The halogen strip light buzzes overhead, bathing everyone in a vicious blue light that picks out the hollows of cheeks and darkens circles under eyes. Three families are sitting on plastic chairs in silence, in a shabby office block. Nobody has touched the small cups of tea laid out on the plastic table. Their eyes are fixed on the door. Dariush walks in, wearing jeans and a crisp white shirt. Three men, heads slightly bowed, eyes scanning the room, follow him. The sobbing begins. The three men are soon encircled. Mothers clutch their sons to their chests; one man sinks to his knees; a sister strokes her brother’s hair; a father simply buries his head in his hands, wrists wet with tears. One of the three men has been away for over twenty years. Over and over again he whispers one word: sorry.
Dariush watches from the corner of the room, cradling a crude plastic hand that has been attached to his stump. He has witnessed many such reunions, but he still cries every time. The three men he led into the room are former members of the MEK; now they are deserters, like Dariush. The men begin to recount their time with the Group. As the stories of brainwashing and regret tumble, Dariush silently nods. He remembers the beatings and the public confessionals at Camp Ashraf; his comrade was forced to confess to masturbating, which was banned. He remembers the isolation, of not being allowed out of a small
compound, and the strict segregation of the sexes – one of the returnees Dariush had helped had not been allowed to be with his wife for fifteen years, even though they were both at Camp Ashraf together. He remembers families of members turning up at the camp, begging to see their loved ones. He remembers being part of the MEK cult.
After his botched assassination attempt, Dariush was sent to a military hospital, where doctors and nurses tended to him with care until he was healthy enough for prison. He had been given a life sentence. It was reduced to eight years. He spent just under four years in Evin prison. He was in the political wing and Dariush’s cellmates were dissidents and students. It was in prison that Dariush was de-programmed, and it was in prison where he learnt the truth about his country, and learnt the lies that the MEK had fed him. He claims that in prison he was never tortured.
Nobody knows why the government did not kill Dariush, why he got such a light sentence. The most likely explanation is that he cut a deal: his freedom for his knowledge of the inner workings of the MEK. The lranian love for a conspiracy theory went into overdrive; some said that Dariush was a regime spy all along. Whatever the truth, it was a cunning move by the government; when the Islamic Republic announced an amnesty on all deserters, dozens returned to the motherland. After Saddam Hussein’s fall, the MEK was no longer welcome in Iraq and conditions in Camp Ashraf deteriorated. Dariush was paraded as a member who had been pardoned by the Islamic Republic of Iran and used as bait to lure others away, a perfect ploy to weaken the Group. As soon as Dariush was released from prison, he helped set up a government-backed charity rescuing MEK recruits and reuniting them with their families.
Once the families leave the office, Dariush locks up and heads home. He is meeting his mother at Yekta on Vali Asr, a café where she used to have milkshakes and burgers in her youth. The place has hardly changed: the same yellow sign and seventies interior. She flew to Tehran after his release, and he persuaded her to stay.
Arezou denounced him as a traitor, as did the rest of the Group. He tried to contact her, to convince her to leave them, but she never spoke to him again.
two
