(Tehran, November 4, 1979)
The Desert Angel
Before dawn Mohammad Hashemi prepared himself to die. He
washed according to ritual, then knelt in his dormitory room facing southwest
toward Mecca, bent his head to the floor, and prayed the prayer for martyrdom.
After that the stout, bushy-haired young man with the thick beard tucked a
handgun in his belt, pulled on a heavy sweater, and set out through the half
darkness for the secret meeting.
It was, in Iran, the thirteenth day of Aban in the year 1358. The old Zoroastrian calendar had been resurrected a half century earlier by the first self-appointed shah in the Pahlavi line, Reza Khan, in an effort to graft his royal pretensions to the nations ancient traditions. That flirtation with Persias gods and bearded prophets had backfired, sprung up like an uncorked genie in the previous ten months to unseat his son and the whole presumptuous dynasty. Aban is Persias old water spirit, a bringer of rebirth and renewal to desert lands, and the mist wetting the windows of high-rises and squeaking on the windshields of early traffic in this city of more than five million was a kept promise, an ancient visitation, the punctual return of a familiar and welcome angel. As it crept downhill through the sprawling capital and across the gray campus of Amir Kabir University, where Hashemi hurried to his meeting, Iran was in tumult, in mid-revolution, caught in a struggle between present and past. Towering cranes posed like skeletal birds at irregular intervals over the citys low roofline, stiff sentinels at construction sites stranded in the violent shift of political climate. The fine rain gently blackened concrete and spotted dust in the canals called jubeson both sides of every street, fanning out like veins. Moisture haloed the glow from streetlamps.
Hashemi was supposed to be a third-year physics major, but for him, as for so many of Tehrans students, the politics of the street had supplanted study. He hadnt been to a class since the uprising had begun more than a year ago. It was a heady time to be young in Iran, on the front lines of change. They felt as though they were shaping not only their own futures but the future of their country and the world. They had overthrown a tyrant. Destiny or, as Hashemi saw it, the will of Allah was guiding them. The word on campus was, We dealt with the shah and the United States is next!
Few of the hundred or so converging from campuses all over the city on Amir Kabirs School of Mechanics that morning knew why they were gathering. Something big was planned, but just what was known only to activist leaders like Hashemi. Shortly after six, standing before an eager crowded room, he spread out on a long table sketches of the U.S. embassy, crude renderings of the missions compound just a few blocks west. He and others had been scouting the target for more than a week, watching from the rooftops of tall buildings across the side streets, riding past on the upper floor of two-decker buses that rolled along Takht-e-Jamshid Avenue in front, and waiting in the long lines outside the embassys newly opened consulate. The drawings showed the various gates, guard posts, and buildings, the largest being the chancery, the embassys primary office building; the bunkerlike consulate; and the airy two-story white mansion that served as home for the American ambassador. There was a murmur of satisfaction and excitement in the crowd as Hashemi announced they were going to lay siege to the place.
In retrospect, it was all too predictable. An operating American embassy in the heart of revolutionary Irans capital was too much for Tehrans aroused citizenry to bear. It had to go. It was a symbol of everything the nascent upheaval hated and feared. Washingtons underestimation of the danger was just part of a larger failure; it had not foreseen the gathering threat to its longtime Cold War ally Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, the now reviled, self-exiled shah. A CIA analysis in August 1978, just six months before Pahlavi fled Iran for good, had concluded that the country is not in a revolutionary or even a prerevolutionary situation. A year and a revolution later America was still underestimating the power and vision of the mullahs behind it. Like most of the great turning points in history, it was obvious and yet no one saw it coming.
Excerpted from Guests of the Ayatollah, (c) 2006 Mark Bowden. Reproduced by permission of Grove/Atlantic, Inc. All rights reserved.
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