Free Then They Came For Me by Maziar Bahari, Aimee Molloy

visited him all the time in the hospital. You know, Maziar, he is a cultured man. He’s been reading a novel every week since I’ve known him. He’s a poet and likes traditional Iranian music. I don’t think he was so interested in power when he was made supreme leader in 1989.” Amir paused and picked up another photo. In it, Khamenei, Amir, and a group of other Islamic Republic officials were sitting on their knees in a circle around Ruhollah Khomeini. It didn’t look like a government meeting; it was more like a saint giving an audience to the faithful. “Leadership of the Islamic Republic was a cloak that fit Imam Khomeini,” Amir noted. “It looks too big on Mr. Khamenei. But power is even more addictive than heroin, and Mr. Khamenei is hooked on it now.”
    Back in the office, Amir’s cell phone rang. He had to join Mousavi and a group of his advisers for evening prayers. “Amir
jaan
,” I said as I stood to leave. “You’re telling me Mousavi will win for sure but they are going to change the results?”
    Amir held my hand in his. “The only chance of having a fair election is if Mr. Khamenei prevents the Ahmadinejad gang andthe Guards’ intelligence unit from rigging the votes. All we can do is pray that the supreme leader will make a wise decision.”
    On my way home that evening, as I passed by murals of Khamenei on walls throughout the city, Amir’s words stayed with me. I hoped that Khamenei would consider saving his legitimacy not by helping Ahmadinejad steal the election but by listening to his people. Of course, I highly doubted he would do that. As Amir had said, Khamenei was intoxicated by his power and wanted to expand it by having an obsequious subordinate he could control. And that man was Mahmoud Ahmadinejad.
    As I passed yet another group of young men and women dressed in green and holding Mousavi signs, I knew that the people of Iran, silent for so long, had finally found their voice. The question now was: Would Ali Khamenei choose to listen?

Chapter Three
    In Iran, the weekend is celebrated on Thursday and Friday, and Friday is called Jom’eh, which means “gathering.” On this day, Muslims are supposed to pray together. Many do but many others, if they can afford it, spend the weekend on the shores of the Caspian Sea, about three hundred miles north of Tehran. Others go hiking in the Elburz Mountains, in north Tehran. This is how I spent many of my weekends in Iran, and it was the only way I wanted to spend June 11, the day before the election.
    I left my mother’s house at four A.M. with a plan to hike into the mountains for as long as I could and then descend by cable car. Every reporter prays for a chance to come across a life-changing story. Reporting the election was mine. I wanted to hike long enough to clear my head and put some distance between myself and politics, in the hope of keeping some perspective.
    ·   ·   ·
    The music and fresh mountain air calmed me down. “My baby’s going to be born in four months’ time,” I hummed to myself as I hiked. “In four months’ time I will be a father.” The idea energized me, and as the sun rose over Tehran, I walked briskly.
    By ten A.M. , I was hot and winded. I sat down to eat the dates I had packed. All of Tehran was spread out before me. As usual, a dark cloud of smog hung over the city. I poured a little of the tea I had brought and slowly ate my dates. The exhaustion of the last few days had settled in my body, but even so, I believed myself poised on the edge of so much possibility: a better future for my family; for my career; and, I prayed, for my country. I felt invigorated and happy.
    After I packed my things and began the walk to the cable car, a sad, old voice, as thick as the smog covering the city, began to croon in my ears. It was Leonard Cohen, singing “Everybody Knows”:
    Everybody knows that the dice are loaded
    Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed
    Everybody knows that the war is