August 13, 2025 • 40 mins
A personal story of friendship, loyalty, and political awakening in revolutionary Iran told through memories of a friend whose life was caught in the crossfire of history.
my email address gholamrezava@gmail.com
Twitter account is @rezava
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SPEAKER_00 (00:00):
Some friendship leaves an imprint so deep that
(00:25):
time, distance, and even fearcan't erase it.
This is one of those stories.
It is stories about loyalty andconviction.
It's about growing up in a timewhen politics wasn't distance
debate, but a force that coulddecide whether you leave or die.
(00:45):
We were young, but the worldaround us was already dangerous.
Our lives were shaped by thecurrents of history,
revolutions, wars, and the clashof ideas that could turn
neighbors into enemiesovernight.
Looking back now, I realize weweren't just witnessing history.
We were caught in its machinery.
(01:07):
Hi, this is Rizwa Sanjide andwelcome to another episode of
Philosophy of Life.
Today's story is aboutremembering a friend who I lost
many years ago.
A friend who tried to build aculture of trust and solidarity,
only to take before we could seewhat he might have become.
(01:27):
This is not a fiction.
This is his story, the story ofQasim.
(01:48):
It was the 1970s.
Saddam Hussein had just takencontrol of Iraq's government
through a coup, backed in partby the CIA.
Soon after, the regime beganexpelling Iranians who had been
living in Iraq for hundreds ofyears.
They were stripped of theirhomes, wealth, and belongings
and forced to leave the country.
(02:10):
This happened twice within aseven to eight year period.
During the first wave ofexpulsions under Saddam Hussein,
families of Iranian origin wereforced to leave Iraq with
nothing.
That's when my friend Qasem, Iwill not reveal his last name,
for reasons I will explainlater, arrived in Iran with his
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five brothers and one sister.
His father had been a successfulmerchant in Iraq, but in a
single move by Saddam, they hadto abandon everything and come
to Iran with little more thanthe clothes on their backs.
For a while, there stayedintensity.
Later, with the help of Iraniangovernment, they were able to
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rent a small apartment in ourneighborhood, Hassanabad.
Hassanabad was one of Tehran'soldest districts, known for its
famous seven-corner roundabout,which, strangely enough, has
eight corners until one wasdemolished to build a branch of
(03:15):
Bangamelli.
My own family has just moved innearby from Shahpur to
Hassanabad.
My father's business was inTuhane, where he has worked
almost all his life.
Hassanabad wasn't a greatneighborhood, but it was where
life had placed us.
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Qasim and his family all workedhard to help his father rent a
tiny shop in the Tehran's Badar.
With his father's experience asa merchant, they began to
rebuild their lives.
This happened relativelyquickly, and at the time, Iran's
economy was growing at a fastpace.
Soon, they bought a large houseright on our street.
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It was a big house, but becausetwo families were renting the
second and third floors, theywere able to get it at a lower
price.
Still, it felt grand.
I was shy, only 15 years old,when one day, Qasem, two years
older than me, simply said,hello.
That one word, friendship, Iwould never forgot.
(04:24):
We became friends in anextraordinary time.
1977, just two years before theIranian revolution.
Back then, we couldn't haveimagined what was coming.
The government controlledeverything.
Newspapers, television, radio,even the way people spoke.
You could barely breathe underthe weight of it.
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Oppression was everywhere.
In workplaces, universities, andhigh schools.
I had just started attendingschool in the middle of Tehran's
Balar, a place alive withwhispers and hidden ideas.
That's where I first heard ofDr.
Ali Chayati whose lecture andbooks were secretly recorded on
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the tape and in the bazaar thosetapes were quickly passed from
hand to hand.
Life in 1977 felt like a potabout To boil over.
On the surface, everythinglooked normal.
Shops opened, people went towork, students went to school.
(05:30):
But underneath, there wastension.
You could see it in the faces ofshopkeepers in the bazaar.
In the cautious way peoplespoke, and in the way
conversations stopped whenstrangers walked by.
Asim and I would often meetafter school.
Sometimes we'd walk through thebazaar together, pretending to
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browse, but really listening tothe murmurs, the cautious
exchanges, the hidden currentsof politics and faith growing
stronger each day.
By 1978, the streets werechanging.
People spoke more openly aboutwhat they didn't like about the
regime.
School days were ofteninterrupted, sometimes by
rumors, sometimes by actualprotests.
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Small demonstrations against theShah appeared here and there,
growing bolder each week.
Then came 17 Shahrivar, 1357,Black Friday, September 8, 1978.
In Jaleh Square, Tehran, armyopened fire on protest.
Hundreds were killed.
The sound of gunfire that dayechoes far behind the square.
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For many, it was the moment theyknew There was no going back.
On the morning of 17thShahrivar, word spread quickly.
Something big was happening inJaleh Square.
We didn't have the news on ourside.
The state-controlled televisionand newspapers said little or
twisted the facts.
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But in the bazaar, the truthtraveled in whispers, passed
from one shop to another fasterthan the police could stop it.
I wasn't at Jaleh Square thatday, But I remember the fear in
people's eyes when they returnedfrom the protests.
Shops closed their doors early.
The sound of sirens and thedistant pop of gunfire hung in
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the air like a warning.
Qasim and I met later thatevening.
We didn't say much.
We didn't have to.
We both knew something hasshifted forever.
The street would never be thesame.
And neither would we.
From that day on, everyconversation changed.
Every walk through the bazaarcarried a new weight, and the
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feeling that history was movingfast, and we were a catch in it.
After Black Friday, the city wasdifferent, markets were tense,
schools were unpredictable.
By winter, demonstration hasgrown, streets filled with their
chant and slogan, and therhythmic pounding.
Sometimes Gossam and I wouldjoin the crowd.
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as distance, standing just farenough away to see without being
swept into the chaos.
Of the time, we stay in Bazaar,listening to the conversation.
We weren't just in Tehran.
We were in Hassanabad, right atthe city's heart, where the
pulse of politics and power beatthe loudest.
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On one side, just a few minutes'walk away in Bahristan, stood
the People's Congress.
Five minutes in the otherdirection was the
Daftar-e-Nakhos Vazir, PrimeMinister's office, and the
Senate building, and scatteredall around us were military
compounds, Patagon, their wallshigh, their gates guarded, their
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presence a constant reminder ofthe regime's power.
This meant that even if weweren't looking for trouble, it
often came close to us.
Demonstrations would passnearby, Military trucks would
rumble through the streets, andarmed soldiers stood at nearly
every major corner.
You could hear chanting fromBahristan on some days, and the
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others, the heavy boot ofsoldiers marching on the street.
Often, we walked to TehranUniversity, where there were,
and still are, many bookstores.
There was one that seemed tocarry the whole world on its
shelves.
It wasn't flashy.
just rows of worn wooden shelvesand the smell of paper and ink,
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but the books it held were likefire.
They sold works about revolutionfrom every corner of the globe,
from China to Russia, from Cubato the French Revolution.
Some were dense and academic,the kind you had to read twice
just to follow a single idea.
Others were simple and direct,written so that even a teenager
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could understand them without ateacher.
Asim and I bought these bookswhenever we could afford them.
We read them late into thenight, sometimes alone,
sometimes together, discussingwhat we understood and skipping
over what we didn't.
Those books didn't just tell ushistory, they made us feel like
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history was a living thing,something that could be changed
by people like us.
We became inseparable.
The situation in Iran onlystrengthened our bond.
The turbulence of the timepulled us closer together.
We often brainstormed ideas witheach other.
Sometimes I would help develophis thoughts, and other times he
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would shape mine.
There were days when I'd comehome to find him talking with my
mother about the event unfoldingin society.
That winter in Iran, peopletruly cared about one another.
Family shared food, cooking oil,and other essentials.
We'd protest an historicspreading Many people had no
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income and very little food theycould buy.
So, they rely on each otherhelp.
Some couldn't pay their rent.
Yet, the landlord offer waivedthe monthly payment, knowing the
hardship people were facing.
I remember it as one of the besttime in my life.
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Not because life was easy, butbecause kindness and unity were
everywhere.
If someone had an accident inthe street, both sides would
rush to us if the other wereokay, offered help and even
apology before leaving thescene.
Yes, it was an extraordinarytime to experience not just a
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revolution, but a society wherethe empathy was stronger than
fear.
Even within these circumstances,we could sense but the regime
was fragile and broken frominside.
In those final months of Shahrule, the changes were
unmistakable.
There were protests in Tabriz,Tehran, and other cities almost
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daily.
And before Shah left thecountry, he appointed a
transitioned prime minister,Shahpur Bakhtiar, who has been
imprisoned for 25 years underthe Shah-owned government.
Bakhtiar was known As one of theShah's hardest critic, Shah has
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offered the position to otherswho were more loyal to him, but
they refused.
Bakhtiyar accepted, saying thathe loves Iran so much that he
was willing to take on theimpossible task of saving it.
He tried hard to reform manythings during his short time in
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the office.
But it was too little too late.
On the 22nd of Pahman, 1357,which corresponded to the
February 11, 1979, the Shahregime completely collapsed.
And from the dust of the foreignorder, something new began to
sprout.
SPEAKER_01 (13:22):
It
SPEAKER_00 (13:29):
was only few months into the new government.
Mehdiyeh Barzaghan has beenappointed prime minister and for
the first time in years we werefull of hope.
Hope that maybe finally we had anew government that care about
the people.
In those first weeks the cityfelt both liberated and
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unsettled.
The Shah's army had collapsed,and the military compounds, once
guarded and untouchable, nowstood open.
Weapons and ammunition flowedinto the hands of ordinary
people.
At night, young men took turnsguarding their neighborhoods.
We patrolled the streets, riflesslung over our shoulders,
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keeping watch in the darkness.
The guns we carried had comefrom the very military bases we
used to fear.
Now, those bases were empty,their gates broken, their
arsenals scattered into thehands of the people.
It felt like the start ofsomething new, a chance to
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protect what we loved.
But beneath the excitement,there was also uncertainty.
We didn't yet know thatrevolution don't just end When
the old government falls, theybegin all over again in ways you
can't always see.
Qasem and I saw the necessity ofgetting more deeply involved in
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what we believed back then to bethe right thing to do.
I was drawn to the left.
My sympathies were with theCheikh Haifa Dariha, a communist
guerrilla movement that stoodfirmly against a new religious
establishment.
Asim, on the other hand, leanedtoward Mujahideen-e-Khalq,
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following leaders like MassoudRajavi and Moussa Khayyaban.
Our political paths weredifferent, but our friendship
never wavered.
Every day we'd talk about whatwas happening, exchanging ideas,
challenging each other, andtrying to make sense of the
chaos.
The streets were alive withdebate.
Groups gathered on corners, intea houses, and outside shops,
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Everyone had an opinion.
There were those who defendedthe new government, often
radical in their views.
The Mujahideen occupied themiddle ground, fighting both the
monarchy and the emergingtheocracy.
Then there was the left, where Istood alongside a few other
factions, with the Fadais stillthe largest, before they
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eventually split into twogroups.
We were surrounded by ideas,slogans, and political posters,
but also by scarcity.
The revolution had upended theeconomy.
Imports slowed to a trickle.
Nearly everything had to beproduced inside Iran.
The rial was falling againstforeign currencies and basic
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goods was hard to find.
Grocery store shelves were oftenhalf empty.
People lined up for bread tofeed their families.
With the old regime gone,uncertainty grew.
Jobs disappeared faster than newones could be created.
It was a fragile, volatile time.
And as much as the streets werefilled with hope and political
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energy, they were also filledwith the quiet tension of not
knowing what tomorrow wouldbring.
In the early months, there wasstill a kind of cautious
optimism.
We believed debates in thestreets meant progress.
that competing visions of thefuture could somehow coexist.
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But by the end of 1979, the tonebegan to shift.
Arguments in tea houses grewlouder.
Street corners that once hostedopen discussions turned into
battlegrounds for ideology.
Leaflets and posters that hadonce been tolerated were now
torn down or burned.
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Committees aligned with the newgovernment, comités, patrolled
neighborhoods.
not just to protect them, but tocontrol them.
Political rallies became tense.
Factions began to organizeseparately, each claiming to be
the true defender of therevolution.
The fada'i, the mujahideen, andpro-government groups often held
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their own events, sometimes juststreets apart, each trying to
out-shout the others.
It wasn't just politics thatdivided people.
It was trust.
Friends who once stood togetherat protests began to keep their
distance.
Neighbors who had shared foodand oil during the strikes now
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avoided each other's eyes ifthey supported different
factions.
Qasem and I stayed close, buteven between us, the debates
grew sharper.
We still met daily, still sharedour dreams for Iran, but the
atmosphere around us waschanging.
The revolution changed.
that had once felt like ours wasbeginning to belong to someone
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else.
And we both knew it.
In the middle of the shortages,something happened that brought
Gossam and me even closertogether.
There was almost nothing in thestores.
Whoever came first boughteverything.
Eggs, flour, rice.
And by the time others arrived,there was nothing left.
Families with children were leftscrambling for basics.
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We had read about similar crisesin Russia and other countries,
how scarcity had forcedcommunities to create systems to
share resources fairly.
So we came up with an idea.
We designed and printed a smallration book for every household
in our neighborhood, the firstof its kind in the city.
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Each family's book recorded howmany people lived in the home,
two kids, three kids, four kids,whatever it was.
We went door to door, deliveringthem ourselves.
When families brought the bookto the store, the shopkeeper
could see their household sizeand distribute goods
accordingly.
20 eggs for a family of five,for example, or a set amount of
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rice, flour, or bread.
That way, everyone gotsomething, and no one went home
empty-handed.
We also formed a neighborhoodcommittee called Badshahaya
Mahali, the Neighborhood Kids.
We created a kind of publicnewspaper on a huge wall of a
nearby house we had designatedfor that purpose.
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We posted announcements,updates, and news about local
issues.
People would gather to read anddiscuss it, and the sense of
community grew stronger.
Soon, other neighborhoods copiedour idea And before long, ration
books like ours were being usedall across Tehran.
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But then, something interestinghappened.
The local mosque committee,which was aligned with the
right-wing supporters of the newgovernment, noticed the success
of our system.
They adopted it.
But after a few months, theywent to every house in our
neighborhood, collected thebooks we had made, and replaced
them with their own.
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Some families refused to handover ours.
Others kept them hidden.
Many people in the neighborhoodtried to protect us because they
appreciate what we had done.
Still, the mosque committee'sversion became official.
We had started something thatworked, the right idea at the
right time, but we faded intothe background and they
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remained.
By early 1980, the excitementand open debates of the
revolution's first months hadstarted to fade.
The committees, mosques, and newpolitical institutions were no
longer just organizingneighborhoods.
They were taking control ofthem.
Independent efforts like ourswere viewed with suspicion.
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The ration books we had createdhad shown people that they could
solve problems themselveswithout waiting for orders from
above.
To the mosque committee and thecomité, this kind of
independence was dangerous.
They didn't say it outright, butthe message was clear.
Everything now had to flowthrough them.
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The street atmosphere hadchanged too.
Political discussions were stillhappening, but they were
sharper, more polarized.
Fistfights broke out betweenfactions.
Public rallies were no longerjust a mix of different ideas.
Now they were dominated by onevoice.
And if you disagreed, You had tobe careful who was listening.
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The comité were everywhere.
They weren't just guardingagainst crime.
They were watching people.
They kept lists, askedquestions, and quietly noted who
associated with whom.
In some neighborhoods, friendsstopped visiting each other at
home just to avoid suspicion.
For me and Ghassem, this was aturning point.
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We still saw each other almostevery day.
still argue and dream aboutIran's future.
But the space of speak freelywas shrinking.
His Mujahideen connection and myties to Fadai were enough to
make both of us target, dependon who was in control of
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particular street corner orcheck mark.
We began to hear stories ofactivists being arrested, some
from our own groups, some fromothers.
Sometimes they were releasedafter a few days, sometimes they
simply disappeared.
Even newspapers and bookshopsthat had once carried a range of
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political thought were nowclosing or being shut down by
force.
It was the slow closing of adoor we didn't even realize had
been open for such a short time.
The revolution had been ours fora moment, but by early 1980, It
belonged to someone else.
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1980, the closing of theuniversities.
The year 1980 was a turningpoint.
Khomeini issued his fatwaordering the universities to
close so they could be cleansedand reorganized under Islamic
principles.
The official name for it was theCultural Revolution, but in
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reality, It was the regime's wayof breaking one of the last
spaces where people could gatherfreely, speak openly, and
challenge authority.
To me, this was the moment thenew regime began taking over
every institution in thecountry.
Once the universities wereclosed, there was no real center
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for organizing or debating.
The opposition was leftscattered.
At that time, Abul Hasan BaniSaad was the president of Iran.
Many believed he was trying toprotect students by avoiding
direct confrontation with theregime's forces.
Maybe that's what he thought,but I saw it differently.
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I believed then, and stillbelieve now, that the right
thing to do would have been tostand firm against the supreme
leader, to fight to keep theuniversities open even if it
meant risking lives.
Instead, what happened wasdeeply damaging.
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Bani Saad has close ties withthe Mujahideen-e-Khal, and in
the negotiation that followed,Mujahideen pulled the supporter
out of the university.
This left the leftist group,including Sheikh Ghaifat-e-Khal,
isolated and vulnerable.
Half the opposition on campusvanished almost overnight.
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The Mujahideen left the scene.
and the remaining leftists hadonly two choices, fight alone or
go into hiding.
Most chose the latter becausethe fear was real.
The regime was ready to crushany resistance.
Looking back, I think BaniSaad's actions in that moment
were crucial in weakening themovement by allowing the
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opposition to fraction along thefaction line.
Mujahideen on one side and Fadaion the other.
He made it easy for the regimeto defeat them both.
If the different factions stayedunited, we might have stood a
chance.
Just a few months after theuniversities were shut down, the
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situation took a new and deadlyturn.
On September 22, 1980, SaddamHussein's forces crossed the
border into Iran, launching afull-scale invasion.
Overnight, everything changed.
The political battles of thestreets were pushed aside,
replaced by the noise of war,the sound of air raid sirens,
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the thud of bombs, and theendless speeches calling for
national unity in the face ofthe enemy.
For the new regime, the war wasa gift.
It became the perfect excuse tosilence dissent.
Anyone who opposed them couldnow be labeled a traitor.
accused of helping Iraq andpunished without question.
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Recruitment centers sprang upeverywhere.
Posters of young men in fatiguesfilled the streets and trucks
carrying soldiers became acommon sight.
Food and fuel shortages, alreadybad after the revolution, grew
worse.
Prices soared, breadlinelengthened.
The little we had left from ourration book system became even
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more important.
But by now, it was completely inthe hands of the mass
committees.
For me and Qasem, the war didn'terase our political differences,
but it forced us to be careful.
Talking openly about Fadai orMujahideen ideas in public could
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bring us trouble.
To begin to meet more quietly,away from crowd, watch as our
friends and neighbors werearrested for their political
activities.
I remember one evening in thebazaar, seeing Komite Trog stop
and drag two young men away.
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The only crime was handling outpamphlets.
No one dared to interfere.
The war was supposed to unitethe country, but in truth, it
united the regime's grip onpower.
With the border under attack,They had all the justification
they needed to crush what littleopposition remained.
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It was in this atmosphere, fearin the street, shortage in the
market, and the ever-presentshadow of the war, that the next
big blow came.
The event of Haftatiu, whichwould change the political
landscape forever.
The early months after therevolution were filled with
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hope, street debates, and abelief that ordinary people
could shape Iran's future.
But scarcity, politicaldivision, and the rise of
government-aligned committeesslowly eroded that space.
The closure of the universitiesfractured the opposition, the
war cemented the regime'scontrol, and the revolution's
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promise slipped further away.
Part III began with Haftatir, anexplosion that would change the
political balance of the countryforever.
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It was the summer of 1981.
The war with Iraq was raging onand Tehran had grown used to the
background noise of sirens andspeeches.
But that day, the sound thatshook the city was different.
It was the sound of anexplosion.
Haft-e-Tir is the seventh of Tirin the Iranian calendar.
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June 28th in the Westerncalendar would be remembered as
one of the bloodiest politicalattacks in the new republic.
The Islamic Republican Partyheadquarters in Tehran was
hosting a major meeting.
Dozens of the regime's topofficials were gathered inside.
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Ministers, clerics, members ofparliament.
A massive bomb tore through thebuilding, killing more than 70
people instantly.
Among them was AyatollahMohammed Beheshti, the head of
the judiciary and one of themost powerful men in Khomeini's
circle.
The government immediatelyblamed the Mujahideen whether
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every detail of their claim wastrue or not.
Their political consequenceswere immediately and devastating
for anyone tied, even loosely,to Mujahideen.
Overnight, Tehran changed.
The regime treated Haftatir as adeclaration of war from within.
The response was swift andmerciless.
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Comité trucks rolled throughneighborhoods at all hours,
arresting anyone suspected ofsympathizing with the
Mujahideen.
Friends and relatives of knownmembers were targeted.
Posters appeared on streetcorners showing the faces of
wanted individuals.
Loudspeakers in public squaresannounced arrests and
executions.
The fear that had been buildingfor months now became something
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you could feel in your chestwhen you walked outside.
For Ghasem, it was personal.
His leanings toward the MohaHadin were well known in our
circle.
Even if he wasn't directlyinvolved, suspicion alone was
enough to put him in danger.
We spoke less in public now,always watching who might be
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listening.
Haftatir gave the regime themomentum to do what it had been
moving toward since 1980, wipingout organized opposition.
The Mujahideen were now treatedas armed enemies of the state.
The leftist groups, includingthe Fadai, were accused of
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collaborating withcounter-revolutionaries and
targeted alongside them.
Anyone who had once spoken infavor of either was at risk.
The war with Iraq provided theperfect backdrop.
In wartime, the regime said,treason will not be tolerated.
Dissent was not just dangerous,it was fatal.
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From that summer onward, thecity was under a kind of quiet
siege You could still walk thestreets, buy bread, go to work,
but you could feel thesurveillance everywhere.
Those who were arrested oftendidn't come back.
If they did, they were changed,silent, cautious, carrying the
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weight of whatever they hadendured behind prison walls.
The revolution, which had oncefelt like a shared project, now
belonged entirely to onefaction, and it was willing to
kill to keep it that way.
Haftitir didn't just change thebalance of power.
It changed the rules ofsurvival.
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For me and for Ghasem, it markedthe start of a final chapter in
our friendship, one shaped byfear, secrecy, and choices we
could never take back.
Up until then, even thoughGhasem and I stood on different
political ground, me, which sentPetit towards Shrik Haifa
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Doikhar, and him, leadingtowards Mujahideen Khal, we
shared a basic belief.
Opposition did not have to meantaking up arms to kill
government officials.
We want to resist the regime,yet, but not through
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assassination or bombing.
When the bombing struck, killingdozens of officials inside the
Islamic Republican Partyheadquarters, the Mujahideen
soon claimed responsibility forescalating armed attacks.
That was the breaking point forGossam.
He could no longer stand behindthem.
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The strategy had crossed a line,one we were never willing to
cross.
Two of the most activeMujahideen supporters in our
area were both named Muhammad.
One we called simply Muhammad,and the other Mamali.
They were armed, committed totheir cause, and ready to carry
out operations.
We respected their courage, butwe could not agree with their
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methods.
For us, opposing the governmentwas never about revenge or
bloodshed.
The moment the Mohahedin turnedto targeted killings, our
political paths split for good.
Qasim Qad has ties entirely withthem, and I kept my distance
from any faction willing tojustify such acts.
We both knew something hasshifted permanently, even
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without those ties.
We also knew they would come forus sooner or later.
We spent night talking aboutwhat to do, whether to flee to
Kurdistan and then to Turkey, orattempt a dangerous route
through Sistan and Balochistan.
But we had no money and no clearplan.
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The first move came from them.
One day, they took me and mysister.
Committee officers searched ourhouse, but thanks to a friend's
quick warning, My brother hadalready hidden the books and
papers under my mother'sprotection.
They found nothing, but stilltook us in for questioning.
At the comité, my father, blindbut well-known in the community,
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arrived and refused to leaveuntil they released us.
His persistence wore them down.
An officer finally told us wecould go.
From then on, I avoidedpolitical activity.
I signed up for militaryservice.
the war with Iraq was stillraging, partly because the
Komite themselves suggested itmight be the safest move for me
(36:28):
to do just that.
For me, the Komite ordeal endedwith the release.
For Gossam, it was differentstuff.
Not long after, they came toMamali's house.
This time, they found exactlywhat they were looking for.
Books, flyers, the kind ofprinted material that could seal
(36:49):
your fate.
For Mamali, Muhammad, andGossam, these weren't just
papers.
They were the tools of anunderground struggle they had
been waging in our neighborhoodfor nearly a year.
Mamali had always been moreopenly committed to the cause
than I was.
Under interrogation, we laterheard they broke his finger.
(37:10):
Rumor had it he gave them names,though we never knew which or
how many.
Gossam left Tehran almostimmediately.
taking refuge in a small citynearby.
I knew where he was.
Nobody else did.
Then they harassed his brother,Adnan, and took him to the
(37:32):
Bazaar Committee, one of themost feared in Tehran.
He was held there for a week.
Somehow, Qasim managed to get amessage to me.
What should I do?
My reply was simple.
Hide.
They'll release Adnaneventually.
Stay out of sight.
Leave the country if you can,but don't come back here.
(37:55):
But he couldn't do it.
He's my brother, he said.
I can't just leave him there.
For the last time, we walkedtogether toward Bazar, from
Hassanabad.
I can still see it.
He stopped and turned to me, andhe said, Golan, thanks.
If they see us together, theymight take you too.
(38:17):
You just got from Komiteh.
Don't go back there.
I haven't done anything wrong.
I have no connection anymore.
I'll leave you out soon.
Before surrounding himself, hewent to see Mamali's father,
tried to set the recordstraight.
He insists he has nothing to dowith Mamali's action and had
(38:37):
even warned him not to go sofar.
But in the bazaar, words movefaster than reason.
The commission drew attentionand soon the police and Komite
arrived.
They harassed him right there infront of the shop.
From that moment on, his trailvanished behind the high walls
of detention.
(39:15):
This story turned out to belonger than I anticipated, so
I've decided to divide it intotwo parts.
What you've heard today is justthe beginning, the build-up, the
friendships, and the firstfractures in a movement we once
believed in.
Some of the dates and sequencesare told from my own memory,
(39:36):
which may not align perfectlywith every historical record,
but the essence and truth ofwhat happened remain.
My perspective on these eventshas also shaped how I recall and
interpret them, and that shouldbe taken into account.
In part two, we'll move into theturning points, the moments when
(39:57):
everything shifted, when choicescould no longer be undone, and
when survival often meantremaining silent, even when the
best of us were missing.
Thank you for listening to thisfirst part.
As always, these episodes aremade for you to remember.
to reflect, and to connect thepast to our present.
(40:17):
Stay tuned for part two.
Until next time, be thoughtful,be aware, and never forget that
history is lived before it'swritten.
Some friendship leaves an imprint so deep that
(00:25):
time, distance, and even fearcan't erase it.
This is one of those stories.
It is stories about loyalty andconviction.
It's about growing up in a timewhen politics wasn't distance
debate, but a force that coulddecide whether you leave or die.
(00:45):
We were young, but the worldaround us was already dangerous.
Our lives were shaped by thecurrents of history,
revolutions, wars, and the clashof ideas that could turn
neighbors into enemiesovernight.
Looking back now, I realize weweren't just witnessing history.
We were caught in its machinery.
(01:07):
Hi, this is Rizwa Sanjide andwelcome to another episode of
Philosophy of Life.
Today's story is aboutremembering a friend who I lost
many years ago.
A friend who tried to build aculture of trust and solidarity,
only to take before we could seewhat he might have become.
(01:27):
This is not a fiction.
This is his story, the story ofQasim.
(01:48):
It was the 1970s.
Saddam Hussein had just takencontrol of Iraq's government
through a coup, backed in partby the CIA.
Soon after, the regime beganexpelling Iranians who had been
living in Iraq for hundreds ofyears.
They were stripped of theirhomes, wealth, and belongings
and forced to leave the country.
(02:10):
This happened twice within aseven to eight year period.
During the first wave ofexpulsions under Saddam Hussein,
families of Iranian origin wereforced to leave Iraq with
nothing.
That's when my friend Qasem, Iwill not reveal his last name,
for reasons I will explainlater, arrived in Iran with his
(02:31):
five brothers and one sister.
His father had been a successfulmerchant in Iraq, but in a
single move by Saddam, they hadto abandon everything and come
to Iran with little more thanthe clothes on their backs.
For a while, there stayedintensity.
Later, with the help of Iraniangovernment, they were able to
(02:53):
rent a small apartment in ourneighborhood, Hassanabad.
Hassanabad was one of Tehran'soldest districts, known for its
famous seven-corner roundabout,which, strangely enough, has
eight corners until one wasdemolished to build a branch of
(03:15):
Bangamelli.
My own family has just moved innearby from Shahpur to
Hassanabad.
My father's business was inTuhane, where he has worked
almost all his life.
Hassanabad wasn't a greatneighborhood, but it was where
life had placed us.
(03:36):
Qasim and his family all workedhard to help his father rent a
tiny shop in the Tehran's Badar.
With his father's experience asa merchant, they began to
rebuild their lives.
This happened relativelyquickly, and at the time, Iran's
economy was growing at a fastpace.
Soon, they bought a large houseright on our street.
(03:59):
It was a big house, but becausetwo families were renting the
second and third floors, theywere able to get it at a lower
price.
Still, it felt grand.
I was shy, only 15 years old,when one day, Qasem, two years
older than me, simply said,hello.
That one word, friendship, Iwould never forgot.
(04:24):
We became friends in anextraordinary time.
1977, just two years before theIranian revolution.
Back then, we couldn't haveimagined what was coming.
The government controlledeverything.
Newspapers, television, radio,even the way people spoke.
You could barely breathe underthe weight of it.
(04:46):
Oppression was everywhere.
In workplaces, universities, andhigh schools.
I had just started attendingschool in the middle of Tehran's
Balar, a place alive withwhispers and hidden ideas.
That's where I first heard ofDr.
Ali Chayati whose lecture andbooks were secretly recorded on
(05:10):
the tape and in the bazaar thosetapes were quickly passed from
hand to hand.
Life in 1977 felt like a potabout To boil over.
On the surface, everythinglooked normal.
Shops opened, people went towork, students went to school.
(05:30):
But underneath, there wastension.
You could see it in the faces ofshopkeepers in the bazaar.
In the cautious way peoplespoke, and in the way
conversations stopped whenstrangers walked by.
Asim and I would often meetafter school.
Sometimes we'd walk through thebazaar together, pretending to
(05:51):
browse, but really listening tothe murmurs, the cautious
exchanges, the hidden currentsof politics and faith growing
stronger each day.
By 1978, the streets werechanging.
People spoke more openly aboutwhat they didn't like about the
regime.
School days were ofteninterrupted, sometimes by
rumors, sometimes by actualprotests.
(06:13):
Small demonstrations against theShah appeared here and there,
growing bolder each week.
Then came 17 Shahrivar, 1357,Black Friday, September 8, 1978.
In Jaleh Square, Tehran, armyopened fire on protest.
Hundreds were killed.
The sound of gunfire that dayechoes far behind the square.
(06:38):
For many, it was the moment theyknew There was no going back.
On the morning of 17thShahrivar, word spread quickly.
Something big was happening inJaleh Square.
We didn't have the news on ourside.
The state-controlled televisionand newspapers said little or
twisted the facts.
(06:59):
But in the bazaar, the truthtraveled in whispers, passed
from one shop to another fasterthan the police could stop it.
I wasn't at Jaleh Square thatday, But I remember the fear in
people's eyes when they returnedfrom the protests.
Shops closed their doors early.
The sound of sirens and thedistant pop of gunfire hung in
(07:21):
the air like a warning.
Qasim and I met later thatevening.
We didn't say much.
We didn't have to.
We both knew something hasshifted forever.
The street would never be thesame.
And neither would we.
From that day on, everyconversation changed.
Every walk through the bazaarcarried a new weight, and the
(07:43):
feeling that history was movingfast, and we were a catch in it.
After Black Friday, the city wasdifferent, markets were tense,
schools were unpredictable.
By winter, demonstration hasgrown, streets filled with their
chant and slogan, and therhythmic pounding.
Sometimes Gossam and I wouldjoin the crowd.
(08:05):
as distance, standing just farenough away to see without being
swept into the chaos.
Of the time, we stay in Bazaar,listening to the conversation.
We weren't just in Tehran.
We were in Hassanabad, right atthe city's heart, where the
pulse of politics and power beatthe loudest.
(08:28):
On one side, just a few minutes'walk away in Bahristan, stood
the People's Congress.
Five minutes in the otherdirection was the
Daftar-e-Nakhos Vazir, PrimeMinister's office, and the
Senate building, and scatteredall around us were military
compounds, Patagon, their wallshigh, their gates guarded, their
(08:50):
presence a constant reminder ofthe regime's power.
This meant that even if weweren't looking for trouble, it
often came close to us.
Demonstrations would passnearby, Military trucks would
rumble through the streets, andarmed soldiers stood at nearly
every major corner.
You could hear chanting fromBahristan on some days, and the
(09:13):
others, the heavy boot ofsoldiers marching on the street.
Often, we walked to TehranUniversity, where there were,
and still are, many bookstores.
There was one that seemed tocarry the whole world on its
shelves.
It wasn't flashy.
just rows of worn wooden shelvesand the smell of paper and ink,
(09:33):
but the books it held were likefire.
They sold works about revolutionfrom every corner of the globe,
from China to Russia, from Cubato the French Revolution.
Some were dense and academic,the kind you had to read twice
just to follow a single idea.
Others were simple and direct,written so that even a teenager
(09:56):
could understand them without ateacher.
Asim and I bought these bookswhenever we could afford them.
We read them late into thenight, sometimes alone,
sometimes together, discussingwhat we understood and skipping
over what we didn't.
Those books didn't just tell ushistory, they made us feel like
(10:16):
history was a living thing,something that could be changed
by people like us.
We became inseparable.
The situation in Iran onlystrengthened our bond.
The turbulence of the timepulled us closer together.
We often brainstormed ideas witheach other.
Sometimes I would help develophis thoughts, and other times he
(10:37):
would shape mine.
There were days when I'd comehome to find him talking with my
mother about the event unfoldingin society.
That winter in Iran, peopletruly cared about one another.
Family shared food, cooking oil,and other essentials.
We'd protest an historicspreading Many people had no
(10:58):
income and very little food theycould buy.
So, they rely on each otherhelp.
Some couldn't pay their rent.
Yet, the landlord offer waivedthe monthly payment, knowing the
hardship people were facing.
I remember it as one of the besttime in my life.
(11:18):
Not because life was easy, butbecause kindness and unity were
everywhere.
If someone had an accident inthe street, both sides would
rush to us if the other wereokay, offered help and even
apology before leaving thescene.
Yes, it was an extraordinarytime to experience not just a
(11:43):
revolution, but a society wherethe empathy was stronger than
fear.
Even within these circumstances,we could sense but the regime
was fragile and broken frominside.
In those final months of Shahrule, the changes were
unmistakable.
There were protests in Tabriz,Tehran, and other cities almost
(12:07):
daily.
And before Shah left thecountry, he appointed a
transitioned prime minister,Shahpur Bakhtiar, who has been
imprisoned for 25 years underthe Shah-owned government.
Bakhtiar was known As one of theShah's hardest critic, Shah has
(12:28):
offered the position to otherswho were more loyal to him, but
they refused.
Bakhtiyar accepted, saying thathe loves Iran so much that he
was willing to take on theimpossible task of saving it.
He tried hard to reform manythings during his short time in
(12:52):
the office.
But it was too little too late.
On the 22nd of Pahman, 1357,which corresponded to the
February 11, 1979, the Shahregime completely collapsed.
And from the dust of the foreignorder, something new began to
sprout.
SPEAKER_01 (13:22):
It
SPEAKER_00 (13:29):
was only few months into the new government.
Mehdiyeh Barzaghan has beenappointed prime minister and for
the first time in years we werefull of hope.
Hope that maybe finally we had anew government that care about
the people.
In those first weeks the cityfelt both liberated and
(13:52):
unsettled.
The Shah's army had collapsed,and the military compounds, once
guarded and untouchable, nowstood open.
Weapons and ammunition flowedinto the hands of ordinary
people.
At night, young men took turnsguarding their neighborhoods.
We patrolled the streets, riflesslung over our shoulders,
(14:15):
keeping watch in the darkness.
The guns we carried had comefrom the very military bases we
used to fear.
Now, those bases were empty,their gates broken, their
arsenals scattered into thehands of the people.
It felt like the start ofsomething new, a chance to
(14:35):
protect what we loved.
But beneath the excitement,there was also uncertainty.
We didn't yet know thatrevolution don't just end When
the old government falls, theybegin all over again in ways you
can't always see.
Qasem and I saw the necessity ofgetting more deeply involved in
(15:00):
what we believed back then to bethe right thing to do.
I was drawn to the left.
My sympathies were with theCheikh Haifa Dariha, a communist
guerrilla movement that stoodfirmly against a new religious
establishment.
Asim, on the other hand, leanedtoward Mujahideen-e-Khalq,
(15:21):
following leaders like MassoudRajavi and Moussa Khayyaban.
Our political paths weredifferent, but our friendship
never wavered.
Every day we'd talk about whatwas happening, exchanging ideas,
challenging each other, andtrying to make sense of the
chaos.
The streets were alive withdebate.
Groups gathered on corners, intea houses, and outside shops,
(15:46):
Everyone had an opinion.
There were those who defendedthe new government, often
radical in their views.
The Mujahideen occupied themiddle ground, fighting both the
monarchy and the emergingtheocracy.
Then there was the left, where Istood alongside a few other
factions, with the Fadais stillthe largest, before they
(16:09):
eventually split into twogroups.
We were surrounded by ideas,slogans, and political posters,
but also by scarcity.
The revolution had upended theeconomy.
Imports slowed to a trickle.
Nearly everything had to beproduced inside Iran.
The rial was falling againstforeign currencies and basic
(16:33):
goods was hard to find.
Grocery store shelves were oftenhalf empty.
People lined up for bread tofeed their families.
With the old regime gone,uncertainty grew.
Jobs disappeared faster than newones could be created.
It was a fragile, volatile time.
And as much as the streets werefilled with hope and political
(16:56):
energy, they were also filledwith the quiet tension of not
knowing what tomorrow wouldbring.
In the early months, there wasstill a kind of cautious
optimism.
We believed debates in thestreets meant progress.
that competing visions of thefuture could somehow coexist.
(17:17):
But by the end of 1979, the tonebegan to shift.
Arguments in tea houses grewlouder.
Street corners that once hostedopen discussions turned into
battlegrounds for ideology.
Leaflets and posters that hadonce been tolerated were now
torn down or burned.
(17:37):
Committees aligned with the newgovernment, comités, patrolled
neighborhoods.
not just to protect them, but tocontrol them.
Political rallies became tense.
Factions began to organizeseparately, each claiming to be
the true defender of therevolution.
The fada'i, the mujahideen, andpro-government groups often held
(18:00):
their own events, sometimes juststreets apart, each trying to
out-shout the others.
It wasn't just politics thatdivided people.
It was trust.
Friends who once stood togetherat protests began to keep their
distance.
Neighbors who had shared foodand oil during the strikes now
(18:21):
avoided each other's eyes ifthey supported different
factions.
Qasem and I stayed close, buteven between us, the debates
grew sharper.
We still met daily, still sharedour dreams for Iran, but the
atmosphere around us waschanging.
The revolution changed.
that had once felt like ours wasbeginning to belong to someone
(18:44):
else.
And we both knew it.
In the middle of the shortages,something happened that brought
Gossam and me even closertogether.
There was almost nothing in thestores.
Whoever came first boughteverything.
Eggs, flour, rice.
And by the time others arrived,there was nothing left.
Families with children were leftscrambling for basics.
(19:07):
We had read about similar crisesin Russia and other countries,
how scarcity had forcedcommunities to create systems to
share resources fairly.
So we came up with an idea.
We designed and printed a smallration book for every household
in our neighborhood, the firstof its kind in the city.
(19:31):
Each family's book recorded howmany people lived in the home,
two kids, three kids, four kids,whatever it was.
We went door to door, deliveringthem ourselves.
When families brought the bookto the store, the shopkeeper
could see their household sizeand distribute goods
accordingly.
20 eggs for a family of five,for example, or a set amount of
(19:57):
rice, flour, or bread.
That way, everyone gotsomething, and no one went home
empty-handed.
We also formed a neighborhoodcommittee called Badshahaya
Mahali, the Neighborhood Kids.
We created a kind of publicnewspaper on a huge wall of a
nearby house we had designatedfor that purpose.
(20:20):
We posted announcements,updates, and news about local
issues.
People would gather to read anddiscuss it, and the sense of
community grew stronger.
Soon, other neighborhoods copiedour idea And before long, ration
books like ours were being usedall across Tehran.
(20:41):
But then, something interestinghappened.
The local mosque committee,which was aligned with the
right-wing supporters of the newgovernment, noticed the success
of our system.
They adopted it.
But after a few months, theywent to every house in our
neighborhood, collected thebooks we had made, and replaced
them with their own.
(21:01):
Some families refused to handover ours.
Others kept them hidden.
Many people in the neighborhoodtried to protect us because they
appreciate what we had done.
Still, the mosque committee'sversion became official.
We had started something thatworked, the right idea at the
right time, but we faded intothe background and they
(21:25):
remained.
By early 1980, the excitementand open debates of the
revolution's first months hadstarted to fade.
The committees, mosques, and newpolitical institutions were no
longer just organizingneighborhoods.
They were taking control ofthem.
Independent efforts like ourswere viewed with suspicion.
(21:48):
The ration books we had createdhad shown people that they could
solve problems themselveswithout waiting for orders from
above.
To the mosque committee and thecomité, this kind of
independence was dangerous.
They didn't say it outright, butthe message was clear.
Everything now had to flowthrough them.
(22:12):
The street atmosphere hadchanged too.
Political discussions were stillhappening, but they were
sharper, more polarized.
Fistfights broke out betweenfactions.
Public rallies were no longerjust a mix of different ideas.
Now they were dominated by onevoice.
And if you disagreed, You had tobe careful who was listening.
(22:36):
The comité were everywhere.
They weren't just guardingagainst crime.
They were watching people.
They kept lists, askedquestions, and quietly noted who
associated with whom.
In some neighborhoods, friendsstopped visiting each other at
home just to avoid suspicion.
For me and Ghassem, this was aturning point.
(22:58):
We still saw each other almostevery day.
still argue and dream aboutIran's future.
But the space of speak freelywas shrinking.
His Mujahideen connection and myties to Fadai were enough to
make both of us target, dependon who was in control of
(23:18):
particular street corner orcheck mark.
We began to hear stories ofactivists being arrested, some
from our own groups, some fromothers.
Sometimes they were releasedafter a few days, sometimes they
simply disappeared.
Even newspapers and bookshopsthat had once carried a range of
(23:39):
political thought were nowclosing or being shut down by
force.
It was the slow closing of adoor we didn't even realize had
been open for such a short time.
The revolution had been ours fora moment, but by early 1980, It
belonged to someone else.
(24:00):
1980, the closing of theuniversities.
The year 1980 was a turningpoint.
Khomeini issued his fatwaordering the universities to
close so they could be cleansedand reorganized under Islamic
principles.
The official name for it was theCultural Revolution, but in
(24:22):
reality, It was the regime's wayof breaking one of the last
spaces where people could gatherfreely, speak openly, and
challenge authority.
To me, this was the moment thenew regime began taking over
every institution in thecountry.
Once the universities wereclosed, there was no real center
(24:43):
for organizing or debating.
The opposition was leftscattered.
At that time, Abul Hasan BaniSaad was the president of Iran.
Many believed he was trying toprotect students by avoiding
direct confrontation with theregime's forces.
Maybe that's what he thought,but I saw it differently.
(25:04):
I believed then, and stillbelieve now, that the right
thing to do would have been tostand firm against the supreme
leader, to fight to keep theuniversities open even if it
meant risking lives.
Instead, what happened wasdeeply damaging.
(25:24):
Bani Saad has close ties withthe Mujahideen-e-Khal, and in
the negotiation that followed,Mujahideen pulled the supporter
out of the university.
This left the leftist group,including Sheikh Ghaifat-e-Khal,
isolated and vulnerable.
Half the opposition on campusvanished almost overnight.
(25:45):
The Mujahideen left the scene.
and the remaining leftists hadonly two choices, fight alone or
go into hiding.
Most chose the latter becausethe fear was real.
The regime was ready to crushany resistance.
Looking back, I think BaniSaad's actions in that moment
were crucial in weakening themovement by allowing the
(26:10):
opposition to fraction along thefaction line.
Mujahideen on one side and Fadaion the other.
He made it easy for the regimeto defeat them both.
If the different factions stayedunited, we might have stood a
chance.
Just a few months after theuniversities were shut down, the
(26:32):
situation took a new and deadlyturn.
On September 22, 1980, SaddamHussein's forces crossed the
border into Iran, launching afull-scale invasion.
Overnight, everything changed.
The political battles of thestreets were pushed aside,
replaced by the noise of war,the sound of air raid sirens,
(26:54):
the thud of bombs, and theendless speeches calling for
national unity in the face ofthe enemy.
For the new regime, the war wasa gift.
It became the perfect excuse tosilence dissent.
Anyone who opposed them couldnow be labeled a traitor.
accused of helping Iraq andpunished without question.
(27:17):
Recruitment centers sprang upeverywhere.
Posters of young men in fatiguesfilled the streets and trucks
carrying soldiers became acommon sight.
Food and fuel shortages, alreadybad after the revolution, grew
worse.
Prices soared, breadlinelengthened.
The little we had left from ourration book system became even
(27:41):
more important.
But by now, it was completely inthe hands of the mass
committees.
For me and Qasem, the war didn'terase our political differences,
but it forced us to be careful.
Talking openly about Fadai orMujahideen ideas in public could
(28:02):
bring us trouble.
To begin to meet more quietly,away from crowd, watch as our
friends and neighbors werearrested for their political
activities.
I remember one evening in thebazaar, seeing Komite Trog stop
and drag two young men away.
(28:22):
The only crime was handling outpamphlets.
No one dared to interfere.
The war was supposed to unitethe country, but in truth, it
united the regime's grip onpower.
With the border under attack,They had all the justification
they needed to crush what littleopposition remained.
(28:45):
It was in this atmosphere, fearin the street, shortage in the
market, and the ever-presentshadow of the war, that the next
big blow came.
The event of Haftatiu, whichwould change the political
landscape forever.
The early months after therevolution were filled with
(29:06):
hope, street debates, and abelief that ordinary people
could shape Iran's future.
But scarcity, politicaldivision, and the rise of
government-aligned committeesslowly eroded that space.
The closure of the universitiesfractured the opposition, the
war cemented the regime'scontrol, and the revolution's
(29:27):
promise slipped further away.
Part III began with Haftatir, anexplosion that would change the
political balance of the countryforever.
(29:58):
It was the summer of 1981.
The war with Iraq was raging onand Tehran had grown used to the
background noise of sirens andspeeches.
But that day, the sound thatshook the city was different.
It was the sound of anexplosion.
Haft-e-Tir is the seventh of Tirin the Iranian calendar.
(30:19):
June 28th in the Westerncalendar would be remembered as
one of the bloodiest politicalattacks in the new republic.
The Islamic Republican Partyheadquarters in Tehran was
hosting a major meeting.
Dozens of the regime's topofficials were gathered inside.
(30:40):
Ministers, clerics, members ofparliament.
A massive bomb tore through thebuilding, killing more than 70
people instantly.
Among them was AyatollahMohammed Beheshti, the head of
the judiciary and one of themost powerful men in Khomeini's
circle.
The government immediatelyblamed the Mujahideen whether
(31:02):
every detail of their claim wastrue or not.
Their political consequenceswere immediately and devastating
for anyone tied, even loosely,to Mujahideen.
Overnight, Tehran changed.
The regime treated Haftatir as adeclaration of war from within.
The response was swift andmerciless.
(31:24):
Comité trucks rolled throughneighborhoods at all hours,
arresting anyone suspected ofsympathizing with the
Mujahideen.
Friends and relatives of knownmembers were targeted.
Posters appeared on streetcorners showing the faces of
wanted individuals.
Loudspeakers in public squaresannounced arrests and
executions.
The fear that had been buildingfor months now became something
(31:47):
you could feel in your chestwhen you walked outside.
For Ghasem, it was personal.
His leanings toward the MohaHadin were well known in our
circle.
Even if he wasn't directlyinvolved, suspicion alone was
enough to put him in danger.
We spoke less in public now,always watching who might be
(32:09):
listening.
Haftatir gave the regime themomentum to do what it had been
moving toward since 1980, wipingout organized opposition.
The Mujahideen were now treatedas armed enemies of the state.
The leftist groups, includingthe Fadai, were accused of
(32:30):
collaborating withcounter-revolutionaries and
targeted alongside them.
Anyone who had once spoken infavor of either was at risk.
The war with Iraq provided theperfect backdrop.
In wartime, the regime said,treason will not be tolerated.
Dissent was not just dangerous,it was fatal.
(32:52):
From that summer onward, thecity was under a kind of quiet
siege You could still walk thestreets, buy bread, go to work,
but you could feel thesurveillance everywhere.
Those who were arrested oftendidn't come back.
If they did, they were changed,silent, cautious, carrying the
(33:13):
weight of whatever they hadendured behind prison walls.
The revolution, which had oncefelt like a shared project, now
belonged entirely to onefaction, and it was willing to
kill to keep it that way.
Haftitir didn't just change thebalance of power.
It changed the rules ofsurvival.
(33:34):
For me and for Ghasem, it markedthe start of a final chapter in
our friendship, one shaped byfear, secrecy, and choices we
could never take back.
Up until then, even thoughGhasem and I stood on different
political ground, me, which sentPetit towards Shrik Haifa
(33:54):
Doikhar, and him, leadingtowards Mujahideen Khal, we
shared a basic belief.
Opposition did not have to meantaking up arms to kill
government officials.
We want to resist the regime,yet, but not through
(34:15):
assassination or bombing.
When the bombing struck, killingdozens of officials inside the
Islamic Republican Partyheadquarters, the Mujahideen
soon claimed responsibility forescalating armed attacks.
That was the breaking point forGossam.
He could no longer stand behindthem.
(34:35):
The strategy had crossed a line,one we were never willing to
cross.
Two of the most activeMujahideen supporters in our
area were both named Muhammad.
One we called simply Muhammad,and the other Mamali.
They were armed, committed totheir cause, and ready to carry
out operations.
We respected their courage, butwe could not agree with their
(34:58):
methods.
For us, opposing the governmentwas never about revenge or
bloodshed.
The moment the Mohahedin turnedto targeted killings, our
political paths split for good.
Qasim Qad has ties entirely withthem, and I kept my distance
from any faction willing tojustify such acts.
We both knew something hasshifted permanently, even
(35:22):
without those ties.
We also knew they would come forus sooner or later.
We spent night talking aboutwhat to do, whether to flee to
Kurdistan and then to Turkey, orattempt a dangerous route
through Sistan and Balochistan.
But we had no money and no clearplan.
(35:42):
The first move came from them.
One day, they took me and mysister.
Committee officers searched ourhouse, but thanks to a friend's
quick warning, My brother hadalready hidden the books and
papers under my mother'sprotection.
They found nothing, but stilltook us in for questioning.
At the comité, my father, blindbut well-known in the community,
(36:07):
arrived and refused to leaveuntil they released us.
His persistence wore them down.
An officer finally told us wecould go.
From then on, I avoidedpolitical activity.
I signed up for militaryservice.
the war with Iraq was stillraging, partly because the
Komite themselves suggested itmight be the safest move for me
(36:28):
to do just that.
For me, the Komite ordeal endedwith the release.
For Gossam, it was differentstuff.
Not long after, they came toMamali's house.
This time, they found exactlywhat they were looking for.
Books, flyers, the kind ofprinted material that could seal
(36:49):
your fate.
For Mamali, Muhammad, andGossam, these weren't just
papers.
They were the tools of anunderground struggle they had
been waging in our neighborhoodfor nearly a year.
Mamali had always been moreopenly committed to the cause
than I was.
Under interrogation, we laterheard they broke his finger.
(37:10):
Rumor had it he gave them names,though we never knew which or
how many.
Gossam left Tehran almostimmediately.
taking refuge in a small citynearby.
I knew where he was.
Nobody else did.
Then they harassed his brother,Adnan, and took him to the
(37:32):
Bazaar Committee, one of themost feared in Tehran.
He was held there for a week.
Somehow, Qasim managed to get amessage to me.
What should I do?
My reply was simple.
Hide.
They'll release Adnaneventually.
Stay out of sight.
Leave the country if you can,but don't come back here.
(37:55):
But he couldn't do it.
He's my brother, he said.
I can't just leave him there.
For the last time, we walkedtogether toward Bazar, from
Hassanabad.
I can still see it.
He stopped and turned to me, andhe said, Golan, thanks.
If they see us together, theymight take you too.
(38:17):
You just got from Komiteh.
Don't go back there.
I haven't done anything wrong.
I have no connection anymore.
I'll leave you out soon.
Before surrounding himself, hewent to see Mamali's father,
tried to set the recordstraight.
He insists he has nothing to dowith Mamali's action and had
(38:37):
even warned him not to go sofar.
But in the bazaar, words movefaster than reason.
The commission drew attentionand soon the police and Komite
arrived.
They harassed him right there infront of the shop.
From that moment on, his trailvanished behind the high walls
of detention.
(39:15):
This story turned out to belonger than I anticipated, so
I've decided to divide it intotwo parts.
What you've heard today is justthe beginning, the build-up, the
friendships, and the firstfractures in a movement we once
believed in.
Some of the dates and sequencesare told from my own memory,
(39:36):
which may not align perfectlywith every historical record,
but the essence and truth ofwhat happened remain.
My perspective on these eventshas also shaped how I recall and
interpret them, and that shouldbe taken into account.
In part two, we'll move into theturning points, the moments when
(39:57):
everything shifted, when choicescould no longer be undone, and
when survival often meantremaining silent, even when the
best of us were missing.
Thank you for listening to thisfirst part.
As always, these episodes aremade for you to remember.
to reflect, and to connect thepast to our present.
(40:17):
Stay tuned for part two.
Until next time, be thoughtful,be aware, and never forget that
history is lived before it'swritten.
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