Free Children of Jihad: A Young American's Travels Among the Youth of the Middle East by Jared Cohen

their new year in March so as to coincide with the spring equinox. Because the ancient symbol of Zoroastrianism was the burning flame, hoards of Iranians flood the streets annually and celebrate the new year by jumping over fires. These celebrations are an annual worry for the regime, as the number of Iranian people taking to the streets exceeds its capacity to maintain control.
     
     
     
    U nclear about what the night had in store for me, I really had but one worry, that the hotel receptionist would tell my intelligence stalkers that I was going out in the evening. In Iran, this was a legitimate concern to have. The intelligence services are among the most sophisticated and far-reaching in the world. Iranian intelligence has agents in universities, hotels, and every other public venue one could imagine. For all I knew, the receptionist had been placed there just for the duration of my stay.
    Tonight, I would be testing my tentative friendship with the evening receptionist, whom I’d gotten to know over the previous week. Small talk—“How do you find Iran?” and “I find it quite nice”—had evolved into substantive discussions about how badly he wanted to study abroad. It didn’t matter to him where he studied, as long as it was not in Iran. He explained that he was applying to universities in Europe and asked if I would be willing to assist him in writing his essays and his application. This was a request that I gladly accepted.
    He was a slender guy, with a peach-fuzz mustache and slicked-back hair drenched in gel. He was always in uniform: a white shirt, dress pants, and a black tie. Dangling from his shirt pocket was a name tag that read “Nezam.” He smiled a lot and had a studious look about him. He was a very serious person, but every so often our conversations would turn into more playful discussions that usually involved him asking me what I thought of Iranian girls, and me responding with a diplomatic answer. I wanted to trust him, but I couldn’t. I had to be suspicious of everybody. However, with time this trust would develop and Nezam would become one of the most important people I met in Iran.
    While I never asked him to do so, Nezam and I had an implicit understanding that he would not reveal my secret evening escapades. We never discussed exactly what I was doing, but I think he knew. At later dates, friends of mine would come to the hotel for lunch or wait for me in the lobby and I only imagine he spoke to them while they waited for me to come down from my third-floor room. I could tell from his eyes, the subtle nods he gave me as I walked out the door, or the quiet laughter from his mouth when I would come home at four A.M . half in the bag that he knew I was having fun. He was glad I was skirting authority and seeing his Iran. We were brothers in defiance; Nezam was my ally. He could easily have gotten me arrested, tipped off intelligence services, or even threatened me for a bribe. But he never asked for anything except for me to listen to his story and work with him to achieve his dream of studying abroad. It was not unusual for me to speak to some of his friends on the phone when I passed through the lobby or to talk to others who had stopped by to seek my advice. I began to feel like a college counselor and discovered the reasons behind the massive “brain drain” phenomenon in the Islamic Republic.
    Many young Iranians want to leave their homes and seek opportunities outside of the country. The lack of opportunity for upward mobility, the autocratic nature of the regime, and the dire economy have all contributed to the brain drain. If you ask Iranians what they want to do after their education, their first response is rarely “become a doctor,” “become a lawyer,” or “become a teacher.” Instead, they are far more likely to say, “I want to get out of Iran.” This collective wanderlust is not always a reflection of the feelings young Iranians have about Iran as such; rather,