisdom behind it that formed my adolescent fantasies of thinking about the future and my role in shaping it. But this was no longer a fantasy. It was as real as anything could be. Now it was up to me to do what needed to be done. He got up and stood erect in front of us. The Prime Minister and I looked at him with awe. He had given us the green light to go ahead with a mandate that was very clear. He had indicated his approval of what I had accomplished in a short time. He had expressed his strongest support, which I interpreted as not only support but also confidence in me. And while that felt awfully good and exhilarating, it was also overwhelming. I knew that some people who thought that they had the right to my position because they had for years done similar work, had lobbied to take over the operation, but now the fate was written firmly in my favor. At the end of the meeting, as His Majesty shook our hands, he had a faint smile. We walked through his office door and into the impressively decorated waiting chamber adorned with majestic draperies, an exquisite Esfahan carpet, a desk, a few chairs, and a couple of sofas. The Prime Minister turned to me and said, “You realize he did not ask one question about your qualifications and capabilities after he asked about your overall plans and goals.” “Thanks to you, sir, for laying the groundwork ahead of time, but he clearly augmented my explanation for the academic instructions program and goals. He must heavily rely on your counsel and advice. I shall try to, as much as I

can, be worthy of your confidence and hopefully won’t disappoint you.” It is amazing how much prettier the world looks to uplifted spirits. The day seemed to be a typical nice one prior to our meeting, and now the sky looked bluer, the trees greener, the air more fragrant, and the chirping of the birds more melodic. I wanted to whistle along with them as the future was dancing in front of my eyes and I in the middle of this waltz. My childhood dream was coming true and I was wide awake and aware. This was reality now and not just a fantasy. How did I get here? *** When we arrived at the car, the doors held open by two tall, handsome palace guards, I waited for a moment for the Prime Minister to arrange himself behind the wheel before taking my seat beside him. The doors closed simultaneously like a well-rehearsed military exercise. As the car moved slowly followed by the secret service, he asked with a telling smile, “It was a successful meeting, don’t you think?” Adding, “Now the real work begins, but before you go back to your office and start, I want you to go to this meeting with me and meet some people.” I had no idea what this meeting was about and to whom he wanted to introduce me, but I thought it must be quite important and educational. Obviously, I was not in a position to question him, but he was incredibly astute and knew that I was dying to know what this was all about. He was quiet for a short while and then asked, “You want to know why I am taking you to this meeting, don’t you?” and before I responded he answered, “It is all about getting these greedy people to also think about the people instead of only their own pockets. Many of them have no conscience. They conspire to hoard certain items and create artificial scarcity of some commodities and sell them up to a thousand percent or more over wholesale price. That is robbery and they pretend

that they are god fearing, devout people, never missing their five times daily prayer. “These are some of the wealthiest merchants whose oneday profit can feed a large family for months and whose wealth would be sufficient to carry their own offspring, of which they have endowed themselves with many, in opulence for several generations to come.” He was quite open in expressing his disdain for “these people”. “Is there anything you want me to do or say in this meeting, sir?” I asked. “No, I just want to show you what kind of pretentious, hypocritical, and greedy people we are dealing with and warn you that they will attempt to buy you out with tons of money they have stolen from poor and deserving people. They will try to corrupt you the way they are doing with other people in power. They will want to buy the prestige of having their stupid sons and daughters in your schools at any cost so they can brag about it,” he paused and said, “This is truly the source of corruption and dishonesty in much of our government and society.” He paused again and said, ”It is one of the important reasons why we so desperately need a new generation of young, intelligent, idealistic, uncorruptible leaders not only to break this miserable cycle of reliance on others and become self-sufficient and self-reliant but also who are courageous and creative enough to find ways to take these devils by the horns and defeat them without giving into organization. This is why we need someone with unbendable courage of his convictions to pull it off.” Was he trying to boost my self-confidence, which at this point, after our meeting with His Excellency, I had enough of? Or was he letting me know what this mission involved and to the set the record as to what was expected of me. It seemed ironic to warn me so sternly yet so diplomatically about the incredible odds facing me and expecting me to overcome them without a strong support system. For I was still the proverbial new kid on the block and my support base was small and virtually powerless. In fact, it was so exiguous that I was actually unable to count on it at all. As I was struggling to

quickly give a semblance of logical order to my thoughts, he began to talk again. It appeared that the man behind the wheel was not only in command of the car and his own thinking but was also reading my whirling thoughts. For before I could settle my thoughts enough to determine the most benign way to ask how I could protect myself against my future adversaries he said, “I know this is a daunting challenge. I have not found anyone around me who has a rhinoceros skin that is strong enough to not to be pierced, but I somehow trust you do. And I will protect you. Moreover, besides my full support, you have earned that of His Majesty’s. So, if something or even some law begins to get in your way, let me know and I will take that to the Majlis and have it changed.” Right then and there I decided to resist temptation with which I may be faced come hell or high water. That decision, I thought, may turn a number of people against me, but also would push a few to my corner. However, many of my instant devotees were practically powerless people themselves. But WOW! I was dumbfounded, overwhelmed, by this much trust and promises of support. I found myself speechless, unable to express my gratitude. Words seemed so miserably inadequate to verbalize my feelings and no matter what came to mind it seemed pale and corny. So, I just thanked him from the bottom of my heart. And I felt it. This little lecture was so powerful that right there and then I pledged to myself that no matter what happened I would do anything including putting my life on the line for the cause to succeed. I had three powerful backers now: The Shah, the Prime Minister, and my wife as well as two cheerleaders at home unaware as to what was happening in our lives. But I hoped that soon there would be more committed warriors to carry the fight.

CHAPTER 6 A SEASON OF CHANGE

I

t was the winter of 1979, just a few days before the first day of spring in March. The Persian New Year Norooz, a non-religious celebration unlike many other depressing Islamic holidays that splashed all over the Islamic Lunar Calendar, was around the corner. This time of the year has been traditionally the happiest time in Iranian life for several millennia and has always been celebrated by people of all faiths and ethnicities as the most important of all holidays. It is the oldest occasion for celebrating, not only the beginning of spring, but also the rebirth of the northern half of the earth. It is a time for forgiving all enmities, renewing loving friendships, and cleansing your mind and soul of all the accumulated emotional debris from the previous year to start anew. Along with that kind of psychic renewal goes physical renewal including cleaning your house from top to bottom to rid it of grime, dust and clutter which is also important as one anticipates the Norooz visitors expected to come and bring you their New Year’s greetings and good wishes for the coming year and beyond. Norooz is a time that the heartbeats of all Iranians are naturally synchronized in anticipation of a happy new year, which has connected vast arrays of diverse people and forged them into a nation, from Abadan to Zanjan, from the Caspian Sea to the Persian Gulf, from Alborz and Caucasus peaks to the farthest corners of Zagross and Hendookosh mountains in Afghanistan. It is the time for appreciation of the bounties of nature and the beauty of life itself. It is the occasion to demonstrate unabashed joy and unrestrained love, affection, hope and happiness for a clean slate, which brings all humans one step closer on the road to becoming. At the exact same time every year when the earth pirouettes so that the sun can traverse the equator and day and night are equal in length, all Iranian hearts, regardless of their arbitrary differences beat to

the same rhythm, to the music of life and because of that good will triumph over evil. Nobody stops to think why or how? Because it is not a question, it is a given, as logical as the sun being the reason for the daylight’s existence. It is a belief that has become a part of every Iranian’s DNA and brightens the road with hope and faith in the coming of a better and brighter future. It is a feeling of unequivocally inherited belief that “this is the way it has been for thousands and thousands of years.” Therefore, it must be true and must be celebrated. And it will continue to remain that way and celebrated for eternity. It is not a question of why and how to be justified or explained. It is in the blood that nourishes every single cell of their body. It is faith against religious faith, when the body and spirit are charged with an indescribable energy to which the renewal of nature contributes with an amazing tableau of blossoming trees and flowers. A tableau augmented by the brightly painted colors of new clothing worn by women and children, which look more vibrant surrounded by the intoxicating perfume of flowers and blossoms in the spring air. A nature dressed in all colors imaginable, painted by colors only nature can provide but made even more attractive by the excitement of discovery of a new self and the anticipation that the happiest moments of life are yet to come, free of any old baggage. This whole picture is etched in the minds of those who count the days, the hours and the minutes until the arrival of Norooz. Despite several generations of occupation and domination by many different ethnic forces from outside, particularly centuries of Arab domination, this tradition has stubbornly endured and has become a part of every Iranian’s socially inherited DNA. The excitement starts with a ritual of almost mass obsession of deep cleaning. And the virtual cleansing of your mind and heart as well as cleaning of your domicile from top to bottom. This tradition begins fifty days and nights before Norooz and is called Sadeh. It involves a thorough house cleaning, called “Khaneh Takkanni” or “Khooneh Takkooni” which literally means “shaking the house” from top to bottom. It begins with the celebration of the festive occasion called

“Sadeh” which means a “hundred” or fifty days and fifty nights before the arrival of Norooz. When the ritual of Khaneh Takkanni starts it brings such a joy to everybody that even small children, along with their parents and other adults, become busy beavers and contribute their share in anticipation of the arrival of the magnificently joyous festivities of Norooz. If you ask anyone why they are so happy, the answer is invariably the same. “It is so many days before Norooz.” That’s it. That’s what they would say. You don’t need a reason to justify it. The concept of Norooz ‘IS’ its own justification and it is what is peeking around the corner not requiring any explanation. It is necessary for hope, for survival of your soul, like air and water is for your body. That joyful anticipation has always been and will always be part and parcel of being, and remaining, Iranian. This phenomenon is something that the passage of millennia and the brutal, and always murderous, acts by foreign forces and a forced imposition of alien ideas have not been able to change. *** If the cultural genetics or the influence of cultural values on the alteration of the genetic makeup is a plausible concept, then the DNA of a people is an alterable condition. On this assumption alone there seems to be an inborn predisposition or at least resistance to anything that is contrary to the internalized concepts and values that a people have cherished and practiced throughout millennia. Such resistance is often manifested aggressively, such as armed uprisings or passive aggressivity like defiance and depression which could be demonstrated by individuals or masses. The Iran revolution had set in and Ayatollah Khomeini, who had been exiled in 1964 after speaking out against the Shah’s reforms, had taken control of Iran with his uncompromising Islamic purity, unrelenting hostility, and political vengeance even toward his own people. This Norooz, the country’s atmosphere was one of terror and a mindnumbing uncertainty, gloom and depression. That, along with a bone chilling and freezing weather, shook most people to the core and robbed their ability to think clearly. The feeling also

overtook the triumphant revolutionaries, shaking their confidence. Except that the revolutionaries, being afraid of their own shadows while drunk with newfound power and also fearful of their power slipping away like it had with the supporters of the previous regime, had become more aggressive in order to maintain their new status. They had developed itchy trigger fingers on their brand new G3 guns creating a dangerous situation which knew no logic. Nature had helped the pervasive intensification of fear and uncertainty with its deadly cold and icy streets intensifying the mass emotionality. The revolutionary reaction was drummed up by the new regime’s propaganda, resulting in the rampant and mindless setting of hundreds of fires, violent and mindless destruction, shattering of store front plate glass windows, and looting of shops and businesses. Targets were particularly anything considered “Un-Islamic.” The un-Islamic definition went as far as inclusion of successful businesses who were dealing in high value merchandise, such as car dealerships and jewelry stores. The highly unusual arrival of an unprecedented freezing winter affected the body and mind of the hooligans that negated their ability to feel the cold in the heat of revolutionary zeal. The cold weather that ordinarily turned milder as the spring neared, insisted on stretching itself as far into the spring as one could remember. Many people had been executed for no crime other than being in higher governmental positions or were shot in cold blood in front of their families just because they tried to prevent the violent destruction of their property and harm of their families. Groups of courageous people resisting the obvious direction that the revolution was headed tried to demonstrate their opposition to the ominous establishment of a religious government and prevent returning to Middle Ages. Many of those who defied the vengeful orders of the clerics were slaughtered without regard to any laws or rules of civility. Most were executed in the prisons, but many were killed in their homes, in front of their family members. All of this happened in the name of religious revolution and God almighty. The ruthless slaughtering of the young and old was

just a preamble to the senseless reign of terror that was to follow. Beside the indiscriminate violence by the so called “protectors of Islamic revolution” many more had been executed either by the order of a one man so-called ‘revolutionary court’ or directly by himself, wherever he stepped, a bloodthirsty mullah named Sadegh Khalkhali who would go around the country, personally marking the victims as “corrupt on Earth” and counterrevolutionaries, fighting against God. Countless innocent men including some men and women of Jewish and Baha’i faith were hanged from cranes in public without any trial. His claim to fame in this charade was that he personally executed people with a bullet, preferably in the back of their heads, within a minute of just asking their names. These were many decent, innocent men and women who had selflessly served in the armed forces of the previous regime or held certain positions in the government. Many of them were guilty of donning their regular uniforms or wearing a tie. He had personally judged them guilty and ordered them killed with a bullet in the back of their head or their forehead from his colt .45, which he carried under his aba, a loose cloak worn by all mullahs. These people’s guilt, according to him was because they were mostly high ranking officers in the armed forces of the Shah, including the Air Force or Navy commanders, whom he thought were dangers to the new regime but justified it by saying they would have not been promoted to that rank if they weren’t corrupt or a foreign agent. An unholy cloak of fear and terror had wrapped the nation’s spirit. No one felt immune except the clergy and members of Guardians of Islam. The expectation of many bad things to come at any time created an atmosphere of depression, anxiety and tension. Smiles had vanished and turned into sour frowns and the heartwarming exuberance of happy days past, had been replaced by a cold expression of hatred, disdain and fear, totally different than the years before. The cheerful and optimistic demeanor of millions in the past years had been replaced by paranoia, distrust, pervasive

anxiety and insecurity, even on the side of the initial supporters of revolution. Anger, anxiety and often regret over what had happened and what else could happen next was running high among those who were facing the madness of revolutionary zealots. Many of the younger revolutionaries who had innocently hoped this was the spring of freedom could not bear the shame of joining the revolutionary guards and instead joined organized groups like the Marxist-oriented Mojahedin, even though Mojahedin was still a part of this unholy alliance. Others, however, realized a possible reality which made them fear the spontaneous uprising of former uniformed members of the armed forces which by now had brutally had its head cut off at the highest levels of command and had been replaced by a bunch of lower ranking officers who were suddenly colonels and generals. The executed ones were highly trained and experienced officers and graduates of the world’s most respected Army, Navy and Air Force academies. This uncommon brutality added to the intensity of trigger happiness of the uncontrollable Guardians of Islamic Revolution. Confusion among the population had caused readily detectable stress, reflected in unprecedented readiness to flare up and start a fight in the face of any tiny disagreement that was ordinarily ignored. A lot of innocent people’s blood was spilled because someone had accused them as counter revolutionary. Obviously, this was an expected gift of revolution. What was to be a happy time of the season was stolen by the revolutionaries most of whom had no idea why they had to do this. The worst part of this transformation was that group behavior by a handful of people swallowed multitudes of ignorant folks who didn’t know why and whom they were revolting against. The seasonal happy and affable disposition of people had turned into a sour mood by the bestiality of the members of the Guardians of Islamic Revolution and their naïve, if not unthinking, stupid followers. This prevailing mood was not just the consequence of uncivilized and inhumane behavior of the revolutionary guard, but also fear of what was still to come. The summary indiscriminate execution of many well-

known decent mid-level civilian and military people by the verdict of the Islamic judges of so called “revolutionary courts” was extremely disconcerting to ordinary people. This governing by terror, led by the black turbaned clergy, and well-organized Communist party members and its offshoots, had robbed the nation of its civility and sense of decency. It had awakened the hidden animalistic brutishness in many otherwise ordinary individuals. It was the pervasive distrust and uncertainty among most people of both sides who seemed to hate each other because of omnipresent fear. People were ready to avenge long forgotten gripes as justification for the behavior that they would otherwise ignore. In short, self-blame and guilt had been displaced and wrapped even the counter revolutionaries in itself. Even those who had been inadvertently caught in the revolutionary frenzy, without believing in its nature, or why they were involved, simply emulated others. It appeared that principle of facilitation and the influence of group on bystanders were clearly at work. They mostly forgot their own unintended part in the creation of these events and blamed everyone else for their role in the disaster, to absolve themselves of the responsibility. All lawful behaviors of many innocent people were turning upside down in the face of their own nonresistive actions that had led to the promise of a shameful pending death of civility. People who talked about Taghoot, the new name for The Shah applied to a tyrannical power, were talking in the same breath about “His Majesty” were plentiful among the crowd even the PLO trained jailers. Some of the pseudo-intellectuals who eventually left the country blamed the Shah for not dealing with this situation forcefully enough, as a justification for their own part in the revolution. Many of them were organizers and sympathizers of the revolution who were primarily the people who dared to criticize him with impunity in the past, in the guise of intellectual elite while enjoying the benefits of their freedom to agitate through the media and in personal privileged status, calling his reign “dictatorial” before the disaster struck.

The general feeling on the part of those who were not overtly revolutionary but now were in positions of power was that these conditions, which were rapidly inching toward a disaster of unprecedented proportion unlike anything that history remembered, could be handled under the new revolutionary prime minister Bazargan who was, in civilian clothes, as religious as any clergy in Turban. It was this awful attitude that made them greedier than anyone before in accumulating wealth, through joining the mob and grabbing whatever they could before the new Government was toppled. Some, however, found the newly found power itself elating and went out of their way to vent their pent-up anger toward anyone and anything that they imagined may frustrate their efforts in hanging on to power. Many joined hands with the powerful in hurting others just for the fun of it or for revenge for their own failures in the past. Many simply became wild animals in order to establish their turf, and this was probably one of the most disheartening consequences of the revolution. The street thugs, newly empowered by their position as Guardians of Islamic Revolution or “pasdaran,” with their semi-automatic rifles as an accepted tool for revenge, controlled parts of the cities as their turf. Usually, these were areas in which they had been brought up and now they were threatening the lives of decent and innocent people they had known since their childhood. Men, women and children were terrorized for ostensibly looking “un-Islamic” or just looking at an armed goon in a way he didn’t like. The traditionally happy thought of Norooz that had brightened peoples’ lives for thousands of years and had conditioned them to welcome its symbolisms with genuine exuberance and exhilarated spirit of friendship and kindness had disappeared. Happiness was out, as unreligious, a thing of the past, and a culture of mourning and depression was in as an order of the day. Excitement about the beauty of the New Year and everything associated with it, which everyone usually felt at this time of the year, was now gone and replaced with deep, sorrowful scowls and regret. The fear of indiscriminate retaliation for decades of distrusting the Clergy, seemed to be the prevailing mood of the day. Everyone

seemed to blame others for the situation, but most of the hostility and unspoken resentment, was reserved for the mullahs. Even children did not dare to smile or leave the side of their anxious parents. Everyone was afraid of one another and particularly those wearing beards and army fatigues, stolen from the armed forces inventories. Without knowing why, children intuitively refrained from demonstrating their Norooz excitement, and depression became an epidemic disease. The customary new and colorful New Year clothes seemed to have lost their luster. Unlike all the years past, when colorful clothing of women and children rivaled the legendary Persian Gardens right in the middle of paved streets, those symbols of celebration of spring were mostly replaced with drab clothing and black covers. Everywhere you looked, there was an abundance of women, clad in “black Chador” a sign that a culture of mourning and perpetual depression was waiting to descend upon the soul of a fun-loving nation and crush every vestige of happiness under its weight. Happiness had become a sin if it was not for the victory of revolution and even as such people participating in mass lectures were not supposed to show their approval by clapping. Instead they were told to collectively yell “Allah Akbar,” God is greatest, in unison. Mixed in public places, with groups of women complying with the edicts of the new religious government, were some brave women who not only defied the weather which was inhumanly cold, and the harsh beatings by the decency squads, but courageously threw away any pretense of modesty, by wearing short sleeve blouses, in spite of the cold, and obviously heavy makeup and no head covering, as a sign of opposition to the clerics’ edicts. Even many of the revolutionary guards, at the early stages of their triumphant revolution, displayed a deeply troubled appearance of disdain. This was worse than anything that history had recorded about the savagery of invading armies of the Greeks, Mongols, Turks, save that of desert inhabitants, the savages of Arabia. They had forced their religion with

their swords upon an advanced civilization, fourteen centuries before, but our nation was just beginning to gradually shake it off and unburden itself from its hold in every aspect of their lives, before the disaster struck again. The weapon of initial Islamic Arab armies had been replaced with firearms stolen from the armed forces supplies. “The Arabs are coming back to complete what they had started fourteen hundred years ago,” a woman in her late twenties shouted when a bearded man with his semi-automatic rifle ominously trained on her, approached her to shut her up. But a small crowd of approximately fifty or sixty people simultaneously gathered around to protect her. Unfortunately, it was too late. Several shots rang and three or four men and women fell, writhing with obvious pain, in their own bloodsoaked clothes, onto the sidewalk. The crowd dispersed, though three or four courageous men and women tried to help the wounded or move the dead. They were beaten back with the butt of the rifles and mauled so badly that they needed help themselves. Nobody dared to try to help again. As much as I wanted to help the beaten and the wounded, I realized that I was not as brave as they were. *** Unfortunately, there were many families this year who did not celebrate the event instead mourned the slaughter of their loved ones at the hand of the new religious executioners. Something that made the Inquisition of middle ages and its aftermath in Europe look like a happy picnic in comparison. Most people, under anxiety-evoking political conditions become more philosophical and eventually cover up their pains and anguish expressing their rage through humor. Funny jokes and humorous remarks about the situation become almost routine, however, all in secret and mostly at home. Young school age children were told to repeat their parents’ jokes, so that their parent could be arrested and tried by revolutionary court for insulting Islam. This time, however, nobody dared to openly make fun of the brutal revolutionaries and their God-loving court run by clergy who were often seen going around carrying semi-

automatic rifles next to them in their shiny Mercedes and BMWs that they had stolen from other people or showrooms of car dealerships. Car dealerships were broken into and provided brand new cars on a first-come, first-served basis. I noticed in my own neighborhood, behind the American embassy, the BMW dealership burned to the ground after all the cars were driven out of the showroom and the parking garage behind it. It happened that the dealership was owned by the same group who had the largest wine making and distribution facilities in the country. Boxes of wine were being carried by revolutionary clergy ostensibly to be destroyed but were safely tucked in the stolen cars’ trunks and back seats. Bystanders seemed to be amused by the sight of the smiling revolutionary thieves. Joking about what was being carried openly to the cars or the way some older mullahs carried the wine bottles underneath their traditional cleric garbs, jammed in the stolen cars’ passenger seats. However, the joking was done in a quiet voice and only among the groups of opposition in a way that the revolutionaries couldn’t hear. Parents joked about the revolution and its leaders behind closed doors and out of their children’s earshot for fear they might repeat it at school and face a harsh consequence. Children had been told by new school administrators to tattle on their parents’ and their friends’ conversations and were heavily rewarded for it. Many children and their families had been harshly punished by new revolutionary school authorities and the adults were sent to the “komitehs” for being sacrilegious and counter revolutionary. This was a welldesigned strategy to control people’s private lives. Children were encouraged to tell their teachers and the “komitehs” representatives in schools about their parents’ indiscretions. Some parents were heavily rewarded for turning their teenage children in, to be arrested and punished by authorities. This behavior was publicized on television as the symbol of devotion to the revolution and Islam. Public gatherings of more than two people were strictly prohibited and dealt with harshly. Check points were set up on every corner and crossroads to identify and arrest counterrevolutionaries and the irreverent whether on foot or in

cars. There were uncountable watch posts or check points built of sandbags to protect the armed guards, some of whom stopped the cars with their fingers on the trigger of their brand new G3 semi-automatic rifles and Uzis. They would approach, in groups of two or three, from the sides and the front of the vehicle with their rifles trained on the driver of the stopped car. They were ready to shoot. And shoot they did if the car did not stop immediately. The irony was, when they searched the car they seemed as happy as if they had found a treasure trove, which for them it was. When they occasionally found alcoholic beverages in the trunk of a car, which was not infrequent at the beginning, they not only confiscated the bottles with the most obvious grin of satisfaction and authority, they arrested the driver and passengers, charging them as a “corrupting person on Earth” on the spot. If the loot was large enough, which it often was, the charges were stiff enough that the people were willing to pay what was asked from them to escape the harsh punishment by the Komiteh. The fine usually amounted to several times the price per bottle in the black market. It was often leveled against those who were in danger of execution because of the volume of the merchandise. Not only did it carry a stiff fine and possible death sentence, it also put the fear of a vengeful but “kind and benevolent” God in their heart. If they paid the cash, right on the spot, which was usually a substantial amount for an average person, they would be free to go. But a bottle was then secretly put in the trunk by the guards only to be stopped at the next check point which was subject to another of their well-designed stop and search games. This signaled to the next group that the culprit is wealthy enough to be charged with another fine. If, however, they did not have any cash, which was levied by the senior guard, they would be taken to the neighborhood Komiteh-e-Mahhali, the “local komiteh” in a nearby mosque, where the local religious or revolutionary court was stationed, working hand in hand with the revolutionary guards. Once there, they were occasionally served with a cup of tea and a prepared written charge and penalties were read to them. The presiding mullah advised them of the possible punishment that could be bought with a handsome amount by informing their relative to bring the

money within twenty four hours or they would be sent to jail where they were to be tried in six month or more by the prison branch of the revolutionary court. This operation was so well organized that many of the newly freed criminals who had joined the revolutionary guard became incredibly rich and bought the most valuable pieces of real estates all over large cities with the money they had amassed through extortion. If, however, nothing was found at the first check point, the guards at the next check point stopped them. After a cursory check, the guards told them that they knew that their merchandise was confiscated at the previous check point, but they could buy a variety of goods. The goods offered were usually for a sum that was half the amount the previous group had been fined and topped with a pre-printed pass valid for a day indicating that the car had been searched and was found to be clean. This arrangement was the only silver lining to the black cloud that was hanging over everybody’s head that needed a stiff drink to forget about the disaster that had befallen them, or kept them out of the holding tank, otherwise no one would ever want to spend even an hour in their custody. Some ingenious people however, who had the fine and received a pass turned around and replenished their cars to the hilt with the forbidden merchandise to be sold in the black market for ten times the price they had paid for. A lot of people got rich quickly by this scheme and other ingenious ways that paved their way to confiscated mansions of wealthy people in the posh northern section of the city, who had left the country in search of safety and security, still with the hope of returning soon. *** The verbal harassment and the threat of violating people’s family members were every bit as painful as anything physical, particularly when it was directed towards one’s wife, sister, daughter or mother. Even little children did not remain immune in the face of this kind of treatment. While much of it was highly graphic death threats, a great deal of it was combined with the dirtiest sexual promises before the threats

were to be carried out. This part was the worst, and my family was subjected to some of the uncommonly inhumane phone calls. I decided to send my American wife and two American born children back to the U.S. to protect them from the most vicious sexual-harassment and death threats. The messages were either directed at them or addressed to me, with the promise of execution. They started before Khomeini returned and escalated as soon as the Shah exited the country. Moreover, because I was prohibited from leaving the country and the trend was progressively against my own safety, I was painfully aware of the possibility of being arrested and the traumatic effect that it might have on my wife and my young children. Knowing that the savagery of the newly empowered Islamic goons would jeopardize my family’s safety and mine, should I be arrested, I decided to use everything in my power to send them out of the country. While I needed my family’s support, putting them in imminent danger of barbaric treatment by the thugs was out of question. Using members of a family to extract false confessions from people against other family members was one of the tactics many employed as a measure to get even with those they didn’t like. I thought that if my family was out of the country, it would be safer for them and easier for me to deal with any threat and tolerate any pressure. Because of my position as the head of the National Iranian Organization for Gifted and Talented Education (NIOGAGE), I knew there was a substantial amount of hostility against me by people whose children I had refused to accept in our student pool. Against this backdrop were many rich people and powerful individuals who promised me literally millions of dollars, buildings and cash as well as forcing me out by any means at their disposal. I knew I was going to face that kind of pressure as the Prime Minister had warned me. From the onset of this idea, however, I did not anticipate any threat as strong and real as what I was now facing. The atmosphere of terror, intimidation and inhumanely vengeful behavior for the slightest personal grudge or disagreement was dense. No one, including me in my position, had any thoughts they were immune and could

guarantee that they would not be the target of a firing squad, assassination or at the least, incarceration, before the revolution. But things had changed drastically. Incarceration was at least safer than being exposed at home or in the streets. At this point, I was a popular target among many outside of the prison unless someone in the prison was assigned to murder me. However, some of the disgruntled people throughout the city, who thought that I was personally responsible for their children’s failure to meet the extensive but fair and objective testing and selection criteria for acceptance to our schools for gifted children were also in jail. Among the unhappy ones were several of the applicants for positions in the Organization, those who had applied for employment and were rejected for not meeting the rigorous qualification criteria for the positions they were seeking. Surprisingly, some of our own teachers and staff who were placed on probation and were required to undergo additional training were among them. It is not unusual for some seemingly rational people to become aroused as a function of mass irrationality. They usually fall victim to a psychological phenomenon of mob effect and group behavior in a way they will not manifest their emotionality as a rational individual. In such cases, a slight aberration in their thinking manifests itself in the most unusual behavior. And this was the case with those on probation. They had found that being on probation was embarrassing and an assault on their worth. Some of them were among the unhappy lot. Additionally, there were also those whose political affiliations in outlawed groups were the reason for their attitude. Among them were members of our benefactors who were just dead set against seeing me in that position and wanted some of their “comrades” to take over. There were also some influential characters who had tried to either bully or bribe the assessment staff to fraudulently fabricate passing marks against my strictest instructions to avoid such influence. They were also not very happy with me and were after my hide. And, of course, some others who thought their “genius” off-spring were deliberately excluded from the list because of their known attempt at bribery. I have

to emphatically reiterate at this point, that political affiliation, parents’ status and or relationships with powerful people would have had no bearing, whatsoever, on the acceptance or rejection of any child as a criterion for inclusion or exclusion in any phase of our selection process. I was also constantly reminding myself about what His Majesty and the Prime Minister had warned me about right at the beginning of the project. The warning was that I would make a lot of enemies for all the reasons I mentioned. Among the disgruntled people who were determined to see me removed or even executed, was one of the three selfappointed investigators whose rejection for employment by the Ministry of Education stemmed from his documented membership in the outlawed Tudeh (Communist) party. However, his probationary period by SAMPAD (National Organization for the Development of Exceptional Talents) had nothing to do with his political views. The irony was that, in his case, I had personally overruled our employment department’s recommendation that he was “unqualified because he did not meet the government’s security criteria for employment.” One major factor affecting his probation, we were told, was that he had not passed the Education Ministry’s professional qualification exams. The real reason was he was convicted by the courts because of his subversive activities as a member of the terrorist and sabotage wing of the Communist Party‘s offshoot called the Martyrs of Masses or Fada-ian-ekhalq. Incidentally, one of the members of this organization, a girl, who had been arrested, tried and sentenced by courts to seven years in prison, was the daughter of one of our employees who asked me to vouch for the reduction of her sentence with the Prime Minister on the basis, as he expressed, “of a huge misunderstanding.” He was a university professor whose brother, I later found out, was the leader of communist leaning Iranian Students Association in the United States and Europe. He later came back to the country on the same plane with Khomeini and was Khomeini’s trusted adviser for a short time before he was executed for treason. The girl’s father, as I mentioned before, was a college professor at the Teacher

Training University and swore on the soul of all twelve Imams that his daughter was absolutely innocent. He said she was mistakenly arrested when she was returning from a hiking trip and accidentally mingling with a group of known terrorists on a specific mission who were coming down the mountain at the same time as she. I didn’t know at that time about the uncle’s role in subversive activities and that he was a wanted fugitive by the courts which had tried him in absentia for his own subversive activities including in connection with the killing of four American military consultants in the northern part of Tehran. Not really having much reliable information about her and not wanting to abuse my good relationship with the Prime Minister, I was not in the position of asking him to ask His Majesty for a pardon or even a reduced sentence. I should have guessed that the conviction was based on a far more serious offense than what the father had told me. However, I knew the chief of the military courts, whose daughter was one of our students at our Alvand Center and I decided I could discuss the issue with him informally. He was a three-star general in the army and a trusted man whose fairness and judgment were respected by all who knew him. A highly educated and cultured individual, he was an extremely kind and considerate gentleman whom I could approach and was my best choice. In addition to his overall reputation, he was very courteous towards me personally, and always addressed me in the most respectful manner. He was the equivalent of JAG Chief. I called the General and discussed the matter with him. He immediately recognized the name but asked me to give him half an hour so that he could review her file again and get back to me. Within half an hour my secretary buzzed and informed me that the General was on the phone. I pushed the button and sure enough it was he with his hallmark complimentary manner of speaking on the other end. After additional gracious comments he said that he had the file right in front of him and yes, she had been arrested, charged, tried and sentenced to seven years of incarceration. The charges which were truly serious had nothing to do with her political ideas, because she was arrested with a backpack full

of plastic explosives while she was fastening the explosive underneath a high railroad bridge (Veresk Bridge) several hundred meters over a deep canyon, to be detonated while the passenger train was crossing the bridge. The train was usually packed with innocent men, women and children, going on vacation to the Caspian Sea area, but because she was a young woman the court had shown leniency by reducing the charges to plotting to terrorize people, when she could have been sentenced to at least twenty years imprisonment. The general told me all of this in confidence and promised to include her name in the list of the people to be “Pardoned” for Norooz. He did, however, reiterate that that was the only thing he could do to honor my request. He also mentioned that he has an appointment to have an audience with His Majesty to present him with the list of proposed people to be pardoned.

CHAPTER 7 THE DAY I WAS ARRESTED

T

he day started as usual with no electricity or gas because the workers were not only on strike but also guarding the electric grids and distribution grid stations so that no one from the opposing side could go and restart the power plants or the grids. They were also manning the main gas lines supplying the Capitol. While everybody was supposed to be on strike, almost all the staff in our headquarters were at work doing what they always did. It happened that the winter had decided to demonstrate its bite with vengeance. It was one of the coldest days in February. Everybody was bundled in their winter cloths, gloves, sweaters and topcoats, mufflers and all. I was dressed in a brown suit, a matching vest, a grey over coat and a green tie. Instead of spending the freezing day in my large office, which faced north towards the snowcapped mountains by an inadequate kerosene heater, I decided to spend the day in my bureau chief’s cluster of offices which faced east. The sun was shining through the floor to ceiling sliding doors and a large side window, making it more reasonably tolerable to spend the day in there, doing practically nothing, except to be fully immersed in thinking about the situation in the streets. There were, however, three guys in the filing room adjacent to the bureau chief’s office who had been, for the past four days, going through the filing cabinets to find financial and/or any document proving some horrendous misdeed on my part. Thus far, their efforts were frustrated by the fact that they couldn’t come up with anything remotely questionable. They were also looking for anyone who could be an agent of the secret security service department. Later, however, I discovered that one of them, the geology teacher, was indeed a SAVAK security agent with extreme loyalty to the notorious clergy Khalkhali. In order to prove his loyalty to the revolution he was willing to do anything asked of him to gain the clergy’s confidence. His faked devotion to the revolution

earned him a high position in the Ministry of Education as a department head later. At about ten a.m. that day all three men in the file room came to the secretary’s office where my bureau chief had now occupied an extra desk alongside a secretary and a receptionist, since I had usurped her office. They requested a meeting with me in private. She came in and conveyed the message. Having had nothing better to do I told her to invite them in, but the bureau chief hesitated for a moment and in a muffled voice whispered, “There is something wrong. They seem to be awfully nervous.” I trusted her judgment and checked to make sure that I had my little berretta accessible in my pocket, just in case. When they came in, I had one of them fetch two more chairs from the secretary’s office next door and asked the bureau chief to stay. They got the chairs and arranged them in a way that blocked the doors to the secretary’s office and the file room. Each one had a file in his hand, which appeared to be his personnel records. They all had a distinct worried look on their face. All three of them were pale and perspiring, which was a dead giveaway as to how nervous they were. I asked them in a very calm voice, “What can I do for you. Did you find what you were looking for?” There was a worrisome silence for a few moments, as they looked at each other, the short, pudgy geologist, whom I had hired against the advice of the Education Minister wiped off his sweaty forehead and with a shaky voice that indicated overwhelming anxiety said, “We have not found what we were looking for. Do you or your secretary know where they may be?” “And what were you looking for, that you didn’t find?” “It really doesn’t matter to us now.” “It matters to me. I would like to know why you have spent three days looking for something that doesn’t matter.” There was at this time some commotion that could be heard behind the closed door. All three of them, their faces as

pale as a cadaver, stood up abruptly and tried to leave. In an irritated way, I commanded them to stay still until I got my answer. One of them, while shaking like a bowl of jelly, gathered his courage and stammered, “Ask the revolutionary guards outside.” He tilted his head to the left, indicating that the guards were in the hallway or in the adjacent secretary’s room. Simultaneously the door flung open and a guy in military fatigues and an Uzi in his hand burst into the room, followed by two other Uzi carrying guys. All three of them had traditional Arabic head garbs sported by Yasser Arafat, around their necks, as a scarf. They were pointing their Uzis at me, one in the middle and one on each side, in a semicircular way. My three investigating employees slipped out quickly and quietly like three mice being chased by a cat. The first thing that caught my eye besides their scarves was the similar medals or military style decoration that they were wearing on the left side of their khaki jackets. These, however, were unlike any other decorations I had seen before. I could vaguely see some Arabic inscriptions on them and later found out that they were to distinguish their participation in the Palestinian Al Fatah training camps. I frowned and in a commanding way said, “What is the meaning of all of this charade?” “You will have to go with us to the Komiteh.” It sounded ominous. I knew what it meant. For in such a short time since the takeover by the new regime, I had heard many stories about such abrupt arrests. Some of the stories included complete disappearance of those arrested. I did not ask them if I could make a phone call, for I was certain that they would not allow me. Instead I picked up the receiver and their leader quickly put his hand on the phone’s cradle and said, in a shaky voice: “Please don’t.” Even though I knew what he meant I asked, “What am I supposed not to do?” “Making a phone call,” he answered. “Why not?” I asked

“It is not important, but the order comes from the higher authority.” “Who is this higher authority who has ordered you to carry out his unimportant orders?” In the same shaky voice, he said, “It doesn’t matter. We have our orders not to allow any communications with outside by…” But he didn’t finish his sentence. At this point this had become a game because the phone lines were cut off anyway. And even if they weren’t and they had allowed a phone call, I most likely couldn’t call anyone since I knew most of the phone lines in the city were apparently not working. Nevertheless, in order to have the upper hand and to postpone the seemingly hopeless eventual outcome, or at least get a little bit more information, I said, “Then you have wasted a hell of a lot of time on things that don’t seem to matter.” There was no response. So, I said, “Then tell me where are you going to take me?” I said that in the hope that if they answered honestly, my bureau chief, who was by now standing right beside me, would hear the response and would somehow get in touch with my sisters or some other family members with the information. “I can’t tell you that either.” The senior guard said curtly, with a frown. This didn’t bode well, for most of the people who had been taken away without their families being informed where they were taken, never came back or were heard from again. I gathered my courage and angrily said, “So, you don’t want me to call my family and let them know what is happening to me and you don’t want anyone to know where I am going to be taken. There is nothing that matters or is important that you can do or say, and you are going to take me somewhere that you and your bosses don’t know.” I continued with clear irritation, “Is this your version of Islamic justice for which so many lives have been lost and so much blood has been spilled?” No verbal response was forthcoming, but a look of total embarrassment made them uneasy and restless.

I don’t know if it was the smartest thing to say but at least it made me feel better to embarrass them about their game. I wondered if it was my heart or theirs which pounded so loudly that I could hear the pounding sound in my ears. I knew that I had taken a great risk, and it couldn’t make things any easier on myself. I decided to act superior and turned to my bureau chief before the armed guards could object or could say anything or interrupt me and said, “Get in touch with my sister and let her know what has happened and tell her that I won’t be there for lunch.” She knew of the luncheon arrangement by one of my sisters. It was very close to noon at this point and I heard a substantial amount of noise in the corridors outside. It was the sound of fury by a crowd behind the closed glass doors of the office. The agitated sound of angry staff, loudly protesting the intrusion was worrisome. While I was not sure what had caused the sudden angry reaction, I was almost certain it was something dangerous, which could not be anything other than some revolution related event. I was particularly worried about armed guards, because I could never know what these trigger-happy goons might do. I quickly learned from a fourth guard, who burst into the office at this time. Standing in the doorway, he was talking to the others in a worried voice telling them to hold off taking me out of the room for a few minutes before they could control the angry crowd outside. Two of them turned their back to me looking like scared mice, and the third one kept his Uzi trained on me. That was a bad sign. It was obvious from their worried looks that they had not anticipated this show of loyalty and didn’t have any instruction as to how they should deal with the crowd which had gathered in the first and second floor corridors. “How many?” the lead guard asked. “About eighty or a hundred, including the ones on this floor,” the newly arrived guard replied. They checked their Uzis and made certain they were loaded, with the safety latch disengaged and ready. I became extremely apprehensive as to what may happen as the result of this show of solidarity. I had no doubt that if we went out of

the room there would be blood, some of which would be mine but most of it, that of decent innocent people whose only sin was their loyalty to me. I shuddered out of this fear when I noticed their indecision. I had to think fast to avert any possible adverse reaction that may lead to bloodshed. So, I said, “If you want to get out of here safely yourselves and without any bloodshed, let me handle it.” “How are you going to do it?” “Tell them that I want to see three of their representatives right away, and I will ask them to take a message from me to the rest of them as to what I want them to do.” The guards looked at each other for a long moment, nodded perceptibly and one of them told the fourth guard to do exactly as I had told them, and added, “Tell them if they do any stupid thing they will pay with their lives.” I calmly requested to withhold the threat until I have given them the message. This had now become a matter of power play, so the senior guard looked at me disdainfully and said, “I am serious. I don’t hesitate to fire our weapons, no matter how many counter revolutionaries may get killed for our holy revolution to succeed.” “You can do that at any time you want, but don’t forget that you have to answer to your god if you get out alive, and to your wives and children for killing innocent and decent people for expressing themselves. And also, don’t forget how your family would feel if you were killed by an angry group of people for a crazy decision and for no good reason or just being revolutionary guards.” There were four pairs of dark eyes, including mine, and one pair of green eyes belonging to my bureau chief, looking at him, simultaneously, not pleading but challenging. He paused, hoping for the backing of his gang but none seemed to come through from others. The leader faced the last guard and said, “Just go and get three of their representatives.” The guard left without further ado.

In less than ten minutes, but feeling like ten long years, the same guard and three staff members walked in and approached me with exaggerated respect, each wanting to kiss my hand as the gesture of highest respect and of loyalty. I shook hands with all of them and patted them on the right arm with my left hand. Their eyes were moist and red. Their voices sounded as if they were coming from the bottom of a dry well. I knew all three of them by name, one of them was my own regular driver, one was an assistant principal. The third one was a woman pharmacist in charge of our research on herbal medicine, who had recently come back from an extended assignment to remote regions of the country in search of traditional herbal medicine and treatment techniques. I asked them to listen carefully and convey my message to the rest of the crowd. I said, “Please let everyone know that I truly appreciate their concern and their loyalty. I don’t want to see anyone getting hurt. While I don’t know why I am arrested or where I am going to be detained, I know, and you know that I have done nothing to be incarcerated for one day. I am certain that this is a mistake that will be rectified quickly, and I will be back to continue serving our children along with you soon. My request from all of you is to clear the corridors, go back to what you were doing and keep your organization alive and well until I come back to meet our commitment together.” I hugged all three of them and sent them out, not knowing how much of what I just said about coming back was really true and I could genuinely believe. All through this episode, I thought I had an immediate problem. While I was concerned about the long-term outcome, I was simultaneously concerned about a short term dealing with something in my pocket. I had a small side arm in my pants pocket that I had to get rid of without being noticed. I briefly debated with myself if it was wise to let them know and ask them to fetch it. But I decided to somehow surreptitiously pass it on to my bureau chief as I was giving her a hug. So pretending that I was looking for my hand kerchief I put my hand in my pocket and pulled out my hand and dealt with the weapon trying to cover it by wrapping it in the hand kerchief and wait for a few seconds to secretly

dispose of it. As the guards were busy among themselves, I decided to take a chance hugging my bureau chief again and slipped it into her coat pocket while they were preparing to blindfold me. After I relinquished her, she calmly took a step back and immediately put both her hands in her pockets to cover the bulge. Fortunately, the whole operation went as I planned. What a brave woman she was. Without any indication of what I had just passed to her she kept her hands casually in her pockets pretending that she was cold. In spite of the fact that there were three Uzis trained on me, there was a horrified look of fear and anxiety on the dirty looking unshaven faces of the three revolutionary guards. It made their sweat beads look like they had just been sprayed with some sort of oil. I had no doubt that they had been told something that had evoked such a fear in them. You could see the tension that made their hands and knees tremble. Noticing their uncontrollable fear made me feel sorry for them, but also made me feel an ominously impending danger that a slightest wrong move on anybody’s part could intensify their finger pressure on the Uzis’ triggers and cause a blood bath. I must admit that this feeling made me afraid not only for my own life but also that of others who were congregated in the corridor and could possibly end up collateral damage in the office. It was a well-known fact that these young triggerhappy people had killed many, without hesitation, to get rid of them, only on the suspicion of being in danger themselves. While it was a frighteningly real danger hanging over my head, it reminded me of the story of the lion and the foxes, which brought an ironic smile to my face. It went something like this. One day the monkey saw a fox frantically running out of the jungle. He asked the fox why he was running so scared. The fox replied that the lion is castrating the foxes with three testicles. The monkey said, “but you have only two testicles what are you afraid of?” The fox replied “alas there’s the rub. The lion cuts the testicle first and then counts them.” It truly was the worst of times, for the only rule there was, was the laws of the jungle. “Kill first and answer later.” Up until that time the suspicion of being a counter revolutionary was sufficient, even if it was in the mind of the

killers. There was not only no need for documenting the accusation, but questioning the victims was a waste of precious time that summary executions prevented. Moreover, it was the most effective manner in forcing people into submission or fleeing the irrational danger. The fear associated with the prevailing terror was based on the many innocent lives already lost. The history of spreading Islam was their best model to emulate. Islam had been spread over thirteen hundred years ago by the force of the desert dwellers of Arabia and today swords have been replaced by Uzis, Kalashnikovs and G3 semi-automatic rifles which were obviously more deadly and more efficient than the Arabs crude instruments of slaughter. The whole idea behind this was to get rid of independent thinkers, the leaders and brave resisters, who could possibly organize and give them trouble in the future. I quickly decided that I mustn’t say anything stupid to give them a reason to exercise their target practice. Not that they needed any. This was a decision that was based on an ingrained concept that I had learned during my childhood in a second-grade book. It could be roughly translated as, “The red-hot tongue rids you of your cool green head.” All throughout my life, particularly whenever I have been in a jam, I have been repeating such words of wisdom that I had either learned in elementary school, from literature, or had heard my father utter at times, words that had been etched in my mind. This was one of those moments. I also thought if I kept my mouth shut and did not unnecessarily anger them, my possible demise would be postponed, and who knows what could transpire. As another saying went, “If you are to be executed, there could be a reprieve when you’re moved from one column to the next.” As the three employees left, the senior guy took a long black scarf out of his fatigue’s pocket and indicated that he wanted to blindfold me. He hesitated a moment and took his black cloth and said in a surprisingly respectful tone, “Excellency, I apologize but I have to blindfold you before we go out.” It was a shocking change of attitude. He then approached me and put the cloth over my eyes and tied it on

the back of my head. One of the guards called for his attention and softly whispered something in his ear that I couldn’t catch. He swiftly pulled his head back with another frown, cocked his head and said in an angry tone, “Who is in charge here? Who is carrying these guns? Why are we carrying these guns?” He continued in an angry but shaky voice, “Let them see that we have their leader who will not see them anymore.” This indicated that either he had his orders and was prepared for the worst already knowing something about my fate or was trying to maintain a semblance of toughness and authority. I thought the former was the more likely the case. For the first time through this ordeal, I could hear my heartbeat in my ears and felt a strange feeling in my stomach because it was becoming clearer by the minute that the reality of the situation seemed to be much harsher than what I had imagined. I braced myself for the ultimate atrocity. *** The office I was using, and which was now occupied by five people and the strong smell of sweat, was positioned in a way that the bright sun shining through the double sliding door made it a bit warmer than the rest of the building. Because of the bright sun, the room was much warmer on your back when you sat squarely in its path. I also had a kerosene heater which kept it at a decent temperature, so I had hung up my overcoat on a coat rack. They did not allow me to pick up my fashionable grey overcoat and wear it. But one of the guards picked it up and took it, so once outdoors I had to contend with the cold while we went on our way to wherever it was I was going to be taken. That, however, was not my major concern at the time. My hope was not to end up lifeless in a ditch somewhere outside of town. Incidentally, the overcoat never showed up again. As I was being led through the secretaries’ room, I could clearly hear the two secretaries sobbing and sniffing. One of them sounded particularly distraught. She sounded like the wailing I had heard at some funerals, but I couldn’t tell which one it was. It penetrated my heart in a way that I had never experienced before. For the past four years, I had never heard

anything remotely resembling that. Not in my organization. It was always one of the happiest and most congenial environments and everyone seemed to go out of their way to make it more so. More importantly, everyone was so busy making history and being proud of the work that they didn’t have time for distress. I was told later that they were almost certain that it was the last time they were going to see me. One of the secretaries gathered her courage and said, “Why are you doing this?” And continued crying harder. The question was ignored and there was no answer. In order to make the young women feel a bit better, I gave them a warm smile and assure them that I will be back soon and asked them to take care of business as usual. As we were still in the office, I again told my bureau chief not to forget to call my sister or any member of my family as well as anyone that she could get hold of and to let them know that I wouldn’t be in the office that week, and asked her to tell them the reason why. This of course was a ploy to let as many people know that I had been arrested and would hopefully reduce the chances of “administration of Islamic style justice” midway to an unknown destination. When we stepped out of the elevator, I heard a loud murmur and felt an extreme tension in the air. I felt the guard who was holding my arm release it and the rest were handling their Uzis ready to use. I couldn’t see how many guardsmen surrounded me. Apparently, there were several staff members remaining in the foyer or just arriving who hadn’t gotten the message to go to their offices or the big conference room in the basement. Fortunately, no wrong moves were made that could possibly justify the guards’ harsh handling of the situation. I knew the self-appointed investigators and the revolutionary spies were among the people in the building who genuinely or conveniently sympathized with the revolution for various reasons. Some of them members of the communist party or its offshoots who really hated the mullahs. They thought, however, that by getting rid of the Shah and his family with the help of religious forces they would be closer to the realization of their Soviet-style revolutionary dream that

they nurtured since the Soviet invasion of northern Iran before the end of World War II. This strategy had been tried successfully since the Menshevik’s victory in the early months of the Russian Revolution which opened the door for Communist Bolshevik’s takeover in Russia and some other countries. However, as we will see later, the mullahs were foxier and more brutal than anyone could have realized. *** It was not a secret that many of the people arrested by those impersonating guards, or even the revolutionary court guards, whose arrest had never been acknowledged or authorized by a written warrant, never reached the courts or the jails. They just disappeared into thin air in the middle of the night and nobody heard from them again. Realizing conditions could not get any worse than they were, I quickly asked them for the arrest warrant. The lead guard pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it several times, and held it about three feet from my face. The only thing that I could clearly read was the bolded words, In the name of the god the benevolent and kind. I could not tell if it was a genuine warrant or not, and the swiftness with which he produced and withdrew the paper did not allow me to examine it or question its authenticity. Moreover, I could see that he was extremely agitated and any attempt to question his authority that could embarrass and agitate him further would have had disastrous consequences. At this point, my mind was racing so fast with so many thoughts. I was left thinking nothing would be gained from furthering this useless interaction, but what could I do? I was led to a car, parked in front of the building. I could feel one of the guards got in and sat next to me, another sat in the driver’s seat and the third one sat behind me in the back. It was obvious there was another car for other guards. The car started moving in the direction it was parked but soon after taking several right and left turns I lost my sense of direction. It took several sharp turns to the right and to the left, slowed down and sped up several times and finally took a straight route that I thought was going to the famous Evin prison. All

this time, I was trying to figure out our direction until the car stopped and went through a huge wrought iron gate, behind which there was a crowd of men and women. I still didn’t know where we were and couldn’t let them know that I could slightly see through my blindfold. After a couple of minutes, the gate opened, and the car proceeded through stopping in front of a building. The guard sitting next to me got out of the car and disappeared into the building. The driver, the other guard and I remained in the car, none of us saying a word. I decided to try my luck and ask about our whereabouts. But as I had anticipated, both people seemed to be deaf, mute or both. My emotional outrage under control until now began to resurface. Feeling as though I was psychologically violated and robbed of my most precious possessions, my independence and freedom, a feeling that many people whose house was burglarized experience, but this was far more than just a routine burglary. It was deprivation of part of my identity. Nevertheless, I was able to harness my anger by rationalizing at least I was not dead in a ditch somewhere. After a period of time, which felt like hours, the senior guard reappeared and said, “We can go in now.” As I was guided out of the car, both my arms were held by a person on each side of me and I was led to some steps, climbing four or five of them to an apparently wider landing. I was then told to bend down and lower my head so that I wouldn’t hit the door’s header. I did so but immediately realized there was no way I would hit my head on anything, for neither one of the guards, one of whom was definitely taller than I, did the same. I realized again this was a part of the game designed to confuse the prisoners. This was my first inkling I could outsmart them in their own game. After several pretend turns in a wide corridor and going up and down the same steps, we entered an open door to a cold room where I was instructed to sit in a regular metal chair and not talk to the guards. The door closed and I intently tried to figure out if there was anyone else in the room. I held my breath to see if I could hear any rustling of clothing, shuffling of feet or any other sounds indicating the presence of another

person. I heard none. I tried to confirm my suspicion and said in a barely audible voice, “Anyone in here? I am thirsty.” No response. This silence was broken with the occasional clicking sound of metal on metal and the sounds of torture, cries of pain and agony mixed with recitation of the Quran. It was bitterly cold in that room, for there had been no heat during the better part of the winter. It felt like a vacant building newly occupied by the revolutionary forces. I still didn’t know where I was sitting with the blindfold tight around my head and the sound of people screaming in excruciating pain. I didn’t know how many more people were there and who was being tortured. I was, however, certain this was a deliberate attempt to beat people into submission. But thinking about the harsh reality of the situation and the uncertainty of the unknown, combined with the unbearable cold, made me anxious. I started to shiver. I didn’t know whether it was out of fear, or because the room was truly that cold, or both. I decided to deal with both by calling the guards and asking for a space heater. Before I did that, I slightly loosened my blindfold so that I could see through the bottom of it if I slightly tilted my head back. I then called the guard with as strong a voice as I could muster. There was no response. I waited for a while until I thought I heard footsteps. I quickly repeated my call. The footsteps stopped and then sounded as though they were moving away. Several minutes passed and I heard the door open and at least two people walk in. One of them started talking and said, “I am in charge here. What is your name?” I answered politely but firmly stating my last name and my title. “Why are you brought here?” “I don’t know, maybe you can tell me.” I responded. He started with a sarcastic tone, saying, “You must be as innocent as the rest of the servants of the Taghoot. You see how every one of them pleads ignorance. If they were all innocent, we would not have needed the revolution to get rid of their master and his servants.” He spoke these words with the authority of a prosecutor and a judge, in an accent that I can still remember. He then rapidly fired several questions

without giving me a chance to answer. “What ministry did you work for? Was Hoveyda your boss? Was Shah’s wife the head of your Board of Directors? Did you have a personal relationship with her.?” Before he could continue, I interrupted him and said, “One none, two yes and three no.” It appeared that he didn’t know how to react to my answers. Apparently, my answers had caught him off guard. He hesitated and asked, “What did you need from the guard?” The word need as opposed to want, along with his attempt at being powerful gave a strong indication of his authoritarian personality, starting the wheels turning in my head as to how I should deal with him and his underlings. I said, “Please order one of your men to get me a heater. It is too cold in here. And if you can …” I wanted to say have these blindfolds removed. But I had already loosened it to a tolerable degree. So quickly I said, “Please get me a cup of hot tea.” “We don’t have a samovar here to make tea.” “How do you make your tea, then?” I asked. “We make it on a small countertop electric stove for ourselves.” He answered, without thinking he was being interrogated by me and that he was indicating prisoners will not have the same privilege as their captors. He continued, “But you drink coffee all the time, not tea.” It was obvious at this time that somebody had dug into my habits and preferences, but I wasn’t quite sure to what extent, so I was not ready to concede. In order to figure out what he wanted to imply, I said, “Not really, only occasionally. I like to have a cup of coffee in the morning when I haven’t had a good night’s sleep. It wakes me up.” I locked my fingers together and put my hands behind my head, pretending that my neck was stiff, but it really gave me a chance to tilt my head back so that I could look at his face. I barely noticed from the bottom of my blindfold that he was looking at me in a funny way, lowering his head, his chin almost touching his chest and raising the black of his eyeball as though he wanted to say something. It was obvious he had

something in mind but was not sure how to put it. The other guy seemed to be amused with our conversation and occasionally made a statement or two. With my hand still behind my head, I pretended I was trying to listen to him by cocking my head slightly to the right and tilting it back, trying to look at his face through the slight opening at the bottom of my blindfold. The second man had a smirk on his face which he couldn’t wipe off, showing his crooked teeth. Now I knew both faces and their tone of voice as well as their accent, by getting them to talk and assessing their attitude. My whole point of this conversation was first to become familiar with their accent. Until this day, I don’t know why. However, like everyone else I thought the situation would rectify itself within a short time and conditions would return to normal, and if I remained alive until that time, I would like to talk to them. I realized later their brutality in dealing with the slightest indication of opposition was far beyond anyone’s imagination. Secondly, and more importantly, I wanted to figure out how I could establish an upper hand without antagonizing them until I was released. I succeeded on both counts and more, not only by remembering their voices, but also learning their pseudonyms, neither one of which matched their accents. The higher-ranking guy was “brother Hamedani” and the junior guard was “brother Tabrizi” indicating they were from two well-known cities. But they both had a very thick Arabic accent with which I was quite familiar, having met numerous migrant ethnic Arabs when I lived in the southern part of Iran during my teenage years. As for my request for tea, Hamedani was right, I rarely drank tea in the past thirty years, but as it was the custom in upper echelons of any governmental organization, I always had my office boy have a freshly brewed pot of tea ready for my visitors, and by force of courtesy I drank a lot of tea with my visitors. At this time, however, asking for a cup of hot water not only would have been the best thing that not only could test my ability to establish an upper hand but also warm me inside and reduce the penetration of the bone chilling cold, and this awful uncontrollable shaky feeling in my stomach.

While the first objective was accomplished, I realized the shivering was not just from the cold but also from the incredible anxiety, caused by the uncertainty of the situation. I had heard of the brutality of their tactics from multitudes of people who were arrested in the first few days of the revolution, on the basis of name similarities or personal vendetta who had quickly proven their arrest was a mistake and had paid exorbitant sums to the revolutionary courts for the expenses the jailers had incurred for the few days they were incarcerated. I had also heard their Mojahedin and Fadaian allies had demanded and publicized the execution of thousands of high-ranking governmental officials, higher than office managers, in order to completely wipe out any remote possibility of opposition. Obviously, this type of information had put the fear of the devil in everybody’s heart, because many families had relatives in vulnerable positions. I was one of those who was a definite candidate for execution, and no number of cups of tea or hot water could deal with that fear. Before they left the room, Hamedani said he had a few questions he was going to ask. I said, despite my better judgment, “I thought you had asked all the questions you had, plus the fact that it seems that you have already decided the answers to your questions. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here.” He angrily responded, “You are right on the first part and wrong on the second. You and your boss, Hoveyda, like all the Shah’s servants, are guilty of treason, of following in his footsteps and working for the CIA. Your dossier is loaded with documents about your employment by the CIA. You planned to take our best minds and prepare them to become CIA spies.” While I thought he was bluffing, I tried to keep a calm facade, yet I was so indignant that I could literally punch him in the mouth for the accusation. I felt that my heartbeat not only rose, but also became so loud that I could hear it as a continuous thump in my ears and as a throbbing headache. Despite my attempt to remain calm, I asked, “Is baseless accusation now allowed by new Islamic rules? Is it not a sin worthy of hell’s fire to condemn people on the basis of

unproven and knowingly false accusation and lies?” I was tempted to rip off or at least remove my blindfold. When he said, “We will see what the revolutionary court would say about that in a couple of days.” I could hear him push the metal chair on the concrete floor and walk away without another sound. This did not bode well, for I knew the Islamic judges did not follow a modicum of human decency, leave alone legitimate legal procedure, in ruling against accused. I felt the timeline he had indicated was the maximum amount of time allowed before my slaughter. A tremendous arctic air blew through the room as they exited. The sensation of frigid cold that had diminished during the conversation returned with a vengeance. The shivering of my body re-emerged. At this point, I knew that this whole sensation was not about the stupid winter weather. It was the anxiety and the uncertainty of the things to come that made me feel as though I was in a freezer. I remember vividly how I chastised myself for being such a coward and losing my selfconfidence. I started a soundless soliloquy and mustered all my intellectual reasoning and logical ability to dispel this emotional weakness and tried to think about how to deal with the worst-case scenario. I started with the assumption that I could be wrong in concluding Hamedani knew everything surrounding my case, and while he had read my file, he said nothing that was indication of a reasonable justification for execution even by the cruelest religious judges. I thought about the clergy in the medieval times and how irrational they could be. While it was a good comparison, I knew there was a way out of any sin, real or perceived, by atonement. As much as I thought I was a man of principle, I would not hesitate a moment to buy my life back from these merchants-of-death, by playing their game so I could get back to my family sooner or later. Coming to that conclusion lighted a fire inside me that stopped my shivering. I was even slightly giddy, with a faintly impish smile, but not visible enough to arouse any suspicions

of those duped pawns, if they were clandestinely watching me. Instead, I stood up to stretch my legs, since they were beginning to get stiff, and to learn of the presence or absence of anyone in the room. Not that it mattered that much, but I could fiddle around with my blindfold a bit more if I was the only one in the room. A few minutes later I heard footsteps coming from the corridor approaching my room and heard the doorknob turning. The door opened and someone entered. I immediately sensed a bit of heat and smell of burning kerosene as he approached me. The sensation of unbearable cold had already gone, and the shivering had stopped with my self-assurance and restructuring of my thoughts, yet the warmth of the heater felt good. I wanted to attribute the heater’s presence to my strong demand for heat and tea. I decided to test my hypothesis and said, “Thank you for responding to my request so quickly. Now if you get me a big glass of tea with sugar, I will be grateful.” “I will see what I can do,” and he left the room. About half an hour later, the door opened, and someone came in. I recognized his shoes and slacks. He was the same guy who had brought me the heater. He now brought a big glass of tea and before handing it to me he said, “There is no table. I am going to put it on a chair so that you can reach it. I will put some sugar cubes next to it. Be careful not to knock it off the chair.” Before he left, I asked him if he could loosen the blindfold because it was so tight that it gave me a headache. It really wasn’t, for I had already loosened it by pulling on it before. In fact, the front part had been loosened enough that I could lift the bottom part a bit and comfortably look around. He said in a hushed voice, “I am not supposed to do that. But no one is in the room or outside.” This was not one of the voices that I had heard before though he had the same boots and slacks on. I knew however exactly what he meant, so I thanked him, and he left. When he left, I tried to size up the room and the surroundings. Pushing the blindfold up a bit I looked around

and noticed that the room was a medium sized office with a couple of metal desks under the window, which were covered with a piece of cardboard. There was a faint light, but not sunshine, coming in from the slight opening on the sides of the cardboard, indicating that dusk was setting in. It should have been no later than five o’clock. I didn’t have a watch to look at and know the exact time of the day, for they had searched me and confiscated everything in my pockets, as well as my tie and my belt, before they took me to the room. I was glad that I had gotten rid of my little gun, for it could have been a good reason for one of the trigger happy guards to shoot me and use it a false evidence of my intention to kill someone and instead kill me in self-defense. Many cases like that had been reported, concerning revenge killing or as an attempt to quiet people who knew secrets that could cause the killers trouble if revealed. No matter whether it was a rumor or fact it was still cause for consternation and paranoia. Up until this time it was “so far so good” because I had not been treated harshly except for the blindfold which was beginning to become extremely uncomfortable. It was at this time I heard several footsteps, accompanied by crying and moaning, wailing and pleading for mercy. At first, I thought this was one of their games to frighten people, but it apparently was not. The door to my room opened violently and I heard a strong thud, which was obviously caused by the body of a person being angrily thrown on the concrete floor next to my chair. Part of the body hit my chair and leg hard and knocked the teacup out of my hand on to the concrete floor, it shattered. I had already had part of the tea and the remaining part had cooled off enough not to burn me seriously when it poured down into my lap before it reached the floor. The new guy was still crying and swearing that he was innocent and had nothing to do with killing the “martyred guard.” He said in a distorted way he was not even home when the guard arrived and wanted to rape his wife. He was repeatedly asked, “If you didn’t kill him, then who did?” He was sobbing and invoking the names of some of the twelve

holy martyrs that he was innocent, but he didn’t deny he knew who had done it, only that he didn’t do it. They kept on beating him with their fists and the rifle butts. He kept moaning and crying, asking for mercy; meanwhile, he continued to deny any involvement or knowing who killed their fellow revolutionary brother and comrade in arms. He swore to God the guard was already martyred by the time he got home. I could see from the loose bottom of my blindfold that he was covered with blood. His nose was obviously broken and was turned completely toward his right cheek. His lips were swollen and bloody. I couldn’t see if his teeth were knocked out because his mouth was filled with oozing blood and saliva which explained his funny speech. His hands were tied behind him, but I couldn’t tell whether they were in a police-like handcuff or tied with a string or a rope. It was not until he turned around in his chair, with his back slightly towards me, that I could see, through the crack of my blindfold that his hands were tied behind him with the same black scarf-like material with which I was blindfolded. It occurred to me that that piece of material must be the standard issue by the guards that could be used for different purposes. They finally asked the crucial question, “Who cut him apart, who helped you do it?” “I don’t know,” he said in a whining voice. “Do you think that the brother fucked your wife and that’s why you killed and butchered him into pieces?” He angrily replied, “No, he was dead before he could do anything to her.” “How do you know, because she told you so?” “Yes,” he responded with more of a grunt than intelligible word. “Could it have been her lover and she lied to you to protect him?” One could feel that he was more disturbed by the pain of this line of questioning than his agonizing painful mutilated

face. Even though I could not clearly see the damage done to his face and the likely broken bones in his body, from his distorted voice and his bodily contortion at my feet I could hear and feel his rage at their making such a preposterous accusation. “Are you calling yourselves Moslem and dare to make such an accusation. How incredible that you call yourselves the guardians of the faith, without knowing the first thing about cardinal sins and the consequences of bearing false witness.” And continued in the same angry voice, “It is burning in the fire of hell until eternity.” And as though wanting to emphasize the length of the punishment, went on to say that is, “Forever and ever.” The tone of questioning changed and the interrogator calmly and almost in a friendly tone asked, “Was there anyone else who witnessed the killing, of course, beside you and your wife? Is there anyone else who can verify your claim of innocence?” After this change of attitude, I thought to myself, “Good for you. Keep up the show of strength.” I must admit that part of that thought was provoked by my urge to know if I was indeed dealing with authoritarian personalities as much as the courage of the guy to stand up to these jokers. “Whose knife was it that martyred the brother?” they asked almost simultaneously. “I swear to God Almighty and his fourteen saints that I don’t know. I had never seen the knife before in my life until the guards showed it to me.” Throughout this ordeal, I desperately tried to remain calm and detached. But I couldn’t keep my emotional responses completely under control. I had paradoxical feelings about how brutally this guy was being treated and the amazing way that the dead man was mutilated and put in a plastic bag to be disposed of. At the same time, I felt a great deal of sympathy, not only for the way this man was being roughed up, but a sense admiration for him and whomever killed the bastard Guardian of Islam who was going to rape the wife.

From the guy’s pleading and insisting he was not the killer, even under the torturous conditions, I felt inclined to believe he was innocent, and that made me more sympathetic towards him. The guy seemed to be an average person, judging from what little I could see through my blindfold. His clothing appeared to be that of most merchants at the Bazaar, clean, simple and modest. The “Bazaaries” as they are called are usually religious and extremely protective of the chastity and sexual purity of their women in the family. Relatives also closely watch the women and protect them from the evil eyes of men with dirty intentions. Many women defend their chastity tooth and nail. Otherwise, they could be the subject of the harshest measures by their men against them. So, barring some exceptions, it is not unheard of, that many women take the matter in their own hand when they think they are going to be violated. I was hoping the wife was not one of them, for no matter how innocent the self-protection has been, the woman would be condemned by religious courts. The thought of the wife being the actual killer of one of the “brothers” and what could happen to her returned the cold to the room and the shivering to my body. Fortunately, by this time night seemed to have fallen and the room was getting dimmer by the second. The racket outside the room had subsided to some extent and the sliver of light through the side of the covered window was no longer visible through my loosened blindfold. Perhaps it was the attitude of the prisoner, the exhaustion of the guards from beating the poor guy so vehemently, the stubborn denial of the victim, or the futility of their method to extract a confession or all of the above, but the beastly treatment finally stopped. It could have been their mission’s continuation tomorrow needed some rest before its resumption. Not long after, the door flung open again and two more prisoners were brought in, without any fanfare. These two were not blindfolded either. After the door closed, I could hear them whispering to each other explaining why and how they were arrested. One of them claimed that a powerful mullah by the name of Rafsanjani offered to buy his ten-

hectare orchard for a fraction of the cheapest price that he could sell it for. He refused and a couple days later he was arrested with some trumped-up charges and interrogated for a day and a half and eventually sent there to be kept until his trial. The other was a Jewish currency exchanger who had sent one hundred thousand dollars to the US and had kept the bank receipt in his wallet when he was arrested at a checkpoint. He had been told to produce twice the amount as penalty before he was to go free. The stories were so outrageous that they both longed for the return of the previous “corrupting on Earth” government. The criteria for “corruption” was at the discretion of the individual revolutionaries, the clergy, whose sick thirst for power and insatiable appetite for wealth condoned and encouraged the slaughter of innocent people under the cloak of religious devotion. Not even a uniform religious definition, no matter how harsh even by Islamic laws, was given by a central authority including Khomeini himself. Obviously, it was a calculated decision by the leader of the anarchy to demoralize people so they would not dare refuse orders by the clergy. This has been Islam’s way since the seventh century, “My way or the highway.” *** While I was in prison, the Communist Islamists took advantage of the chaos created by the Revolution and slaughtered an inordinate number of military people at their homes or offices. They were also able to kill their imprisoned political rivals while posing as revolutionary guards, as well as in streets where they functioned as ‘Guardians of the Revolution.’ Masoud Rajavi the leader of Mojahedin-e-Khalq had declared his intentions to implement his plan for elimination of at least three million people during the first weeks of the takeover, to sanitize the society. Many of the people who were targeted by them were the revolutionaries themselves who were not dyed in the wool religious fanatics yet had been caught in the heat of the moment and had helped the movement to succeed. Once the killing of pro-revolution people started, a fierce battle between the revolutionary guards and Mojahedin started which resulted in the death of literally

thousands from both sides as a result of this incredible barbarism of both sides. Most of the Mojahedins eventually fled the country and went to Iraq with their leader Masoud Rajavi and his wife Maryam under the protection of Saddam Hussein. However, the slaughter of many of their members before the mass migration was an example of what was to be the behavior of the regime in the future. Rule by Terror. It was a marriage of convenience between the Islamist revolutionaries and the three communist and Marxist leaning groups as well as the old National Front before the success of the uprising. The coalition was doomed to be abandoned and fall apart as did the original model, the Communist revolution in Russia over sixty years before. The illegal Tudeh Party, the Mujahedeen and the Fadaian had banded together and penetrated all layers of the staunch Islamists and were using the Soviet model to dispose of the Shah. They hoped after succeeding in their plans they could dominate and hijack the revolution as the Bolsheviks, under Vladimir Ilyich Lenin did with the Mensheviks and the Tsar and his family in 1917. They even made sure that any opposition leaders had the same fate as did Trotsky and others outside the country, which would be brutal slaughter to show their long reach and intimidate any opposition leaders who may pose a threat to their reign of terror. One of the first of these assassinations took place, of all places, in the streets of Paris under the nose of the government security forces. The victim was Shahriar Shafiq the young navy officer and the son of the Shah’s twin sister Ashraf, who, in the mind of the new government, appeared to pose a great threat to the stability of the newly established Islamic Republic. According to informed sources, this and many other assassinations that followed, took place under direct order of Khomeini himself. The handsome young man was gunned down in the streets of Paris. Like the rest of the killings that followed the assassins were not identified, or if they were, they were extradited back to Iran. The news of such criminality was happily conveyed to the prisoners, including myself with the promise of more yet to come. It was obvious that such targeted assassinations were

carried out by groups of Islamic assassins trained and charged with the task of killing the opposition leaders in Tehran. Some of these assassins such as Anees Nqqash a Lebanese recruit, apparently an unsuccessful killer, who was supposed to kill Shapoor Bakhtiar, later openly admitted to their assignments in their interviews with European reporters. Some were well known sickly brutal clergy like Khalkhali who personally executed Prime Minister Hoveyda, and openly talked about how he killed the great man. This was neither his first murder nor his last. The news of each killing was immediately circulated, with accompanying gruesome photos, in public and among the prisoners. It happened that I knew several of the victims personally, some of whom I had the sad privilege of getting to know in prison, among them some of the most intelligent, honest and patriotic people you could name. Prior honest service to the nation was a sin in the eyes of Khomeini and his cohorts. From the time of his return on the plane from France, he repudiated nationhood and called it meaningless, in favor of “believers” or “adherents” to Islam which included all Shiite sect but not Sunnis. This was the first clue in his policy of exportability of his brand of Islamic revolution. Such pronouncements meant a purging of the nation by any means, including annihilation of other nations and infidels, in their vernacular non-moslems—a practice still being followed today. *** The jails, after releasing all criminals, did not have the capacity to hold sardine packed prisoners, so many of the armed forces buildings and barracks were used as holding tanks. Every hour of the day saw people hoarded into these places like cattle, driven by the rifle butts to the slaughterhouse. Among these people were armed forces commanders, former cabinet ministers and high-ranking government officers. There was among us prisoners an outspoken clergy who always wrongly predicted the guilt or innocence verdict of the accused based on his understanding of religious laws. He himself was executed during the second week of his incarceration. Not very surprisingly many of

those who had committed outright murder in that period were let go without trials but with the payment of substantial sums of money. Justice Islamic style made a lot of the prisoners extremely anxious because they couldn’t predict what their fate may be. This was particularly true among those with limited financial means to buy their freedom, who begged and cried for mercy. They were invariably treated very harshly by the members of the Guardians of Islamic Revolution so that they would donate their assets including their house or anything of value that they may have possessed. That was a clue for me not to show any anxiety or weakness, which would have otherwise subjected me to the same kind of treatment. I tried very hard to counsel everyone to keep a strong façade which unfortunately did not work equally well with everyone. One man, the driver of the Army chief of staff, having seen what happened to people in less dire circumstances than his own, was convinced he would be executed. He had a wife and three children. He began to pray five times a day, asking God to have mercy on him and his family. I told him that not only would his crying and praying not help him, but it would also embolden the guards given their authoritarian personalities. Whereas before his crying episodes he was treated like everyone else, blindfolded and slapped around the interrogation room, once he began to openly weep and pray, he was harshly treated with rifle butts. His weeping did not stop. And, in fact, the guards took his weeping as a sign of weakness and guilt. Now two guards were beating him in front of others and kicking him in the head and stomach with their brand-new boots stolen from the Armed Forces supply rooms. Like everyone else, his family had no idea of his fate. My own level of anxiety was higher than any other time I remembered. After a couple days of witnessing this kind of treatment, I decided to work on my own anxiety and bring it under control, or at least reduce it through deep muscle relaxation. Having been successful with my own attempt, I decided to help some of the more anxious fellow prisoners by teaching them the relaxation techniques that worked so well for me. I targeted some of them and worked with them right in front of the guards pretending that we were playing a game.

At one point when no other guards were around, one of the guards cornered me and asked me if I would teach him the “lesson” because he was so worried that he would fall apart. I included him in the group, but from a distance, on the condition that he promised not to hurt anybody any more afterward. He enthusiastically agreed. A couple of days later, he went to my mother’s house, where I had stayed prior to my arrest and brought me some clean underwear and shirts and dared to ask the guy in charge to allow me to take a hot shower. *** The guy in charge was the person who briefly interrogated me when I was just brought in by the guards. They called him Brother Hussein or Brother Hamedani out loud, clearly indicating that what they called him was not his real name. He was in his mid-forties and had apparently gone through training by Yasser Arafat’s people and had a slight Arabic accent when he spoke Farsi. Months later, I saw him on ABC Television on America Held Hostage in the forefront of the supposedly student hostage takers at the American embassy. He was reading a statement in Farsi. American news media insisted that the embassy occupiers were students who had spontaneously decided to occupy the embassy and take everyone who was there hostage. Everyone knows the rest of the story that went on for four hundred and forty-four days until after the 1980 presidential elections. It was obvious, however, that the hostages return was accomplished after the regime was assured by McFarland, the United States representative, with his hand on the bible, that the U.S. would not attempt to overthrow the new religious butchers. This pattern of negotiation had been established almost twenty years before in the case of Cuba, during the well-publicized ‘Cuban Missile Crisis.’ which guaranteed Castro’s survival and the rule of Ayatollahs until today. There is no wonder that even American backed friends and allies don’t trust the US and run from its backing, like Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Egypt and even many European countries.

I did not mean to divert from my own story, but I found it very significant to mention these facts. As the title of a recent political book decrees, and I take the liberty of slightly modifying it, these are unpleasant truths. The fact remains, however, that the vast majority of Americans cherish the principles upon which this incredible country was founded. They may not have read the Constitution or the Bill of Rights, but they believe in the fundamental values of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Equality for all in the eyes of the law is the byproduct of these principles that humans, in their infinite wisdom, determined to be worthy of its practice. These are the values that made me choose to be an American. While many of those values may be somewhat diluted in recent decades, at the end of the day even some of those who do not believe so deeply will return to them when the chips are down. Let us admit it, the American Constitution which is no more than a few pages in a small booklet you can carry in your pocket is far weightier than fifteen tons of the writings of Marx and Engels and the entire communist Manifesto or Mein Kampf. The best witness to that fact is the endurance and the applicability of it after several centuries. The ideas of liberty, equality and the pursuit of happiness are not just rights that can be taken away. They are part and parcel of human genetics. We are born with them and they are worth dying for. The only problem is that some people think progressivism is discarding something that is old and tested and replacing it with something that has not been consistently proven valid. They don’t realize that DNA is almost forever. It is there to endure. It is true that in some cases it may be corrupted for various reasons but, by and large, that is what makes us what we are as a whole. Human becomings.

EPILOGUE

After surviving an Iranian prison, a car careening over a cliff and descending over a mile into a ravine, a near fatal illness, and a quadruple bypass, Iraj Broomand, PhD, a man who was fiercely loyal and loving to his family and friends, unapologetic in his views, steadfast in his convictions, and dogged in his determination, stubbornly left this world at the age of 87 after a long battle with illness. Whether it was serving his country, his community, or his family, Iraj was dedicated to his cause and changed for the better the lives of many throughout the world. Iraj leaves behind a legacy of programs benefitting children and future generations. As Deputy Prime Minister of Education in Iran prior to the Revolution, he was instrumental in establishing the School for the Gifted, the National Iranian Organization for Gifted and Talented Education, and the World Council for Gifted Children. Upon coming to the United States, he continued to serve the needs of children through the development of schools for gifted children and subsequently founded Stirling Behavioral Health Institute in Southern California which began as a program for emotionally disturbed children and evolved into a program serving a full spectrum of pediatric mental health disorders. He served as Executive Director until his death. Iraj began this book several years before his death and it was his ultimate wish that the book finds its way to publication. Unfortunately, he took with him a trove of experiences before we could memorialize them within these pages. What we do know is that he escaped the Revolution because of his character—his unwavering loyalty, stubbornness, and ability to deal with difficult situations.

While he didn’t talk much about his time in prison, the stories we have heard involve daily trips to the firing lines where everyone else was blindfolded and shot except for him. He was seen as the leader in prison and was to take messages back to the prisoners to keep them in line and fearful. However, that was not in his nature. He eventually told the guards that he refused to do their bidding so they should either shoot him or stop taking him out. So, they stopped. Altogether he spent 9 months in the Iranian prison. During his trial, Iraj was fortunate to be appointed one of the three non-religious judges. After answering many questions, he was asked about an employee he had hired. True to his nature, he responded that the man was one of the best employees he had ever had. The judge said, “I am glad to hear that because he is my nephew and he asked me to look out for you.” After pronouncing him not guilty, the judge then called him to the bench and advised him not to accept a ride from the guard who would take him to an alley and kill him. Sure enough, the guards offered him a ride. He declined. As for his program, after his arrest, the new regime closed the schools he had worked so hard to open. After three years, they reopened them somewhat according to the plans he had developed. However, instead of programs such as music they instead had classes in Quran. Years later, while Iraj was living in the US, representatives from the Iranian government—a former teacher from the school and a counselor—attended a lecture he was conducting in Utah. They handed him a very flowery letter that invited him back to Iran to run his former program. He told them that he would be glad to come back provided he could run the program exactly the way he used to. They said he would be free to do whatever he wanted within Islamic dictates. He declined. Years later, they extended another invitation to recruit him back. This time, however, because he had defied the wishes of Ayatollah Khomeini, the invitation was not sincere. Three or four years ago, he found out that the latter invitation was

actually a ploy to get him back to the country so they could put him on trial and possibly/probably execute him. While living in Southern California, Iraj’s penchant for politics and commitment to enrich the lives of children served as a platform to run and win a seat on the Las Virgenes School Board, where he served for four years. Continuing his desire to serve the community, he was elected to the Westlake Village City Council and served as mayor of Westlake Village.

Iraj and Caroline at home on August 30, 2019, with Anahita, Hooshie, Catherine, grandchildren Avery and Jackson, and family pet Cali.

APPENDIX LETTERS FROM STUDENTS OF THE NATIONAL I RANIAN ORGANIZATION FOR GIFTED AND TALENTED EDUCATION SCHOOLS (SAMPAD)

10/20/2019 Dear Dr. Broomand, There is a lot to be said but I keep it short. I wanted to let you know that you have touched the lives of hundreds of the best children of our beloved country. You enriched our lives in a short few years beyond any imagination. The education that you offered us put all of us on a track that endless success stories were made and are being made. But the education was just a part of what you gifted us. Forty some years later, the bond that you help form between us, students, teachers and staff is beyond description. I have dozens if not hundreds of friends around the world that the name of SAMPAD and Dr Broomand is like a secret code connecting us forever. Every now and then when we get a chance to get together, whether it’s 2 of us or 20 of us, it feels like we are lost siblings coming back together and every single one of us owe these invaluable relationships and our individual successes to that school and mainly to you, Dr Broomand. My best years were in SAMPAD, my friends are from SAMPAD and all of my achievements in life are because of the track you set us on. And I will for the rest of my life be indebted to you and your passion for your children’s wellbeing and future. Wish you well. Your son, Bahram Jalayer in Toronto

*** 10/27/2019 I am Marjan Sirjani, a student of year 1355 of gifted talented school in Tehran. Dr. Broomand was a great man who changed the life of many of us. Nothing else in my life was like the joy, happiness, excitement and satisfaction that I experienced in his school in those few years. All those classes and programs and searching for knowledge in a free style shaped a strong basis to build my career upon. Those faded memories of a very few years which seem to be in another world of another time are still the best memories of my entire life, and the friends I have from that school are the best treasures in my life. Wish you and your family all the best, Marjan Sirjani PS: I am now a Professor of Software Engineering at Malardalen University in Sweden, I got my PhD from Sharif University and was a faculty member of Tehran University for 10 years, and the head of Software Engineering Department there for 3 years.

10/20/2019 Dear Dr. Broomand, I was not in touch for many years, basically since the revolution. I heard today that you are hospitalized. I am very sorry and wish you all the best. I thought to dare now and tell you although I never reached out before, you are one of the greatest people in my life. And, I don’t know how to express my sense of appreciation. As for one story, my German psychiatrist has been prescribing me at age 10 with Tegretol. I had awake nightmares at school. Once, you called and met my parents after one of these incidents and convinced them that I don’t need a medicine. I never took Tegretol again after that. I never had nightmares after, except for the real life�� Please stay with us. Mehrdad Ahmadi 10/27/2019 Dear Catherine, I am deeply sad hearing of professor Broomand’s departure. I am sure you know all of us, his first year intakes in Sampad, have the greatest respect for him. I truly believe my personality and future, were very much shaped during those three years of attending Sampad for which, I will forever be grateful to Dr. Broomand.

I am certain, wherever he is now, he rests in absolute peace and joy. Regards, Mehrdad

10/20/2019 Hello Dr. Broomand: This is Mehran Hamidi, one of the students during SAMPAD’s early years. I am sending this email to wish you health for many years to come. It’s because of your vision and amazing work that all of us have been able to learn, explore and thrive. We are eternally grateful! To your health, Mehran 10/27/2019 Hello Ms. Broomand, I am so sorry to hear about his passing! He was such an amazing man who impacted so many lives in a dramatic way! Please accept my condolences. I have to admit that I didn’t interact with him much while I attended SAMPAD, but I will send my brief thoughts about his legacy: When I was finishing elementary school, I was determined to attend Alborz. I remember a day when someone came into our class and talked about a new school called SAMPAD and recruiting students for the next class (the second year of its existence) from our school. I believe I hid under my desk, because I didn’t want to even consider it. Somehow, my parents convinced me to take the exam and I did well - with a broken arm. I eventually warmed up to the idea of attending SAMPAD. That was one of the most impactful experiences of my life, not only due to the quality of the education, but also for the bond it created with so many of my classmates and future students. Dr. Broomand’s vision has created such life-changing impact for so many people around the world. I’m in touch with so many of them and we’re all indebted to him for life! Regards,

Mehran Hamidi

10/28/2019 This great man has impacted the lives, hearts and minds of at least several thousand Iranians over the years and generations all over the world. May his legacy stay alive and thrive forever! With very kind regards and deepest sympathy Prof. Babak Boroojerdi, MD, PhD, MBA, Germany *** 10/20/2019 There is no word can’t explain our gratitude and appreciation for everything that you did for all of us in Sampad! Your smile, confidence and calm voice will stay with all of us as long as we live. I wish I were there so I can see you in person. Hilda Jali, Arizona ***

10/20/2019 Dear Dr. Broomand, I am saddened by the news about the deterioration of your health. Wanted to let you know that SAMPAD, the fruit of your work, has had a profound effect on the lives of many of us, myself included. Our thoughts and prayers are with you and your wife now and always. Sincerely, Homayoun Yousefi’zadeh Entry Year 1356 *** 10/23/2019 Dear Dr. Broomand, just wanted to say how much we love you and appreciate what you did for me and thousands of people like me. You established a school of thought that was new in Iran and other countries. We will never forget you and carry your legacy forever. Kidra Shadroo

10/20/2019 Hi Dr. Broomand, I am Ramin Saeedinia, among the first year students in your school (SAMPAD). I will always remain appreciative of what you did for us during those ~ three years. I heard you do not feel well these days. I wanted to let you know that you are in my thoughts and prayers. Best regards, Ramin *** 10/29/19 To the Respectful Family of Dr. Broomand, We are extremely sorry to hear about Dr. Broomand’s passing. He certainly made an indelible impact on our lives, and we are forever appreciative of what he did for us. Please accept our deepest sympathy and heartfelt condolences. With best regards, On behalf of the group of students admitted to SAMPAD in the first year of the school, which was founded in Fall 1976 ***

10/20/2019 This is Amir Shahram Ranjbar.. one of your many Students at the “Sampad” school in Tehran.. i am in writing from Toronto, Canada, and want to tell you that we are all thinking of you and respect and love you forever. Cheers! 10/27/2019 Please accept my most sincere and heartfelt condolences. He was a good man, and like all good men, he is remembered and best regarded by all those he had touched, influenced, and impacted their lives. Please include me in the long list of his fans and students… Sincerely, Amir Shahram Ranjbar

10/20/19 Dear Dr. Broomand, This is Azita, one of your students in Sampad. I heard you’re in hospital and got really worried about you. You know that you have a special place in our hearts forever as not only a mentor but a kind wise and heroic father. Please get well soon we all love you and looking forward to see you very soon in our next reunion! Best Wishes Azita *** 10/27/19 Dear Catherine and family, Dr Iraj Broomand wasn’t only a teacher to me, he was inspiration and encouragement, he had this burning fire in his soul to help kids grow into great and caring human beings…he will be dearly missed. Please accept my most sincere condolences, may his soul Rest In Peace and his legacy lives forever. Best, Mitra Abedini