Children of Jihad: A Young American's Travels Among the Youth of the Middle East Read Free Page B

seemed pleasant enough. I hopped in his car and we headed on our way. I would soon learn the “escort” was actually my minder.
    As we drove from the airport to the hotel, I could see the expected images of notorious ayatollahs glaring from prominent billboards. The roundabouts that organized the intersections in Iran’s busy streets were ornate with bizarre sculptures that looked like a cross between metallic folk art and something you would buy in a party store. As we got closer to the city center, I could see the chador-wearing women wandering the streets as we passed the Iran Freedom Tower, a large tripod structure strangely placed in the middle of traffic and resembling something one would expect to see in Star Wars . The initial glimpse at all of these images triggered few, if any, emotions beyond the usual excitement of being in a new place. There was, however, one exception to this: images of Ayatollah Khomeini and billboards reading “Down with USA” sent chills down my spine and reminded me that I was in a truly terrifying place. I had seen this kind of graffiti in other countries, but this was my first time in a country where such phrases were actually the party line.
    In what would turn out to be a very poor decision on my part—one that would make my time in Iran extremely trying—I shared my plans for my time in Iran with my “escort.”
    I didn’t know it then, but all Americans in Iran are required to travel with a government-assigned escort, or, as they euphemistically call it, “tour guide.” These escorts, however, are tour guides in name only. The regime in Iran assumes that any American entering the country is a potential spy and therefore links him or her with these guides. These friendly tourism officers work overtime to make sure that American tourists have virtually no personal interactions with Iranian people.
    I wasn’t a tourist, but I wasn’t savvy enough to know to keep that information to myself. As we drove, I explained to my escort that I hoped to conduct several interviews with top government officials while in the country. I had planned to do some of these interviews for my dissertation at Oxford on the history of U.S.-Iran relations, but more than anything, I wanted to give myself an excuse to research something in this closed society. This information made him visibly uncomfortable, but his uneasiness didn’t fully register with me. Instead, I just went on. I told him that I had a list of Iranian leaders whom I would try to interview. The list included a number of notorious opponents of the regime, many of whom were either under house arrest or in prison.
    My enthusiasm and excitement trumped my reason and I spilled virtually everything to my minder. My naïve candor about my intentions had set off alarm bells with my escort, who was responsible for keeping me and visitors like me from doing precisely what I had told him I was in Iran to do. Though I was eventually able to remove at least the overt shackles the intelligence apparatus would soon place on me—largely due to my comments that night—my trip was never comfortable. I was constantly followed by intelligence agents, some of whom identified themselves to me as such and others who operated covertly. My room and possessions were randomly searched and I was personally intimidated on countless occasions.
    On my first morning in Iran, I woke up, eager to get out, meet people, and wander around Tehran. Academic contacts in the United States had arranged for a translator who would also serve as a guide and interview scheduler. Her name was Marwa and I had come to know her only through e-mail correspondences, but she seemed optimistic about helping me.
    I walked over to the hotel reception and gave Marwa a call. I was anxious to meet her and excited to begin my research. No sooner had I hung up the hotel reception phone after telling Marwa to come to the hotel than I saw the same escort who had picked me up from the airport