Read Online Assassins of the Turquoise Palace by Roya Hakakian - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Roya Hakakian
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interviews, and asked if they could talk. Shohreh’s lamentations echoing in his ears, Norbert wanted Parviz to guess at the possible suspects behind the crime.
“Suspects? You want to call them suspects? You can, if you like. But there’s nothing plural or mysterious about it. This is the work of Iran’s regime. No suspects there. They’re the culprits, beyond the shadow of doubt. I’m more sure of that than I am of myself standing here now.”
His certainty impressed Norbert. Wishing to prolong the conversation, he played devil’s advocate.
“But the federal prosecutor is leaning toward the Kurdish group, the PKK.”
“The federal prosecutor can lean whichever way he wants, but it doesn’t change the facts. These men who died weren’t mafia members or drug dealers. They were visionaries of the highest order, real patriots, after whom other governments name national holidays. What does the federal prosecutor know about what we’ve paid for in blood and tears for thirteen years?”
Like all exiles, he assumed that everyone’s calendars began with 1979.
“You sound adamant,” Norbert replied. “Aren’t you afraid you might be wrong?”
“I sound adamant because I know my history. This isn’t the first time an exile has been killed. There have beenmany, many deaths like this. Am I afraid? Of course, I am. I’m afraid that those who don’t know the history may be fooled. I’m afraid of the truth never seeing the light of day, this charade going on until we’re all done away with.”
Norbert did not know what Parviz meant by history. But he was not about to detain him in that cemetery for an explanation. He offered his business card to Parviz and suggested that they meet again soon. Parviz tucked the card in his pocket and promised to call him.
After the funeral, the mourners stopped at the cargo section of Berlin’s Tegel Airport to send the coffins of the three Kurds off to Paris’s Père Lachaise Cemetery where they would have the worthy farewell they could not get at home. When the plane was airborne, the crowd converged, most of them Kurds, on Iran’s consulate, an indistinct three-story building on Stavanger Street. The staff inside had been warned of the oncoming protesters. The front gates had been chained and the shutters had been lowered over the windows. Now and then, the lens of a camera was wedged in the blinds. The unruliness outside was clearly on record.
Riot police had already garrisoned the building. Uniformed men brandishing batons, helmets, and shields locked their gaze with empty-handed protesters. As mourners, they had shed what tears they had. Now the fog of grief lifted to reveal their wrath. For them, there was nowhere else to go. This fortress was their destination. Faced with the chain of armed policemen, they stood side by side in a chain of their own and linked arms. Watching their line, the chief ofpolice signaled his men. Visors were lowered, shields were centered at chest level. A tunnel formed—the police on one side, protestors on the other. They stared one another down, waiting for the other to falter.
Then came a shout in Kurdish. The crowd stirred. Each protester placed one foot forward. The police gripped their batons. But what followed was not a charge of angry men. Arms around each other’s neck, they simply threw their shoulders up, then thrust them forward. There was a momentary hush. Then another shout came, and they undid the movement, stepping back on the other foot, shoulders releasing, lowering. Heeding the rhythm of an inner beat, they had begun the steps of an old familiar dance. One foot back, another forward, undulating the shoulders over and over, till at last they burst into song, their ancient anthem.
Kass naleh Kurd merduah / Kass naleh Kurd merduah / Kurd zinduah / zinduah ghat na ne vey nala keman.
Let no one say Kurds are dead. Kurds are living. Kurds are living. Their flag will never fall.
They chanted though they had no hope of
“Suspects? You want to call them suspects? You can, if you like. But there’s nothing plural or mysterious about it. This is the work of Iran’s regime. No suspects there. They’re the culprits, beyond the shadow of doubt. I’m more sure of that than I am of myself standing here now.”
His certainty impressed Norbert. Wishing to prolong the conversation, he played devil’s advocate.
“But the federal prosecutor is leaning toward the Kurdish group, the PKK.”
“The federal prosecutor can lean whichever way he wants, but it doesn’t change the facts. These men who died weren’t mafia members or drug dealers. They were visionaries of the highest order, real patriots, after whom other governments name national holidays. What does the federal prosecutor know about what we’ve paid for in blood and tears for thirteen years?”
Like all exiles, he assumed that everyone’s calendars began with 1979.
“You sound adamant,” Norbert replied. “Aren’t you afraid you might be wrong?”
“I sound adamant because I know my history. This isn’t the first time an exile has been killed. There have beenmany, many deaths like this. Am I afraid? Of course, I am. I’m afraid that those who don’t know the history may be fooled. I’m afraid of the truth never seeing the light of day, this charade going on until we’re all done away with.”
Norbert did not know what Parviz meant by history. But he was not about to detain him in that cemetery for an explanation. He offered his business card to Parviz and suggested that they meet again soon. Parviz tucked the card in his pocket and promised to call him.
After the funeral, the mourners stopped at the cargo section of Berlin’s Tegel Airport to send the coffins of the three Kurds off to Paris’s Père Lachaise Cemetery where they would have the worthy farewell they could not get at home. When the plane was airborne, the crowd converged, most of them Kurds, on Iran’s consulate, an indistinct three-story building on Stavanger Street. The staff inside had been warned of the oncoming protesters. The front gates had been chained and the shutters had been lowered over the windows. Now and then, the lens of a camera was wedged in the blinds. The unruliness outside was clearly on record.
Riot police had already garrisoned the building. Uniformed men brandishing batons, helmets, and shields locked their gaze with empty-handed protesters. As mourners, they had shed what tears they had. Now the fog of grief lifted to reveal their wrath. For them, there was nowhere else to go. This fortress was their destination. Faced with the chain of armed policemen, they stood side by side in a chain of their own and linked arms. Watching their line, the chief ofpolice signaled his men. Visors were lowered, shields were centered at chest level. A tunnel formed—the police on one side, protestors on the other. They stared one another down, waiting for the other to falter.
Then came a shout in Kurdish. The crowd stirred. Each protester placed one foot forward. The police gripped their batons. But what followed was not a charge of angry men. Arms around each other’s neck, they simply threw their shoulders up, then thrust them forward. There was a momentary hush. Then another shout came, and they undid the movement, stepping back on the other foot, shoulders releasing, lowering. Heeding the rhythm of an inner beat, they had begun the steps of an old familiar dance. One foot back, another forward, undulating the shoulders over and over, till at last they burst into song, their ancient anthem.
Kass naleh Kurd merduah / Kass naleh Kurd merduah / Kurd zinduah / zinduah ghat na ne vey nala keman.
Let no one say Kurds are dead. Kurds are living. Kurds are living. Their flag will never fall.
They chanted though they had no hope of
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