I don’t remember what actually happened that night. I remember sitting on my bed and texting Ebrahim in Canada, saying, I miss you bro. I’m tired of going to Imam Khomeini’s Airport and saying goodbye to my close friends. I have hope. I told him it’s time to come back to Iran and not to think about emmigration anymore. Everything’s going to get better.
Ebrahim tried to convince me not to go out that night. He said they were cruel. But he couldn’t change my mind. The last thing Ebrahim told me was to keep cigarettes with me so that when they used tear gas I could smoke. He said the smoke would reduce the burning in my eyes, and it did. I brought a pack of Bahman cigarettes and a lighter. It was the first time I bought cigarettes.
I remember that night, cigarette after cigarette was running out. Looking at the people around me gave me courage. We were blowing smoke into each other’s eyes so they wouldn’t burn. I shouted two slogans louder than the others: “Don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid, we are all together.” “If we don’t unite, we will be killed one by one.”
The Crowd at HaftHoz Square grew bigger and denser. We were shouting louder and louder. Then something exploded right in the middle of us. Suddenly, I couldn’t hear anything. I saw people running in every direction; some of them were falling to the ground as they ran. I felt a strong pain on the right side of my chest, and I fell down, under their feet. After that, I couldn’t understand what happened. I lost consciousness.
I don’t know how many hours passed before I was conscious again. It felt like all the sensations in my body had been turned off, and one by one they were slowly coming back. First, I tried to move, but my hands were stuck close to my body. I could feel the tips of my fingers touching my hips. I wanted to move my legs, but I couldn’t. It felt like my whole body was wrapped in something tight. I was in pain, especially my chest. My ribs shot with pain every time I shifted. I heard a repeating whoosh, as if something was spinning. I listened carefully and realized it was the sound of a large ventilation fan. Somewhere nearby it sounded like people were unloading things. It reminded me of Naser, the baker, unloading sacks of flour from a pickup truck into his bakery.
Whenever I heard footsteps coming closer, I thought something was about to happen and I opened my eyes. Yet I saw nothing but darkness. Everything was completely black. It felt like I was inside a sleeping bag. To stay awake, I counted the sacks of flour being unloaded. I remember I counted up to a hundred. Then I would start again.
Each time I woke up, the air felt colder. The uncertainty was driving me crazy. I also realized that the sound of them unloading was getting farther and farther away. I just wanted to understand where I was. I decided not to pay attention to the pain in my ribs, and to open the sleeping bag zipper. I slowly unzipped it, and a small beam of light came inside. As the sleeping bag opened further, the smell of blood and dirt grew stronger. The light kept flickering, getting brighter and dimmer. The air had become colder. When I finally opened the zipper far enough, I realized I was inside of a black bag, in a large warehouse.
I pulled my head out and saw that around me was piles of black bags. These weren’t flour sacks, but something more terrifying. I didn’t want to believe it. I saw an open sack, and inside was a tall boy, lying down. An IV cannula was inserted into his arm. When I looked up toward his head, I saw a gunshot wound. Then I realized where I was. I saw nothing but body bags piled in a storehouse for the dead.
I felt guilty for being alive. I couldn’t stop thinking that every single body bag held someone whose family had probably lost hope. Time had no meaning for the dead. The only way I could tell day from night was by light that came through the ventilation fan. I zipped the body bag back up, leaving only a small opening near the top so I could breathe.
A sound jolted me, like the main power had been switched on. The lights came on, and the fan began spinning faster. A few people walked into the cold storage room. My heart started pounding. One of them said, “If these stay here any longer, they’ll start rotting! Open the bags so these bastards can take their filthy corpses out of here and get them out of our sight!”
The officers were coming. I had to keep my eyes closed and hold my breath whenever I could. I would pretend that I was dead. They spread out and began unzipping the body bags. Their footsteps drew closer from the far end of the warehouse. I heard the metallic shuttling of a gun’s magazine, maybe a Kalashnikov. A man shouted, “Idiot! their families are outside. Finish them off with a silencer if you find anyone still alive!”
They’d open a body bag and stop for about three seconds over each body, staring at it before moving on. When they reached me, I let every muscle in my body go slack, trying to look as lifeless as possible. And then they walked right past me, completing their work in a hurry. A few more minutes passed before they opened the door. People started coming inside, worried people, people muttering and weeping. They moved quickly, desperately. Maybe they believed their child was in here and still alive? I remember a man’s voice, calling for a boy named “Sepehr” calling out, “Sepehr it’s Baba…My Dear Son, where are you?”
A mother wailed when she found her daughter. I heard her saying, “Aida’s throat was so small… how could it hold three bullets? “A father shouted, “They want me to sign a paper saying my son Javad was a Basij* member before they’ll let me hold his funeral.”
I listened to every voice, hoping to hear my father’s. I wanted to call out, “Dad, I’m here.” I wanted to tell him, “Dad, you don’t have to keep bending over and looking for me with your bad back.” I wanted to hear my mother’s voice. I wanted to say, “My beautiful mother…I’d give anything for all your beautiful dreams.” How slowly the seconds must have been passing for her. I wanted to say, “Mom, I’m alive.” I longed to hear my sister’s voice. A girl who’s about to get married shouldn’t have to cry. I wanted to tell her, “Your brother is here. I’ll always stand behind you like a mountain.” No voice was familiar.
Everyone had a story. There was an old man who mumbled, completely helpless. From his accent, I could tell he was from Isfahan. He went slowly, pausing by every bag. He kept saying, “I’ve been looking for my son for three days. I won’t leave this place without him.” I heard him coming closer. Finally he stopped beside me and I knew this was my chance to get out alive. As he stared at me, I slowly nodded. He went silent, and I stayed still. He put a hand to my chest and I knew he felt my heart beat. Then he leaned near and whispered, “Are you alive?” I could only nod again. He gasped, as if in grief, putting his face to mine, and whispered, “If God will care for my son, then I will care for you. Be still. I’ll get you back to your family.”
He opened the body bag and saw the bullet wound near my ribs. Then he shouted, “This is my son! I’m taking him!” And he wailed with grief, hoisting the heavy bag over one shoulder and walking out the door. Now that I’ve written all of this, I keep thinking to myself: I only heard Aida’s story and Javad’s story. How will anyone ever tell the stories of the forty thousand people who are no longer with us?
* “Basij” is a volunteer paramilitary organization in Iran, established in 1979 and affiliated with the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC). Basij members are favored by the authorities and given privileges, such as the right to be buried.
