The Ayatollah In The Hospital

One autumn day many years ago, I awkwardly pulled on a black chador, bought a bouquet of gladiolas, and walked into a Tehran hospital pretending to be someone I was not. Grand Ayatollah Montazeri was receiving treatment at the hospital, and as the authorities forbid journalists from speaking to him at his house in Qom, I was taking advantage of chance to sneak access to him. I passed through hospital security by saying I was his niece -- the spindly gladiolas were doing their job nicely -- and met one of the ayatollah’s son in the hallway. We soon entered a room, and there he was, sitting on the bed in pink pajamas, all white beard and cheerful smile.

I had waited for this opportunity all of my career, the chance to speak to this towering figure in Iran’s modern history, one of the regime’s founders and then its most influential critic. It was, I believed, my right as a citizen and journalist to interview him, just as it was his right to express his beliefs briefly. But that day I was seized by a terrible fear, that someone would burst into the room and discover an interview being conducted, with repercussions for both me and the elderly cleric himself.

I have reported in war zones and many dangerous places, but have never felt anything like the fear I did sitting in that hospital room. Instead of asking him about democracy, the rights of religious minorities and his role in the revolution’s history,  I ate many pieces of gaz, which he offered continually and sweetly, and chatted about Arabic grammar.

I have thought back to that day many times since, and it remains for me an example of how we can be aware of our rights, but still remain deeply nervous about how to practice them. When our actions, even in the name of what is our right, can seriously affect ourselves or others, that fear can become paralyzing. I don’t have any answers for this problem, but sometimes it helps just to acknowledge its existence. Fear is real and respectable, and no one is a coward for being concerned about themselves and others.

In the years that followed, I concluded that I didn’t have to be a daredevil journalist -- show up at banned executions or interviewing provocative dissidents -- to still make a contribution to how society was changing. I could also write about how people celebrated Ashoura or behaved in parks, those casual stories also spoke important truths about young people and daily life.

When I look back, I would be lying if I said I didn’t regret asking Ayatollah Montazeri the questions in my notebook. But I was so struck by his gentle kindness that the journalist in me receded; perhaps I felt more like a citizen, wishing only to avoid endangering another citizen I respected. In its own way, that feeling is also part of the story.