We were being watched

As things escalated in Tehran, there was no discussion of leaving on any evacuation flight or attempt to flee the country in any way, as so many of my friends and their families had done. Our mother, ever the journalist, saw the opportunity for more stories and bearing witness to a revolution with so many good stories to tell, so many….. Moreover, we would always hear her say, “don’t worry, it will blow over. Maybe there will be a good change.”

The protests finally broke the government, and the Shah and his family unceremoniously fled the country. There was barely a peep from friends and neighbors about this, let alone any word from the media in general. The air of uncertainty was so thick; one needed a chainsaw to cut through it to try and grasp what was happening.

I could tell it was getting worse and a lot more dangerous for us as foreigners, especially ones from the United States. We did get the occasional call to our home with people saying, “Yankee go home” and “Death to America.” I can’t say that I was terrified by any of it, I don’t remember it that way. Instead, I remember thinking, do we know them? How did they get our number? They don’t even know us! Thinking back, I feel, maybe, I was much more indignant than afraid. Admittedly, it was a long time ago, so who knows what my true feelings were at the time (let alone the accuracy of my memories).

The phone calls were only the start. Then came John the visitor, a US “government” fellow who would visit us from time-to-time and, of course, the attack on the “country club” next door to us.

We will get to John the visitor shortly, but before we go there, it is crucial to give you a sense of some of the unusual and positive things that were around us. I have some beautiful memories of Tehran, the people, the culture and the food.

We lived about 50 meters from the Foreign Ministry Club, a club for diplomats, ambassadors and politicians. The club consisted of the gardens which looked like the gardens of Versailles and were always beautifully kept, the main building, which was a strange architectural amalgamation of neo-classic, French chateaux, and eh!? Being in media, my mother knew many of the members, and we were consistently invited for meals, parties, swimming (what a great pool they had, with the most garish gold-leafed-marble-something-or-another) and much more. As a matter of fact, we were there so much that the staff thought we were members. My brother and I entered the club at will to swim, play with some of the diplomat’s children and get incredible Iranian food. It is from this club that I fell in love with Ghormeh Sabzi, my second favorite soul food next to the burrito (there will always be a part of me that is genuinely San Franciscan).

I especially enjoyed going to the club when our friend Ali would invite us. He was a brilliant man who loved his country, his culture, the people, and served as a foreign minister for many years. He was not a fan of the Shah and hoped the revolution would bring positive change.

Ali would teach me about Iranian poetry, philosophy, and literature, which is quite remarkable and beautiful. He would also give me lessons in history and politics and taught me the importance of learning from mistakes. I was always impressed with the cultural dedication to education in Iran, and with Iranians around the world, this cultural fixture is still crucial to them today, and I admire that. We had good times and made wonderful memories there. Then the day came when the club was shut.

The club was closed to most shortly after the Shah left Iran, but remained open to a select few politicians. My brother and I could no longer enter, and we would not see anyone enter or leave until the day of the attack.

At some point just before the Shah left Iran, we started to get John the visitor at our home regularly. He seemed kind enough when I first met him but quickly defined himself government goon, and later we found out the reality of why he was there (we’ll get to that later). When he would come over, I could hear him grilling my mother for information on people she was conducting interviews with for NIRT and other foreign media companies. Sometimes I would catch him trying to force himself on my mother. Truly a pillar of excellence in US government operations.

A few weeks after John, the visitor started making his appearances at our home, the attack on the club happened.

With no school to attend, my mother would give us any education materials she could get her hands on to keep us up-to-date and then was left to my brother and me to figure it out (we would eventually). I would try to mix the school work up with music — either playing an instrument or just listening to the albums I had. Mostly, I practiced clarinet. It was antique my mother acquired when she was at University in Grenoble, which I commandeered thinking I would become a famous jazz musician. That day, I got tired of practicing my instrument. I didn’t want to read or listen to music. I decided just to open the window and look at the world outside. We had a great view of the sidewalk and roadway, and I would periodically people watch.

On that day, I saw a mother and her two children walking up the hill towards our home, each carrying a bag of something while the mother sang songs to them, possibly in an attempt to keep their minds off the long climb up the street. I could hear the song more clearly as they approached the wall to our garden. It was a beautifully melodic tune. Suddenly, I could see several flatbed trucks speeding up the hill towards the Foreign Ministry Club. The mother saw this as well and made for the door to our garden with her two children.

Our home had a beautiful garden with a 2-meter high wall. Inside was an incredible rose garden and jasmine vines climbing almost every wall. When all were in bloom, the aroma of rose and jasmine were intoxicating, and the colors genuinely striking. In addition, we had mature orange and pomegranate plants, which provided us with their delicious fruit. It was a beautiful garden and a sanctuary for my brother and me, especially as things worsened in the country.

As the cars raced up the street, the mother hid inside our garden with her children. I waved to them, smiled, and nodded to them in an attempt to reassure them it was ok. The cars came to a screeching stop in front of the club’s gates. I could then see that each of the flatbed trucks has one man in the back with a large, mounted machine gun and a few armed foot soldiers. When the cars came to a complete stop, all the well-armed men jumped out running towards the gates but also fanning out to other parts of the street, including one who stood guard at our garden door. From what I was told, these men were the early versions of the revolutionary guard. They were dressed in what military uniforms they could get their hands on, so not necessarily matching. Also, each was wearing a bandana with a bloodstain on the front representing the blood of those who perished during the protests. They looked menacing to me.

While this situation was unfolding, I decided to walk in to let my mother and John, the visitor know what was happening. As I walked in, I again caught John the visitor trying to force himself on my mother, but the embarrassment quickly turned to fear when I let him know what was happening.

He and I walk to the window to see how things were evolving, and when we arrived, we could see the men dragging out some people from the club with guns pointed to their heads. At that point, John, the visitor, dropped to his knees and said, “this is bad. I don’t know how I am going to get out of here. I can’t be seen.” I ignored John and continued to watch and listen. As the guards took their prisoners towards the cars, they fell out of sight behind a wall. That is when I heard the gunshots. I saw the guards, now without their prisoners, walk to their cars and signal to their comrades to go “over there.” It was clear to me what happened.

I felt sick, deeply disturbed and shocked. I was not sure what was going to happen and kept thinking that John’s presence could be putting us in danger.

John made his way back to the kitchen to wait it out. He just sat sipping coffee and smoking his cigarettes. I spoke to my mother and gave her an update on what had happened. John gave his panicked account as well, which didn’t help calm nerves. At this point, my mother became worried that one of the guards would try to shoot over the wall and into the garden, potentially killing the mother and her children. She then thought it would be a good idea for my brother and me to go into the garden and play with the children. Her logic was because Iranians always have deep care and love for children, upon hearing that there are children in the garden, they would move away.

I was tired of being in the house, so I decided that it would be nice to go into the garden with my brother, but I had a different idea of how to alert the guards that children were present. When we arrived in the garden, I took my brother by the hand, walked straight past the mother, the children, and directly through the garden door. The guard yelled at us to move slowly, and we did. He was at the ready. However, when exited the door into his view, we smiled and said, “salam.” We were happy to see him smile back, at which point he yelled to his compatriots, and they all moved a very safe distance away. We waved to them and went back inside to play with the other children. Mission accomplished, but never felt so scared in my life.

We played for a couple of hours until things settled down. The mother then felt safe for her and her children to leave. As she left, she gave us each a kiss, thanked us, and gave us an orange from her bag. I think about them from time-to-time, wondering what their lives are now? Hoping they have had happy lives and wondering what kind of people the children became.

As I mentioned, I truly felt fear, but I also felt a sense of duty to help the situation as much as I could. Mostly, I wanted to protect my brother and make our garden a safe sanctuary again for us to play and laugh. I was deeply relieved that the soldiers cared enough to make us feel comfortable and relatively safe. At least, this is what I now want to believe.

Although the big guns were gone, the guard left a few soldiers behind; some standing guard in front of the club gate and others on the roof of the club. This scene was captured when fellow journalists, Jim Bittermann, came over to interview us for CBS News in the US. Needless-to-say, family back in California became worried sick.

Not to forget John, the visitor….. When the bulk of the revolutionary guard left, John got on the phone and started talking about taxis and restaurants. Much of it didn’t make sense to me and later spoke to my mother about it. She told me she felt he was talking in code. About 45 minutes after John’s calls, a “taxi” rolled up and fetched John.

John only came back once after the club attack. However, about two weeks after John’s final visit, a car with three or four men kept showing up and parking in front of our house. They would be there from early in the morning until late in the evening just watching us. Sometimes on one side of the street and sometimes the other — at least they mixed it up. I did note that when our mother left to fulfill her duties as a journalist, the car would go. This was the routine until the day our mother took us out of Iran on one of the last evacuation flights.

Although these men never spoke to us or approached our house in any way, I felt invaded, angry, violated.

Later in my life, I found out that John, the visitor put significant pressure on my mother to give up her sources, especially in relation to the revolutionaries she was interviewing. The final straw was when John told my mother that if she did not reveal where these sources were that he would not guarantee the safety of my brother and I. As it turns out, John the visitor was CIA. Go, go, USA………. My brother, mother and I have discussed whether or not the guys in the car were CIA or not. I guess we’ll never know.

I don’t know where John is now, nor do I care. I think despicable human beings like him should be forgotten and dismissed from our lives. I look back and wish I could erase him from those memories, but the memories would become a lie, and I don’t want to live in a lie. The positive is that, to some degree, the experience was an early lesson in character. John, the visitor, part of the government of the world bastion of freedom, showed a complete lack of character while the scary revolutionary guard showed something completely different. Funny how life is.