Children of Jihad: A Young American's Travels Among the Youth of the Middle East Read Online Free PDF
Author: Jared Cohen
Tags: Religión, General, Social Science, Travel, Sociology, Islam, Political Science, middle east, Islamic Studies, Political Process, jihad, youth, Middle East - Description and travel, Political activity, Political Advocacy, Children's Studies, Cohen; Jared - Travel - Middle East, Youth - Political Activity, Muslim Youth
couple after couple sneak off into the nearby bushes for some “privacy.” Every five minutes or so, the morals police would go into the bushes and roust the canoodling teens from their love nests. The teens would then wait a few minutes before heading right back into the bushes, where they’d stay until chased out again. It was a total charade. Still, I loved it. I was entertained, but I was also sympathetic. I remembered the anxiety of middle-school birthday parties, seventh-grade couples trying to sneak kisses every time an adult’s back was turned. We may not have had the Revolutionary Guards or the morals police watching over us, but we had our parents. At the time, it seemed just as bad.
While Shapour finished his pizza at the café I got up to walk around. I had a difficult time approaching people, but I did catch up with one couple immediately after the morals police had caught them. Happy for the chance to talk to somebody other than my escort, I struck up a conversation with them. I tried to talk to them about politics and Iran, but they seemed eager to end the conversation and sneak off again right in front of the morals police. When I was younger and kids would sneak off at parties, they would just get grounded; in Iran, there were potential consequences. I was amazed by this. I felt I had seen another Iran; a more liberated and vibrant Iran.
On the ride back to the hotel, my guide, Shapour, was not quite so jubilant. He remained silent on the entire drive back, clearly unhappy about something. Back at the hotel, Shapour and I sat down in two green cloth chairs in the lobby. During the conversation, I leaned back and he leaned forward; it was clear who was in control. He looked at me with his big piercing eyes and a stern look that I would become all too familiar with.
“You know, you have to mind what you ask people. This is not America, we do things differently here.”
“And why is that?” I managed, after a few minutes of stony silence. I knew it was the wrong thing to say, but I was frustrated.
“I think I will call up Mr. Sorush and have him tell the ministry that you are breaking the law.”
I felt myself losing it. This was ridiculous. I had done nothing wrong and I had acquiesced to every demand made of me. Was threatening me really that entertaining?
“What law?” I snapped.
Shapour took out his cell phone and dialed Mr. Sorush. For about two minutes, they exchanged words in Farsi, but I caught none of it. He didn’t tell me what was said in their short conversation, but he led me to believe that I might get arrested. I didn’t know what to do. My phone was almost certainly tapped and people were likely reading or filtering my e-mails.
I had been in plenty of life-threatening situations before and had always found a way to stay strong. At that moment, however, it wasn’t Shapour’s threat of arrest or any fear of imminent danger that scared me so much. It was something different, a completely new feeling that I had never experienced before. For the first time in my life, I felt captive to psychological intimidation. My travels in Africa had put me in physical danger, but I’d never experienced anything quite so terrifying as my dwindling sense of personal freedom. All my phone calls, e-mails, conversations, and actions were closely monitored. People watched over my shoulder. Even when I thought I was alone, someone was always following me. I began to feel as if I could not think my own thoughts. Having always had the luxury of being able to express myself, I was devastated to have it all stripped away from me. I just lost it. It was that feeling I remembered all too well from when I was younger; eyes tearing, every ounce of energy focused on holding those tears back. In another context I might have started yelling at him, or I would have just stormed off; but, in Iran I just sank my head into my lap. I didn’t want him to see how hard this was for me, but no matter how hard I
While Shapour finished his pizza at the café I got up to walk around. I had a difficult time approaching people, but I did catch up with one couple immediately after the morals police had caught them. Happy for the chance to talk to somebody other than my escort, I struck up a conversation with them. I tried to talk to them about politics and Iran, but they seemed eager to end the conversation and sneak off again right in front of the morals police. When I was younger and kids would sneak off at parties, they would just get grounded; in Iran, there were potential consequences. I was amazed by this. I felt I had seen another Iran; a more liberated and vibrant Iran.
On the ride back to the hotel, my guide, Shapour, was not quite so jubilant. He remained silent on the entire drive back, clearly unhappy about something. Back at the hotel, Shapour and I sat down in two green cloth chairs in the lobby. During the conversation, I leaned back and he leaned forward; it was clear who was in control. He looked at me with his big piercing eyes and a stern look that I would become all too familiar with.
“You know, you have to mind what you ask people. This is not America, we do things differently here.”
“And why is that?” I managed, after a few minutes of stony silence. I knew it was the wrong thing to say, but I was frustrated.
“I think I will call up Mr. Sorush and have him tell the ministry that you are breaking the law.”
I felt myself losing it. This was ridiculous. I had done nothing wrong and I had acquiesced to every demand made of me. Was threatening me really that entertaining?
“What law?” I snapped.
Shapour took out his cell phone and dialed Mr. Sorush. For about two minutes, they exchanged words in Farsi, but I caught none of it. He didn’t tell me what was said in their short conversation, but he led me to believe that I might get arrested. I didn’t know what to do. My phone was almost certainly tapped and people were likely reading or filtering my e-mails.
I had been in plenty of life-threatening situations before and had always found a way to stay strong. At that moment, however, it wasn’t Shapour’s threat of arrest or any fear of imminent danger that scared me so much. It was something different, a completely new feeling that I had never experienced before. For the first time in my life, I felt captive to psychological intimidation. My travels in Africa had put me in physical danger, but I’d never experienced anything quite so terrifying as my dwindling sense of personal freedom. All my phone calls, e-mails, conversations, and actions were closely monitored. People watched over my shoulder. Even when I thought I was alone, someone was always following me. I began to feel as if I could not think my own thoughts. Having always had the luxury of being able to express myself, I was devastated to have it all stripped away from me. I just lost it. It was that feeling I remembered all too well from when I was younger; eyes tearing, every ounce of energy focused on holding those tears back. In another context I might have started yelling at him, or I would have just stormed off; but, in Iran I just sank my head into my lap. I didn’t want him to see how hard this was for me, but no matter how hard I