Chapter 8: Military Life.

WHEN AN OPPONENT COMES FOREWORD, MOVE IN AND GREET HIM; IF HE WANTS TO PULL BACK, SEND HIM ON HIS WAY. --MORIHEI UESHIBA, THE ART OF PEACE.. My military life in Iran began when my uncle Abe came down to Tehran from his village near the Caspian Sea to help me get registered for conscription. It had been a law since the Shah's regime that every Iranian male had to serve at least two years in military service. Most of the older male members of my family had faithfully served their time. The Iran-Iraq war was over now, which meant there was less of a threat to losing my life in battle. I was only 18 years old at the time and could have waited until I was 20 but, I wanted to hurry up and volunteer to get it over with sooner. I was up for a little action and adventure. I figured that I might even learn something from the experience. This was before I had known of the extravagant lifestyles and wild parties of the beautiful and privileged youth of north Tehran. I had only known Iran to be a backward third-world country. I thought that joining the military would at least give me something to do with my time there. I also thought it the best way to learn about the new Islamic regime. My uncle Abe's sister-in-law had married a high-ranking General in the new Islamic Republic's army. His last name was Razmjoo, meaning 'warlord'. We were to meet with him first before registering my name for the draft. Warlord lived in a community of large, luxury penthouse apartments that was built exclusively for army officers and their families. The grounds of this residential complex were guarded my military police at all times. My uncle and I were cleared by the security guards and escorted up to the general's apartment by his young son who greeted us at the gates. We were very warmly received upon entering the general's home by his wife and elderly father. Warlord proudly told us how he had an older son that was a lieutenant in a helicopter unit near Isfahan. We exchanged the traditional Persian formalities and proceeded to enjoy the hearty lunch that was prepared by his wife. The conversation during lunch revolved around the general's wife's recent return from India where she had met the prophet Sai Babba. I was in disbelief as she described outrageous stories of how she witnessed Babba manifest objects out of thin air and the fact that the prophet spoke

every language on earth fluently. I was surprised to find Iranians who were interested in such unusual mysticism. After lunch, my uncle, I and the general's family proceeded into the luxuriously decorated living room that had a large window revealing the vast Tehran skyline. Warlord told me that I had made a big mistake by choosing to return to Iran. He said that I should have stayed in America and finished college. He said that it was even more foolish for me to serve in the military now that I was here. Military exemption could have been bought from the government for about $16,000. He said it was better to pay that and get out than to waste two years of my life in a part of the world where anything could happen. I still thought that the best way to learn all about the Islamic government was to join its military. Deep down, I felt that I just had to go. While carefully sipping his after-lunch tea on his beautiful antique sofa with the vast Tehran skyline out the window behind him; he began describing to me horror stories from the Iran-Iraq war that he had fought in. He was a colonel back then and was later promoted to general for his bravery in battle. He re-created scenes of having marched into captured territory to witness the charred corpses of the soldiers that he had ordered into battle just the night before. With humbleness, he showed me the medals and honors bestowed upon him by the leaders of the revolution for his successful campaigns against the Iraqis. I knew what war was all about and I still wanted to go. Giving in to my stubbornness, he let us in on some insider information that would make my military life easier. I was to register on the date he specified. On that day, he knew all of the soldiers picked would be stationed in Tehran after basic training. That way, I would not get stuck in a trench in the middle of the desert for two years and would be closer to my family. Most solders stationed in Tehran were allowed to leave every night to go home and would have to report back to base again in the morning. I did what Warlord said and showed up at the military registration installation on the exact date and time that he specified. I was among thousands of other Iranian young men who were ready to fulfill their military requirements. We were all given our forms and separated into groups of hundreds. An officer would stand in front of each group and draw a slip of paper out of a hat. The military was divided into Army,

Navy, Air Force, Police Force, and the new Revolutionary Guards. These were further divided into various military installations all over the country. Whatever was drawn out of the hat is what you got if you were in that particular group of one-hundred. Some of the worst places to end up were; Kurdistan, where the war for Kurdish independence continues, Eastern Iran, where Afghan drug smugglers kill Iranian solders for fun, and Bandar Abbas along the Persian Gulf where temperatures reach over 120f in the summer. The other groups seemed pretty happy with what they got. My heart pounded almost out of my chest when the officer stood in front of my group and reached into the hat to draw our fate. I could not understand when he read our assignment but, everybody in my group began jumping up and down for joy and throwing their hats in the air. I thought this to be good news. When my uncle later read my papers for me, he said that I was now a part of the new Revolutionary Guards and would be stationed in Tehran. He said that the Revolutionary Guards were the best because they got the latest equipment and most privileges. This was because they are like a 'Gestapo' unit that was created by the Ayatollah after the revolution to counter any coup attempt by the regular Army that was mostly trained by the Shah's regime. I was truly at the right place at the right time. I was to report for duty three months from that day. During that three month time, I had discovered my social life in Iran. The main reason I had been so enthusiastic about joining the military was because I figured it would give me something to do. I thought Iran would be mostly deserts and camels. I had not expected beautiful women, wild parties or any of the social life I was now beginning to enjoy, living in north Tehran. Going into the military seemed more and more unnecessary yet, it was too late. I had already been drafted and would have to report for duty or go to prison. It was during this time that I was informed about claiming exemption from military service because of my eyesight. I had been wearing corrective lenses most of my life and could not see without them. I had discovered that 12/20 vision or worse was considered exempt. I was checked out by three private doctors that assured me that my eyesight would qualify me for exemption. My uncle Cyrus said that because of this, he knew somebody that could guarantee me a ticket out of military service for only $2000. I thought this was an absurd amount to pay

for one man's signature. I would attempt the legal route of getting exemption. After all, if the law said that 12/20 vision was exempt, then I should not have a problem. Little did I know that in Iran, the law is only as good as how much money you could pay. My cousin Al would come with me through all of the bureaucratic red-tape associated with claiming exemption. He would drive me from one military base to another where army doctors would check me out and present their diagnosis. Because I did not bribe anybody within this bureaucratic maze, my eyes were finally diagnosed as 11.75/20 and therefore, not eligible for exemption. 12 was exempt and I got 11.75. I was so shocked that I was speechless on the ride home. When Al and I got back home that day, I let out a yell of "fucking bastards!!", that must have been heard by all of the neighbors. That night, I noticed my auntie Cima watching a classic Googoosh music video on television. Googoosh was perhaps the most popular, talented and beautiful Iranian pop star back during the Shah's regime in the 1970's when music was still legal in Iran. I watched this angel of a woman sing lovely melodies while dancing in her bell-bottomed trousers. I felt intense hatred for the disciples of evil that forced such women to veil themselves and live in fear. I had been spoiled by the high life of north Tehran. I had to remember what I had come to Iran to do in the first place. Somebody had to stop the demented Islamic Republic from repressing its own people. I had to somehow give it my best shot now that I had come all this way. It was now the beginning of Fall in Tehran. I had just returned from my trip to Isfahan with my uncle Bud and auntie Zari. It was now my time to go into the military. I showed up at the Revolutionary Guards facility with my head shaved for the first time since childhood. I was ready for two years of honorable service. Instead, what I got was 10 months in the most pathetic excuse for a military organization that I had ever expected to find. From the onset, it was corrupt chaos and not the rigid military discipline and honor I was hoping for. Because I had not brought proof of my education, I was labeled an 'illiterate' and made to serve with soldiers who had less than a high-school education. The Shah would turn in his grave if he knew of the present state of the Iranian military. Hundreds of soon-to-be soldiers

gathered under the multi-colored autumn trees in front of the military base awaiting entrance. After a long wait, we were ushered inside the gates by solders wearing khaki camouflage uniforms. These were the colors of the Revolutionary Guard's military police. The R.G. had no system of rank at that time. It was hard to tell who was an officer, sergeant or whatever. It was the founder's rationale that an Islamic army should consist of brothers who were not to be separated by a ranking system. Although the R.G. now has a ranking system, back then it was a chaotic mess and it was hard to tell right away who had legitimate authority. I noticed an apathetic lack of discipline among the ranks as we were made to form even lines while chanting Islamic revolutionary slogans. Then, a very mean looking bearded soldier was brought out to keep us in line. He led us in a disciplinary exercise ritual of repeatedly sitting down and getting up while chanting 'ya Ali' on the way up and 'ya Hussein' on the way down. Ali and Hussein were disciples and descendants of the prophet Mohammed. This was supposed to wear us down but, it only brought heckling and jeers from the crowd. One guy asked if he could use the rest room. I thought he would surly get a slap in the face for interrupting the routine. Surprisingly, he was allowed to go and soon after, as I expected, more followed and we were in a full state of chaos and disorder. After we were finally regrouped, we were ordered to run in place and hit the ground when we heard the M.P.'s yell 'khomparreh'. This was the signal that we were under mortar attack. This exercise was to get us used to hitting the ground quickly if we were ever to hear that signal in actual battle. The new troops took this as a joke. One guy upon hitting the ground yelled 'koon-parreh' which sounds like 'khomparreh' in Persian but, means 'rip in the asshole'. This brought on a mass hysteria of laughter from everybody. I was quite perplexed when the soldiers training us joined in the laughter as well. The guy squatting next to me said something to me in Persian. I could not understand him and had to tell him that I was from America. At first he thought I was pulling his leg but, my lack of Tehrani street smarts made it obvious that I was from out of town. He pulled out a switchblade knife from his shoe and told me not to worry and that he was a friend and would protect me. Protect me from what?, I naively thought. This guy did turn out to be a friend and he helped me out a lot during that first night. He introduced me to a few more

of his friends sitting around him. It was nice to know I now had a gang to back me up just in case anything should happen. I also needed him to translate the orders that were being yelled at us all day. We were to spend the night at this base and ship out to basic training the next day. That first night I spent at the base was the worst night of my life. I did not expect it to be so cold so, I did not bring my jacket. My teeth chattered as I waited in line to get fed with about 500 other new soldiers. Because of the indifference to the orders being given over and over again to form even lines, we were constantly disciplined and made to do physical exercises. This went on for hours into the night until we were allowed to finally eat. We were each given a can of cold beans and some stale lavash bread. Lavash bread is a thin sheet of baked flour and water. Can openers were not distributed. People tried all sorts of ways to get their little can of beans open. It was good that my friend happened to have his knife on him. I was cold, hungry and among the roughest group of young men I had ever seen. These crazy new recruits were ugly, smelly and very uncultured. To me they seemed more like slightly advanced apes than actual human beings. I am just glad that I did not get raped. I was told by my friend with the switchblade that pretty boys like me were prey to being poked in the middle of the night by the sexually-deprived men of south Tehran. That is what he was going to protect me from. I wasn't about to let any of these monkeys try anything so, I made sure to stay awake all night. I was sitting on a top bunk in the corner of the barracks with my new friends when I witnessed a group of guys follow in their parent's foot steps. A re-enactment of the revolution was staged as this hysterical mob broke windows and toppled bunks over, making sure to do as much damage as possible. Then a military police soldier, no doubt surprised, if not awakened, by all of the racket, stormed in toting his AK-47 automatic rifle. I thought surly these idiots would be punished for the mess they created. Instead, the sleepy soldier shook his head and walked out with a look in his eye that seemed to say; "I'll just let the guys in the morning deal with it." Well, the guys in the morning did deal with it by not giving us breakfast and making us run until a few of the men puked. We were then made to form lines and have a seat in the morning sun. A slightly plump, moustached soldier then came out and

ordered anybody with a medical problem to form a line in front of him. I thought this would be my chance to try and get medical exemption. I was stunned as more than half the ranks moved into the other line. I had to wait in line for hours while hundreds of greedy morons faked sickness at an attempt to get out of basic training. I was so very relieved when my turn finally came up to state my case to the medic. The soldier doing the questioning was already fatigued by having been barraged by false claims all day. When I told him that I was from America and wanted exemption from service because of my eyes, he laughed loudly. "That is the best story I've heard all day", he said. Yet, my accent was obviously foreign and I was wearing a very thick pair of glasses at the time. He looked into my eyes deeply to see if I was telling the truth. "So, tell us about America", he said in an attempt to foil my plot. "What is it exactly you want to know?", I replied back. "Is it true what I hear about women walking around half-naked in the streets over there?", he said with a grin. I replied with the first thing that came to my mind, "Yea!, isn't that great?" He reacted to my enthusiasm with a very hearty belly laugh and a nod that meant I was all right. I was so happy and relieved. I thought this guy was going to help me get out of there. The soldier was Mr. Ahmadzadeh, head of the base clinic. He would turn out to become one of my good friends. I had a seat in front of the barracks and awaited my fate. Then the busses began rolling in to take everybody away to basic training. I noticed a bearded guy with one foot missing, limping along while being followed by an armed entourage. He looked like a bum, being very dirty with ragged clothes and a poverty stricken look on his face. Surprisingly, this was the base commander. He was one of the civilians that volunteered for the front during the Iran-Iraq war. Because he had his foot blown off, the Ayatollah made him a colonel and put him in charge of this base. I watched with a sinking feeling in my stomach as he rubbed his dirty beard while deciding everybody's destiny. I went inside the barracks to lie down for a little bit. I was contemplating the grim fact of having to serve my entire military duty taking orders from brainless Islamic fanatics when two M.P.'s brandishing AK-47's marched into the barracks. To wake me up, one of them kicked my bunk and yelled, "CIA!" I was then ordered to follow them. I thought the base commander had been informed of American infiltration and I was to be taken

away and shot. Instead, I was led into the officer's quarters and greeted warmly by a group of bearded faces that encircled me while a chair was pulled out for me to sit. I was then served a plate of hot food with a glass of ice water. The officers of the R.G. huddled around me with awe and smiles. All wanted to know more about America. I answered their questions as best I could while eating and drinking ravenously but, I could not answer all of their questions at once. I was tired and wanted to go home and get some sleep. They gave me my papers and told me to come back tomorrow. I was thankful that I would not be shipped out to basic training with everybody else that day. I was so relieved as I rushed home to tell my uncle Cyrus and family all about the horrible pandemonium I witnessed. "We all told you that it was a stupid idea to go!", My uncle said to me in an 'I told you so' attitude. Cyrus was upset with me because I had insulted him when he tried to help me. When he told me of the offer to get me out for only $2000, I reacted like the punk kid I was at the time. I told him that for that price, his so-called friend better give me his daughter to screw as part of the deal. He did not like that at all. Now, I was ready to pay that kind of money to get out but, it was too late. I was already tangled in the bureaucracy of the military system. Only God could help me. I reported for duty the next day as ordered. I noticed about 20 or so other civilians in the barracks. These were guys that had some how managed to influence their way out of being shipped out the day before. Some had simply arrived a day late, much to their advantage. We were issued uniforms that did not fit while being told to keep our heads shaved from then on. What I disliked most about the R.G. was the fact that we were not allowed to shave our beards. Shaving with a razorblade was considered un-Islamic. The rationale was that God gave men beards and they should not shave them. I would have to spend my entire military duty with a buzzed head and a beard. I felt like an idiot walking down the streets. We were to report to the base by 8 a.m. everyday and we would be allowed to leave by 2 p.m. This would go on until they figured out what to do with us. Ahmadzadeh, my new friend at the base clinic, sent his troops to come pick me up. He said that I should not hang around with those other guys and should hang out with him everyday instead. At first, I enjoyed his entertaining wit and learning dirty Persian jokes from him but, every time I would plead with

him to send me to the medical commission for exemption, he would brush me off and ask another question about life in America. This would go on for almost two long months of having to wake up early every day and take four different cabs on the hour-long trip to the base from north Tehran, only for nothing. Little did I know that I was merely a pawn in Ahmadzadeh's power game. He would gain influence around the base by inviting other officers to come check out 'the American'. Some even wanted my autograph, having never seen a real live American before. The funniest thing was that I was actually a full-blooded Iranian. I had just grown up in America. I soon began to feel like a zoo animal on display. He finally lent me out to some guys at the base next door who were to use me to help translate bulldozer manuals. In between them constantly hounding me with questions about American and some political discussion, we managed to translate about two sentences of text every day. The manuals were over 500 pages in length. Everybody at the base had gotten quite attached to me and did not want to see me go. This delayed my leaving even more. Finally though, sensing my depressed state, Ahamadzadeh was nice enough to let me out of the cage. He wished me good luck as he handed me my papers and sent me off to the medical commission for re-examination. I would once again go through a hellish maze of inefficient and corrupt bureaucracy. This time though, I was prepared to pay my uncle's friend the $2000 he said it would take to get me out. Unfortunately, I was now out of his jurisdiction. He was an officer in the regular army and I was now property of the Revolutionary Guards. The R.G. doctors would reject my application and I was sent back into service. I was totally devastated. What would I do now?