Authors: Ramita Navai
After the boys were registered they were led into a classroom in the adjoining
hosseinieh
. The mosque’s caretaker, Gholam, a bent, wiry man in faded cream pyjamas, darted across the room, broom in hand, making last-minute adjustments. Nobody ever saw Gholam stand still. Between making tea, sweeping floors, cleaning shoes, washing carpets, praying, bleaching loos, buying groceries and watering plants, he ostentatiously prostrated himself to those he deemed of higher rank, which was everyone. He was from a long line of illiterate caretakers; he had guarded and tended the mosque since he was sixteen years old, taking over from his elderly father. Now he lived in a small room off the lobby of the mosque with his wife and two young daughters.
Gholam hushed the boys as he scampered out. The Commander strode in. He had a suitably militaristic gait and a stony glare. The Commander was wearing the non-uniform uniform of a Basij leader: a pair of large-pocketed khaki military trousers and a loose-hanging shirt. No emblems on display or badges indicating rank. All brothers are equal in the Basij. A grey beard concealed miserly thin lips and a forest of hair was stacked on his head like a compost heap, rising as high as his stomach ballooned out in front of him, a solid bulk of fat and flesh.
‘Salaam-on Alaykom! You are the army of our future. You represent the Islamic Republic of Iran. We are here to serve God and our prophet – God rest his soul. We will serve the Supreme Leader against infidels, the West and Zionism. Death to Israel!’
‘Death to Israel!’ The children, who were all around the same age as Morteza, parroted back the rallying call, but only a few of them knew what Zionism was, or why Iran considered the West the enemy.
The Ahmadi twins punched their fists in the air. They were sons of a diehard former
Hezbollahi
leader who had taught his children to burn the American flag and shout ‘Death to America!’ as a party trick when they were four years old. Haji Ahmadi had been one of the first to join the Basij in
1980
, when Khomeini had envisioned a magnificent people’s militia that was twenty million strong. In the early days they were simply volunteers used as a security force to help the Revolutionary Guards; they were also sent to fight Baluchi, Kurdish and Turkmen separatists. When war broke out, they were herded to the front lines. Haji Ahmadi survived with shrapnel in his legs and an invigorated passion for the Islamic Republic that he siphoned into the post-war tasks that
basijis
like him excelled at: policing vice, enforcing virtue and crushing protest. Haji Ahmadi was disappointed at what the Basij had become – more youth centre than fighting force. He would give his life to the Supreme Leader and he expected his sons to do the same.
The Commander marched towards the boys, shouting at them to stand in front of their desks. He inspected his new charges. He hovered over each one so closely that his belly brushed against their bony-ribbed chests. A warm, wet burst of the Commander’s breath snorted out of his nostrils and was expelled against Morteza’s face as he moved down the line. He stopped at a louche-looking kid, perhaps sensing a subversive spirit in the wild, black eyes that confidently met his gaze. Ebrahim – Ebbie for short – was handsome, even in dirty clothes and with holes in his shoes. He had a sensual swagger and an innate intelligence that life on the street had sharpened to lightning-quick wit. From the age of eight he had been working as a porter in the bazaar and had been playing backgammon in tea houses for money. When he was not gambling or skiving from school, he was lying his way out of trouble. His father beat him for no reason; if he misbehaved, he was made to sleep outside on the road. The Commander stared at him.
‘Stand up STRAIGHT!’ Ebbie stamped his feet together and saluted the Commander with a flourish, shouting out, ‘Yes sir!’ The Commander was too vain to notice that Ebbie was mocking him.
The Commander also took his time over the next boy. Mehran’s parents had persuaded him not to wear his new trainers, for it gave him a Western,
balaa-shahri
,
uptown
air that did not go down well with the Basij. Even without the trainers the signs were there, in the extra inch in length of his hair, in the closer fit of his check shirt and in the glint of a gold chain half hidden under his vest. Mehran’s mother had been cleaning houses in north Tehran for ten years, exposing her children to a lifestyle they could only dream about. She had persuaded Mehran to join the Basij for the same reason that Ebbie and at least half the group had joined: the perks. The Basij laid on extracurricular activities that few families in the neighbourhood could afford. The boys would have free access to the local swimming pool, free use of a football pitch, day trips out of the city to tourism hot spots and even the possibility of a stay in a summer camp. They would also get occasional free meals, low-interest loans, preferential treatment by government organizations and – thanks to a specially designated quota of forty per cent for Basij students that overlooked poor grades – a vastly increased chance of getting into university. Time spent serving in the Basij would also be knocked off compulsory military service. For these boys, the Basij was part Islamic Boy Scouts club and part Freemasons. If they showed devotion and hard work, they could even hope for a regular wage. Few underprivileged families would miss the opportunity of joining the Basij.
These motivations were kept quiet. Everyone knew about each other’s drug habits, incomes, debts, quarrels and marital problems. But any liberal outlooks that might have crept into their world were ferociously shielded from view. Nobody knew that Mehran’s mother worked as a cleaner and maid in north Tehran where she would serve alcohol at dinner parties, that her sons did not pray, or that Ebbie’s family thought religion was a waste of time.
While many religious,
sonati
,
traditional families were accepting that issues like divorce and protest against the state were new realities of modern city life, true
basiji
or
Hezbollahi
families held tightly on to values they saw as being intrinsically part of their religion. Even Mehran’s mother knew her own boundaries. Divorce within this community was still seen as bringing shame upon a family. A woman who considered divorce was simply brandishing her wantonness, no matter how unfaithful her husband was. Mehran’s mother still whispered the taboo word
talaagh
, divorce, even though half her employers were divorcees.
Abdul was the son of a bus driver whose father was the head of the Basij unit of bus drivers. The unit, like many of the professional Basij units that had been established, was seen by non-Basij supporters as countering the unions in an effort to weaken them. Abdul had learnt not to look women in the eye and never to shake a woman’s hand in order to protect himself from lustful feelings. He already knew most of the Koran off by heart. For Abdul’s family, joining the Basij was about loyalty and
khedmat
, duty to serve, a chance to pledge allegiance to the state and to benefit society. It was a way of doing good. Majid, the son of a local mullah, was less staunch in his view of Islam, but had been brought up to believe a man’s worth was based on how scrupulously he defended God and good morals. The Basij was a perfect platform to fulfil his religious obligations. For boys like the Ahmadi twins, being a
basiji
was also about reputation and power. The Basij attracted as many thugs and religious fanatics as it did bored, idle boys from impoverished families. Baton in hand and a motorbike between their thighs, these teenagers’ dedication to the Islamic Republic made them perfect enforcers. They were the ones who struck fear in people’s hearts.
When the Commander was satisfied the boys were adequately intimidated, he set them a task. They would learn five passages from the Koran to be recited at a weekly meeting.
‘Please sir, when do we get our guns?’ The Ahmadi twins nearly always spoke together. Haji Ahmadi, who was standing with folded arms in the doorway, laughed proudly.
‘Patience, dear boys. Work hard, show your true colours and you can reach the top and maybe one day be a commander like me.’ The Commander stalked away, leaving them on their own. Ebbie broke the silence, looking to Morteza who he sensed would be an appreciative audience. ‘I forgot to congratulate the Commander.’
‘What for?’
‘Because he’s clearly nine months pregnant and expecting any day!’ The boys howled with laughter. Even serious Abdul suppressed a smile.
‘Show some respect,’ hissed the Ahmadi twins.
‘Relax, we’ll get you some guns soon and then maybe you won’t behave as though you’ve got rods up your arses.’ The twins stood up, growling.
‘Is he your uncle or something? Why are you so upset?’
‘You can’t talk like that about a commander of the Basij!’
‘And you can’t talk to me wearing such ugly trousers, did your granny make them?’ With that, Ebbie darted out of the room before the Ahmadis had a chance to catch him.
On the way home, Morteza saw Ebbie kicking a deflated football with some street urchins. ‘Aren’t you scared of the Ahmadi twins? They may tell the Commander and you’ll be in trouble.’
‘I like trouble. Anyway, just watch, the Ahmadi twins will be eating out of my hand soon.’
Morteza smiled.
‘So did your parents make you join the Basij?’ Ebbie asked.
Morteza repeated words he had heard since he was born. ‘I want to serve God and my country. It’s our duty. And if we go to war, I’ll fight just as my brothers did.’
‘What, and end up six feet under in a war we won’t even have won? Anyway, I hate to break it to you, but you wouldn’t last five minutes, you couldn’t carry a can of cola to the front line, never mind a gun.’
Morteza launched at Ebbie, pounding his fists into his chest. Ebbie did not flinch.
‘Hey man, I’m sorry. I deserve all the punches you throw. I was only teasing you. I think you’re cool. It’s the tough guys like the twins who are the idiots.’ Ebbie fished out a handful of fluff-covered raisins from his pocket as a peace offering. Morteza chewed on a few before speaking. ‘So why did you join then?’
‘My mum’s a terrible cook,’ Ebbie deadpanned. Morteza began to laugh.
The following week the boys waited outside the Commander’s office. Morteza was the first to be summoned inside. He began the recital in his mellifluous voice, ‘
Those who oppose (the commands of) Allah…
’
‘I can’t hear you. Stand here boy.’ The Commander gestured to Morteza from behind his desk.
He started again, ‘
Those who oppose (the commands of) Allah, And His Messenger will be, Humbled to dust; as were, Those before them: for We…
’
The Commander stood up and walked towards Morteza, who backed away. The Commander did not stop advancing until Morteza was up against the wall. The Commander’s stomach pressed hard against Morteza’s chest. Morteza’s voice grew louder, ‘
Have already sent down, Clear Signs. And the Unbelievers, (Will have) a humiliating, Chastisement…
’
The Commander clenched his buttocks as he ground his pelvis into Morteza. Morteza continued to recite, eyes on the floor, ‘
On the Day that, Allah will raise them, All up (again) and tell them, Of their deeds (which), Allah has reckoned and, Which they forgot, For Allah is Witness, To all things…
’
When the Commander started to pant, Morteza began to cry. He was struggling to get the words out. The Commander stopped, a look of surprise on his face.
‘The path to God is always painful, but why are you crying? Is your spiritual connection with Him making you feel uncomfortable?’
‘No sir.’
‘It is a sin to cry when speaking God’s words. You’d better have a good excuse for this crying?’
‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’
‘I will forgive you but only because you have learnt your homework. You must not be scared by the spiritual awakening that happens in us when we are at one with God. Do you understand me? Or shall I tell your parents about this?’
‘I understand you. Please don’t tell my parents.’ The Commander nodded. Morteza felt overwhelming relief and gratitude to him for showing such leniency.
Ebbie was called in next. The Commander took the longest with him. Ebbie emerged silent and sullen.
Within a few months, Morteza was madly in love. He thought he would accept a grisly death in exchange for Ebbie taking him in his arms. It was not the first time Morteza had been in love with a boy. To his parents’ shock, he had repeatedly exposed his erect penis to his cousin Jaffar when he was seven. They did not realize that, at that young age, Morteza had felt the first pangs of sexual desire towards a boy.
Ebbie knew it. Yet he was unperturbed. He revelled in the attention. He was used to the eccentrics and oddballs that were vomited up on the streets. The bulk of Ebbie’s education had been in the company of labourers, black-market traders, street kids and prostitutes. They had filled his mind with all that was possible; it did not matter to him if it was condemned. His uncle was a part-time transvestite who wandered the streets in a dress and lipstick; some people thought he was mad and left him alone, others spat on him. Ebbie accepted Morteza without question or judgement. Because of this, Morteza came to trust him more than he had trusted anybody else. Ebbie was the only one who knew that Morteza picked and dried flowers as a secret hobby, or that he liked to touch silk chadors in the bazaar.
The changes happened quickly. Far quicker than Morteza could ever have imagined. For the first time in his life, he began to feel accepted. His uncles now patted him on the back. The local baker, a member of the Basij unit of bakers, served him and other
basijis
before anyone else. When he entered secondary school, his teachers made the
basiji
boys classroom monitors. When enrolment for the Basij took place at school, Morteza was asked to help.
He was experiencing the pride and power of respect, and it was because he was a part of something big and powerful. The Commander said there were millions of Basij members across the land. In reality, nobody really knew how many of them there were, but they had units in schools, universities, mosques, factories, state institutions and private businesses. They were in towns and villages and even tribes in all corners of the country. They were everywhere.