Escape to Turkey: an Iranian father places his teenage son in the hands of smugglers.

Escape to Turkey: an Iranian father places his teenage son in the hands of smugglers. The Flight of the Patriot: Escape from Revolutionary Iran Yadi Sharifirad Thomas Allen Publishers 265 pages, hardcover ISBN 9780887625268 I'd found a smuggler named AGHA-NOURI, a soft-spoken man,tall, with white skin, who wore thick glasses, and was almost bald. Hehad a good reputation among his kind. The deal we struck was worthUS$15,000, money I had acquired from selling my car and borrowing from afriend. For that fee, Shahram would be escorted overland to Turkey.There would be three payments of five thousand dollars each, one justprior to departure, the second to be split among the guides takingShahram over the border, and a third payment once Shahram had crossedsafely into Turkey. At that point, he would phone me. Of course, Shahramand I would have our code language to confirm that he had actuallyarrived safely, and where exactly he was. A few days after first contacting Nouri, I met him at hisstationery shop. This time, he was accompanied by another smuggler, aTurkish Kurd named Bigler. Bigler was tall, heavy-set, olive skinned,with a thick black moustache. He dressed well and spoke Farsi with aTurkish accent. Bigler explained that he didn't personallyaccompany his clients over the mountains, but that he nevertheless couldensure Shahram's safety once he was in Turkish territory. It wasdecided that in a week's time, I would drive Shahram and Nouri toTabriz, a city in northwestern Iran, where I would hand Shahram over toBigler and his men. One week, that's all we had left together. He wouldn'tknow about his departure, I decided, until the day before. Best to avoidbungling the escape plan that way. It was agony not being able to sharewith him my trepidation--I felt almost panic--wondering if we'dever see each other again. On the evening of December 15, 1991, I told Shahram that these werehis last few hours at home. He had difficulty coming to grips with hisimminent departure--that all his belongings had to be left behind, fromhis favourite soccer shoes to the collection of Spider-Man comics, whichhe would have protected with his life. Everything had to stay. He couldtake only his warmest clothes, and for extra energy a few nuts, plus asmall flask of water. And one set of street clothes for his arrival inTurkey. I gave him some Iranian money to keep in his waist wallet incase of emergency. Nouri and a friend of his, Hassan, showed up at the house afterdark and waited while Shahram zipped himself into his green army jacketand picked up his backpack. Before leaving, he took one more long lookaround 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 childhoodmemories, and I was paying for it, stifling the tears I knew were in hisheart. Nouri had parked his car a discreet distance away because we wereleaving in Shahram's BMW, a recent gift from me upon his earninghis driver's licence. The night seemed particularly eerie, despitethe music tapes that Shahram was playing. I heard nothing but my ownconflicting thoughts about this mission: Shahram's escape versusthe possibility that I might never see him again. We travelled as far as Ghazvin, about 100 kilometres, filled upwith gas and continued westward towards Tabriz, another 500 icykilometres to the northwest. We seemed to be the only ones crazy enoughto be travelling in such dangerous conditions at night. Our brakes wereuseless 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 spinlike a horse trying to throw its rider. A couple of 360-degree turnslater, we came to rest in a snowbank. "Ya Imam Zaman!" Nouri cried. It was a common exclamationin such circumstances, calling on the twelfth Imam. Everyone was okay, but there we were, half-buried. We got out toinspect the damage--nothing serious, until we noticed that two tireswere flat. Who carried more than one spare? Then we discovered that theheater had conked out, which allowed the windows to quickly frost up. Wedug around the tires so they could be removed, but the lug nutswouldn't budge. Shahram was the last of us to apply his muscle tothe job, and to our surprise he loosened them all. I took it as a goodomen, that he could take care of himself. You can see how my mind waslooking for assurance any way it could. We changed one tire, then waited for some kind of saviour to showup and help us with the second. Mercifully, the first vehicle we flaggeddown stopped. It was a truck transporting building supplies, which wasgoing the other direction, back towards Ghazvin. We offered to pay thedriver and his passenger if they'd help us out. It was a majorsacrifice of their time to take Nouri and Hassan into town and waituntil the tire was repaired and chains were purchased, then drive themback. After all that, they would have to tow us back onto the road. Thistook no small amount of bargaining skills, but they accepted, and offthey went, leaving Shahram and me with the car. We put on as manyclothes 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 tookcharge 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 thetire. Once the truck driver had towed us back onto the road, weinstalled the chains and resumed our journey. Proceeding at a much slower pace, I estimated that we'd arrivein Tabriz four hours behind schedule. Would Bigler wait for us? Thatprecipitated other worries, such as the possibility of Shahram'sbeing arrested. For weeks, the thought had haunted me until my deepestorgans 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 ofPersian ballads, which tend to be on the sad side, and replaced it withChris de Burgh, his favourite singer at the time. I thought "Ladyin Red" would cheer me up, but it expressed the same kind of painthat was tormenting me. (That song became cemented in my memory, andstill brings tears to my eyes when I hear it.) I would have foundsomething to weep about in "Jingle Bells," which shows what awreck I was. Taking relief from driving, I pretended to sleep in theback seat beside Nouri, but I was aware of the new day dawning. A grey light reflected off a world covered in fresh snow. Nothingbut white wherever you looked. We passed through the city of Zanjan,after which the road improved and our speed picked up. At about twoo'clock in the afternoon we arrived in Tabriz. We made straight for our meeting place, a small tea house next tothe main bus station. Bigler had instructed us to order a drink when wegot there, then wait for him. When he and his men arrived and got seatedwith their cups of tea, one of them would exit to buy a bus ticket nextdoor. Shahram was supposed to follow him out and wait behind him in thelineup, making no effort at communicating with him. Shahram would purchase a ticket for a village in the mostnorthwestern part of Iran, near the Turkish border. Then he'd geton the bus, sticking as close as possible to his secret companion.Bigler had made it very clear that under no circumstances should Shahramand I show any emotion upon parting. No long goodbye, and especially notears. None at all. Shahram was supposed to shake our hands, bidding usa conventional goodbye, as if he was simply off to visit a family memberfor a few days. He wasn't wearing anything fashionable, nothingthat would have hinted at "Tehran," just simple clothes thatwere a little bit dirtier than he would have normally been comfortablein. That was the plan. I had only taken my first sip of tea when Bigler arrived with twoother men and sat at a table nearby. I avoided looking at Shahram. Therewas no way I wanted him to know what was going on inside me. One lovingglance between us and I would have blown our cover. My only job at thispoint was to present a strong and confident face, to encourage him, butthe truth was, I wanted to scream. Thank God, Shahram was avoiding eyecontact with me, too. According to the plan, Shahram returned with his ticket and shookour hands, giving us that pleasant smile of his, and a quick hug. Icould tell he wanted to say something, but his throat must have been dryand tight, like mine. Watching him walk out of there was like a slowdeath for me. Any parent would understand, but a thousand words, athousand libraries, couldn't help prepare you. I found myselfgetting to my feet--it wasn't planned, it wasn't conscious atall--I just needed to embrace my son one more time. Without thinking orconsidering the consequences, I went after him. He was walking towards the buses in that unique way he had ofwalking, 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 mythroat 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. Hestarted back towards me, each step faster than the last, until we metand melted together, crying as discreetly as we could, our tears mixingtogether on our cheeks. So much for my stalwart example. To hell withit! 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 byMehdi Soheili came to mind: My flower, don't you cry. In the reflection of your teardrops, I can see my own sadness. For your tears know, I have an ocean of sadness. Neither of us could say goodbye, not even after we let go of eachother, and once again I had to endure watching my son walk away. Hestopped on the steps of the minibus, as if he'd changed his mindabout going, and turned around to give me his last wave, thendisappeared inside. The windows were grimy, just like the rest of thebus station, just like the rest of this country, so I didn't standa chance of catching one last glimpse of him. The bus idled for a fewminutes, then moved out of the depot. I saw the palm of a hand pressedagainst the pane, and whether or not it was my son's, it was goodenough for me, and I raised a hand in a blind farewell. I had no more tears left, but what was that dizziness? A heartattack felt like a real possibility. Nouri and Hassan had to help me tothe car, even wanted to take me to the hospital. "What good would that do?" I said. "No medicine cancure what I have." "Bigler is furious with you," they said. "Heleft." "Sorry," I said. Of course, I wasn't sorry at all. Iwouldn'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 triedunsuccessfully 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-bodyexperience. We left the restaurant and found an auto shop where weinstalled a new battery and windshield wipers. After that, we faced thelong haul back to Tehran. With Hassan at the wheel, I huddled under ablanket in the back seat and let the tears flow unchecked, my miserycamouflaged 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 fromNouri, who might have had a number where Shahram could be reached. Onthe seventh day, the call came, from Nouri. He had a number. I hung upand dialed the old rotary phone with trembling hands. A busy signal,damn! This wasn't the old Yadi, cursing and snapping and lettingevery 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 brokenTurkish, I cobbled together a request to speak to my son. Those fewseconds 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. "Afew 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 ourcode. 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?" Isaid. "Can't, Dad, sorry," he said, confirming that he wasin Turkey. Bigger relief. Our short conversation continued, fake and ridiculous, and still Ididn't want to say goodbye. But when I did, it was with someassurance that the worst part of my son's journey to Canada wasbehind him. I called Nouri, asking him to drop by, and he showed upwithin the hour to pick up his final five thousand dollars, according toour agreement. He hung around to have tea, and left with a smile on hisface. Yadi Sharifirad was a colonel and squadron commander fighter pilotin the Iranian Air Force in the 1970s and '80s. After beingimprisoned and tortured, he eventually escaped Iran with his family andnow lives in Vancouver. [c] 2010 Yadi Sharifirad, excerpt courtesy of Thomas AllenPublishers.