I Am No Longer a Soldier; I Am a Fighter

Before you read, I owe you an apology for how painful this story is. But it matters, and I had to write it. Please read it patiently. Reza had been in the police force for almost two years. Because he was a lifeguard, he spent most of his time working at one of the swimming pools run by the force. Every Saturday morning he had to go to the barracks for the morning program, to fulfill his military duties and take care of some administrative work. He loved water and swimming. He planned to train as a diver and work in that field too. His pay was low, but given conditions in Iran, he had accepted that he would have to make do. Still, he tried to take on different duties and rise through the ranks so he could put his finances in order. Things were going more or less well until Aban 1401, when Iran’s national uprising reached its height. Conditions changed so quickly, and the fire of revolution burned so strongly, that even the commanders were in shock. Strange orders began to come. The pool all but shut down, and every battalion and member of the force was called up. Reza had never really wanted to work for the regime; he loved his own job. At first he tried to refuse, but then his commander and superiors threatened him. Several of his friends had been reprimanded too, and he was afraid to disobey. He could only pray that they would not order him into direct confrontation with the people. A few days passed while he remained on alert. Each day he followed the news, unsure exactly what was happening. In his heart he was with the people, but he was also terrified of what lay ahead for him in the force and of military punishment. Anger filled him. His mind was full of painful scenes of people struggling and armed forces attacking them without mercy. Under the strain, he had begun taking sedatives. His wife was pregnant, and their baby was three months along. At last the day he dreaded arrived. He was ordered to one of the city’s main streets to attack protesters, to deal with them harshly and, if necessary, kill them. His heart pounding and his body shaking, he got into one of the vehicles taking them there. On the way, Reza could not say a word. Most of his colleagues were silent too. When they arrived, loud chants came from every direction. From another direction came several people’s screams. Two alleys away, he heard cries: “Don’t hit him! Don’t hiiiiit him! You heartless people, let him go!” Reza saw several of his colleagues savagely beating two boys with batons. He stood in shock, watching. The field commander shouted, “What are you staring at? If you don’t charge, either they’ll eat you alive or I’ll deal with you myself. Pull yourself together!” Reza tried to move away because the sight was tearing his heart apart. He went toward the young people to ask them to fall back. Then someone threw a stone at him, and another came from the other side. A chant rose: “Shameless! Shameless! Shameless!” Reza was deeply upset, and now angry too. His face had been cut. Under intense strain, he took a defensive stance and rushed toward the crowd, shouting in the hope that they would be frightened and retreat. A little later, vehicles carrying more forces arrived, along with a group of motorcyclists. Because he was injured, Reza withdrew and climbed into a vehicle. He and several others were taken to another barracks. When Reza got home that night, he went straight to the shower. There, every scene came back before his eyes. He could scarcely breathe. Suddenly he began to cry, soundlessly, screaming through his breath: “Aaaah…” “Aaaah… I can’t do it… God… I can’t do it…” He calmed down a little and came out. His wife’s belly had just begun to show. “How are you?” she asked. “Reza, don’t tell me you went into the streets.” “I had to, Sara.” “But Reza, you and I both know where our hearts are.” “Well, damn it, what am I supposed to do?” Reza shouted. “You’re pregnant, and we haven’t got the money to get out of Iran. Do you know what they’ll do to us? We’ll be ruined.” “You know they can’t last forever,” Sara said. “Reza, let’s stand with the people. Reza…” Reza lit a cigarette, went to the window, and said, “Leave me alone.” The night passed. The next day at work, Reza asked his commander to excuse him from duty because of Sara and her condition. The answer was not only no. He was threatened with demotion, and told that instead of working as a lifeguard, perhaps they would let him clean the pool toilets. “Either you get out of here and report to your post,” the commander said, “or I’ll have them hang you by your balls right here.” Reza left and went to his room to prepare his report on the previous day. Not half an hour had passed when a soldier came in and told him the commander had ordered him onto the night shift. He was to go with the battalion to Vanak Square. The more Reza struggled, the deeper he seemed to sink. He hoped the night would be quiet, but the news and videos coming out gave no reason to expect calm. Two hours before the operation, the cruel commander, who knew Reza might falter, gave another order. He put Reza in command of a five-man group of conscripts, boys of nineteen or twenty. Now it would not be only Reza who might be punished if he faltered. He had the lives of those boys on his shoulders as well. The operation began, and they headed for Vanak. Reza was full of fear and grief, but he could not show it. One of the boys turned to him. “Mr. Reza, what will happen? What should we do?” “We have to stay together and try, above all, to frighten them off,” Reza said. “But if they attack you, you’ll have to fight to defend yourselves. That’s all.” That night was no joke. The clashes had gone much further. The noise was driving Reza out of his mind. “Shameless! Shameless! Shameless!” “Death to the Islamic Republic!” This time it was not just a group of young people. He saw an elderly woman throw her headscarf to the ground in front of the crowd and shout, “Long live the Shah! Long live the Shah! Come on, hit me. Leave these young people alone. Come and take my life; spare them their blood!” “My God…” Reza said to himself. “Please, just go,” Reza told them. “Be quiet and go. Don’t make us raise a hand against you.” Suddenly several people attacked one of Reza’s men and beat him badly. Reza burned with anger, but even more with fear. He went to pull the boy out from beneath the crowd. Something smashed against his head. All at once the world seemed silent, its movements slow. He heard Sara’s voice: “Reza… come with me… Reza, let’s stand with the people. Reza… Reza…” Then a little awareness returned. One of his men was calling, “Reza! Reza! Get up!” Reza stood, stunned. They began running back. It was a terrible scene. On his left, he saw a child of fourteen or fifteen lying in the street, covered in blood. He tried to help, but people rushed at him, thinking he meant to hurt the child further. His soldiers dragged him back with difficulty, and they returned to the barracks. Blood ran from Reza’s head, but he felt no pain there. The emotional pressure made his whole body ache. He went home. When Sara saw his bandaged head, fear and distress took the strength from her legs and she fell. Reza jumped forward and helped her sit down. Again she said, “Reza, for our son’s sake, get out of there. Come and stand on the right side of history.” “A son?” Reza asked through tears. “Yes. I had the ultrasound today,” Sara said. That night and several more passed with difficulty. Little by little, Reza was breaking inside. He could no longer think clearly. He hardly had a chance to think: the clashes and the severe shortage of personnel made everything harder. Until… “For God’s sake, do you have some ice you can put in a bag for me? I need ice! It’s for my child… for my son Kian!” Sara was making revolutionary leaflets to hand out when she saw, on Instagram, a photograph of the body of Kian Pirfalak, whose name would live forever, with bags of ice beside him. “Oh God… What kind of pain is this? God… Kian could have been my son!” She cried and cried and cried. Reza, who had been asleep, woke in fright and hurried to Sara. “Tell me,” Sara said. “Do you want our son born into these conditions? Do you want him to grow up under the power of these filthy people? Look at this. Look at this innocent child. Imagine what his mother is going through. Damn it, come on. Let’s end this once and for all.” Reza could not breathe. He began to cry, then shouted: “I am no longer a soldier. I am a fighter! Long live the Shaaaaah! Long live the Shah!” This painful story can become the realization of our greatest wish, a free Iran, if the rest of the military forces join the people. Long live Iran. Long live the Shah.