Escape to Turkey

I’d found a smuggler named Agha-Nouri, a soft-spoken man, tall, with white skin, who wore thick glasses, and was almost bald. He had a good reputation among his kind. The deal we struck was worth US$15,000, money I had acquired from selling my car and borrowing from a friend. For that fee, Shahram would be escorted overland to Turkey. There would be three payments of five thousand dollars each, one just prior to departure, the second to be split among the guides taking Shahram over the border, and a third payment once Shahram had crossed safely into Turkey. At that point, he would phone me. Of course, Shahram and I would have our code language to confirm that he had actually arrived safely, and where exactly he was.

A few days after first contacting Nouri, I met him at his stationery shop. This time, he was accompanied by another smuggler, a Turkish Kurd named Bigler. Bigler was tall, heavy-set, olive skinned, with a thick black moustache. He dressed well and spoke Farsi with a Turkish accent. Bigler explained that he didn’t personally accompany his clients over the mountains, but that he nevertheless could ensure Shahram’s safety once he was in Turkish territory. It was decided that in a week’s time, I would drive Shahram and Nouri to Tabriz, a city in northwestern Iran, where I would hand Shahram over to Bigler and his men.

One week, that’s all we had left together. He wouldn’t know about his departure, I decided, until the day before. Best to avoid bungling the escape plan that way. It was agony not being able to share with him my trepidation—I felt almost panic—wondering if we’d ever see each other again.

On the evening of December 15, 1991, I told Shahram that these were his last few hours at home. He had difficulty coming to grips with his imminent departure—that all his belongings had to be left behind, from his favourite soccer shoes to the collection of Spider-Man comics, which he would have protected with his life. Everything had to stay. He could take only his warmest clothes, and for extra energy a few nuts, plus a small flask of water. And one set of street clothes for his arrival in Turkey. I gave him some Iranian money to keep in his waist wallet in case of emergency.

Nouri and a friend of his, Hassan, showed up at the house after dark and waited while Shahram zipped himself into his green army jacket and picked up his backpack. Before leaving, he took one more long look around the home he would never see again.

“Goodbye, house,” he said.

It was a cruel way to force a boy to say goodbye to his childhood memories, and I was paying for it, stifling the tears I knew were in his heart.

Nouri had parked his car a discreet distance away because we were leaving in Shahram’s BMW, a recent gift from me upon his earning his driver’s licence. The night seemed particularly eerie, despite the music tapes that Shahram was playing. I heard nothing but my own conflicting thoughts about this mission: Shahram’s escape versus the possibility that I might never see him again.

We travelled as far as Ghazvin, about 100 kilometres, filled up with gas and continued westward towards Tabriz, another 500 icy kilometres to the northwest. We seemed to be the only ones crazy enough to be travelling in such dangerous conditions at night. Our brakes were useless on some icy patches. You needed to gear down to keep control, but on one treacherous bend, I hit the brakes, which made the car spin like a horse trying to throw its rider. A couple of 360-degree turns later, we came to rest in a snowbank.

“Ya Imam Zaman!” Nouri cried. It was a common exclamation in such circumstances, calling on the twelfth Imam.

Everyone was okay, but there we were, half-buried. We got out to inspect the damage—nothing serious, until we noticed that two tires were flat. Who carried more than one spare? Then we discovered that the heater had conked out, which allowed the windows to quickly frost up. We dug around the tires so they could be removed, but the lug nuts wouldn’t budge. Shahram was the last of us to apply his muscle to the job, and to our surprise he loosened them all. I took it as a good omen, that he could take care of himself. You can see how my mind was looking for assurance any way it could.

We changed one tire, then waited for some kind of saviour to show up and help us with the second. Mercifully, the first vehicle we flagged down stopped. It was a truck transporting building supplies, which was going the other direction, back towards Ghazvin. We offered to pay the driver and his passenger if they’d help us out. It was a major sacrifice of their time to take Nouri and Hassan into town and wait until the tire was repaired and chains were purchased, then drive them back. After all that, they would have to tow us back onto the road. This took no small amount of bargaining skills, but they accepted, and off they went, leaving Shahram and me with the car. We put on as many clothes as we could, and didn’t talk much except for the occasional “Are you all right?” or “Are you warm enough?”

Two hours later, they returned with a new tire. While Shahram took charge of replacing it, we heard how the tire man, woken from his sleep, agreed to open his shop only after a bribe of double the price of the tire. Once the truck driver had towed us back onto the road, we installed the chains and resumed our journey.

Proceeding at a much slower pace, I estimated that we’d arrive in Tabriz four hours behind schedule. Would Bigler wait for us? That precipitated other worries, such as the possibility of Shahram’s being arrested. For weeks, the thought had haunted me until my deepest organs felt bruised. I was impatient to see this plan put into action, but I was also suspicious about it.

Shahram must have felt my anxiety, because he ejected the tape of Persian ballads, which tend to be on the sad side, and replaced it with Chris de Burgh, his favourite singer at the time. I thought “Lady in Red” would cheer me up, but it expressed the same kind of pain that was tormenting me. (That song became cemented in my memory, and still brings tears to my eyes when I hear it.) I would have found something to weep about in “Jingle Bells,” which shows what a wreck I was. Taking relief from driving, I pretended to sleep in the back seat beside Nouri, but I was aware of the new day dawning.

A grey light reflected off a world covered in fresh snow. Nothing but white wherever you looked. We passed through the city of Zanjan, after which the road improved and our speed picked up. At about two o’clock in the afternoon we arrived in Tabriz.

We made straight for our meeting place, a small tea house next to the main bus station. Bigler had instructed us to order a drink when we got there, then wait for him. When he and his men arrived and got seated with their cups of tea, one of them would exit to buy a bus ticket next door. Shahram was supposed to follow him out and wait behind him in the lineup, making no effort at communicating with him.

Shahram would purchase a ticket for a village in the most northwestern part of Iran, near the Turkish border. Then he’d get on the bus, sticking as close as possible to his secret companion. Bigler had made it very clear that under no circumstances should Shahram and I show any emotion upon parting. No long goodbye, and especially no tears. None at all. Shahram was supposed to shake our hands, bidding us a conventional goodbye, as if he was simply off to visit a family member for a few days. He wasn’t wearing anything fashionable, nothing that would have hinted at “Tehran,” just simple clothes that were a little bit dirtier than he would have normally been comfortable in. That was the plan.

I had only taken my first sip of tea when Bigler arrived with two other men and sat at a table nearby. I avoided looking at Shahram. There was no way I wanted him to know what was going on inside me. One loving glance between us and I would have blown our cover. My only job at this point was to present a strong and confident face, to encourage him, but the truth was, I wanted to scream. Thank God, Shahram was avoiding eye contact with me, too.

According to the plan, Shahram returned with his ticket and shook our hands, giving us that pleasant smile of his, and a quick hug. I could tell he wanted to say something, but his throat must have been dry and tight, like mine. Watching him walk out of there was like a slow death for me. Any parent would understand, but a thousand words, a thousand libraries, couldn’t help prepare you. I found myself getting to my feet—it wasn’t planned, it wasn’t conscious at all—I just needed to embrace my son one more time. Without thinking or considering the consequences, I went after him.

He was walking towards the buses in that unique way he had of walking, swinging slightly side to side. I was smart enough not to run, but I felt I couldn’t shout his name, and not just because my throat was clogged, but because I knew I’d burst into tears. Well, I shouted anyway. He turned, not surprised to see me, I could tell. He started back towards me, each step faster than the last, until we met and melted together, crying as discreetly as we could, our tears mixing together on our cheeks. So much for my stalwart example. To hell with it! I kissed his sad face, trying to fill my lungs with his scent, hoping to trap it there and have it with me forever. Suddenly, a poem by Mehdi Soheili came to mind:

Neither of us could say goodbye, not even after we let go of each other, and once again I had to endure watching my son walk away. He stopped on the steps of the minibus, as if he’d changed his mind about going, and turned around to give me his last wave, then disappeared inside. The windows were grimy, just like the rest of the bus station, just like the rest of this country, so I didn’t stand a chance of catching one last glimpse of him. The bus idled for a few minutes, then moved out of the depot. I saw the palm of a hand pressed against the pane, and whether or not it was my son’s, it was good enough for me, and I raised a hand in a blind farewell.

I had no more tears left, but what was that dizziness? A heart attack felt like a real possibility. Nouri and Hassan had to help me to the car, even wanted to take me to the hospital.

“What good would that do?” I said. “No medicine can cure what I have.”

“Bigler is furious with you,” they said. “He left.”

“Sorry,” I said. Of course, I wasn’t sorry at all. I wouldn’t have exchanged that last hug for the world.

Someone mentioned food, but the concept of eating seemed surreal. We found a restaurant serving traditional Persian dishes, where I tried unsuccessfully to swallow a few morsels. I couldn’t see clearly, couldn’t hear well; it was almost as if I was having an out-of-body experience. We left the restaurant and found an auto shop where we installed a new battery and windshield wipers. After that, we faced the long haul back to Tehran. With Hassan at the wheel, I huddled under a blanket in the back seat and let the tears flow unchecked, my misery camouflaged by the radio.

Naturally, I had been hanging around the house more than usual, waiting for his call, any call, if not from Shahram, himself, then from Nouri, who might have had a number where Shahram could be reached. On the seventh day, the call came, from Nouri. He had a number. I hung up and dialed the old rotary phone with trembling hands. A busy signal, damn! This wasn’t the old Yadi, cursing and snapping and letting every little thing get on his nerves. I kept dialing until I got a ring, and finally an answer, a Turkish woman asking who was calling. In broken Turkish, I cobbled together a request to speak to my son. Those few seconds waiting seemed like hours.

“Salam, Baba,” he said.

Thank God. I could breathe again.

“How’s the weather?” I asked.

“It’s good, yeah, it’s good,” he said. “A few clouds on the way, but otherwise the weather is pretty good.”

I was dying to say what I wanted, but our plan was to stick to our code. So far, he’d let me know he was okay, he was in good shape. What a relief.

“Do you want to go skiing with me later this week?” I said.

“Can’t, Dad, sorry,” he said, confirming that he was in Turkey. Bigger relief.

Our short conversation continued, fake and ridiculous, and still I didn’t want to say goodbye. But when I did, it was with some assurance that the worst part of my son’s journey to Canada was behind him. I called Nouri, asking him to drop by, and he showed up within the hour to pick up his final five thousand dollars, according to our agreement. He hung around to have tea, and left with a smile on his face.