Question 4: King Richard III of the House of York was killed in the Battle of Bosworth Field in what year?
I should leave a note for question 3. Hmmm, there is no room for notes. It is fine. It is fine. The Battle of Bosworth Field was fought in . . . 1485. I am positive. That is the answer. I wonder who writes these questions. How will knowing this make me a better member of British society? We have been living in London for five years. My son has no memory of Iran and my daughter was born here. We have been asked why we hate freedom, told to go back to the desert many times—I tell them I hear Dasht-e Kavir is breathtaking but I have never been. It is true—but not once has anyone asked me about famous battles of the fifteenth century. Maybe I should bring it up.
I have a feeling only the people taking this test know the answer to that question. What could anyone possibly do with that information? It would have come in handy in, say, 1485, if one were travelling the country. Darling, perhaps Bosworth Field is not the best spot for a picnic today. The horses are fine. I think we should keep trotting. I should not—
Seriously? Mr. Baseball Cap spilled his coffee on his desk. No reaction. He is just sitting there, looking at the mess. Do something! . . . Stop judging, Idir. Get up and help the man . . . There are to be some napkins near the coffee machine. Where are they? There. That should be enough.
—Here you go, sir. Let me help you.
—Oh, thanks. I’m just . . . really nervous.
Why was I so quick to judge this man? I must be nervous, myself. There is a lesson to be learned here. We are all more alike than we think.
Question 5: The “Gunners” is the nickname of which Premier League football club?
Finally, something useful.
They should make this whole test about football. Sports bring people together like nothing else. It might be even truer here than it was in Teheran. Our neighbour took me to the pub a few weeks after we met. I was hesitant at first. A lot of Iranians will drink alcohol—we did on occasion—but doing it in public does not come naturally. I figured the people who would object were not likely to be in a pub, and I said yes. I loved the ambiance. People singing and cheering. We were standing near the bar watching the Arsenal. I don’t remember who they were playing. I was too self-conscious to openly celebrate, but when the Gunners scored, this hulking giant of man grabbed me by the shoulders and squeezed me like a sponge. It was the first time I felt like I belonged, like I was truly welcome. There have been other times since, many of them, but there was something special about that game.
I wish— What was that noise? It sounded like a gunshot. That was a gunshot. Most people don’t know what a gunshot sounds like. It sounds like a garbage container being closed hard, like someone popping a plastic bag, anything but a gunshot. Most people don’t know that, until they do. Then it is impossible not to recognize it. Why would anyone fire a gun at the immigration office?
Oh. There are . . . four, no, five men coming in; I can see them through the window—large men. They are all wearing ski masks—black, black combat fatigues. They have tactical vests. And guns. They have . . . lots of guns, automatic weapons. Are they soldiers? They look exactly like the IRGC forces in Iran, the Islamic Revolutionary Guard. All black. Daunting. I suppose they look exactly like any special forces. They could be British, SAS perhaps. This could be some sort of exercise? I hope—They are entering the waiting room. My family!
Everyone is getting on their knees. TIDIR! NO! DO NOT GET NEAR MY CHILDREN! Please, Tidir, do as they say. This is not an exercise. No. No. No. NO! How is this happening? Tidir . . . Tidir will be okay. She knows what to do. Stay silent. Don’t draw attention to yourself.
One of them is coming this way. He’s entering the test room.
—Everyone! On your knees! Now!
I am! I am on my knees. I have been here before. I have been thrown to the ground and I have felt the tip of their guns on the back of my neck. I have been through this and I have survived. We will survive. All of us. Someone will come. Someone will come and save us all.
—I said now!
What? Who isn’t complying? Come on, Mr. Baseball Cap, do what he says! You will get yourself killed. You’ll get someone else killed! No! Don’t talk to them!
—What is this? What do you want with us? We don’t—
That sound again, only much louder. They shot him! Vay Khoda, they shot him! A loud thump. Mr. Baseball Cap is falling to the ground. Everyone is screaming. What should I do? Should I look? I have to look, raise my head slowly. No sudden movement. That is what they told me in Teheran. He’s holding his leg. The dark stain on the wooden floor is growing rapidly. If they hit the artery, he will bleed out in minutes. Someone has to help him or he’ll die.
Everyone has stopped screaming. Everyone but him. I will need something to stop the bleeding. My shirt. I can untie my shirt now, while I’m kneeling. Maybe someone else will— Maybe they— What am I thinking? That man will not help, he’s the one who shot him. I’m the only one who can help. I am taking off my shirt. I’ll stay close to the ground with my head down. There is so much blood. Mr. Baseball Cap is looking at me. I see so many emotions. Pain. Fear. I don’t want to die. Distress. Please help me. Despair. I will do what I can.
—Hey! You! What are you doing?
—Please don’t shoot! Please! I’m just going to tie this around his leg. . . . There. That’s it. It’s done.
—Get back over there!
I fear my heart will burst out of my chest. Look at the floor, Idir. Move away from him and keep looking at the floor. I hope he lives. He’ll need medical attention soon. A real tourniquet would give him time. This, my shirt, it’s not tight enough. It will slow the bleeding down a bit, but not much. I can’t say for certain, but my guess is he has minutes, not hours. But he is alive for now. That is what matters. I’m alive. Tidir is alive. My children are alive.
2.
THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING to us, not again. This is what we ran away from. Guns and impunity. This is why we’re here. Men with guns knocking at the door in the middle of the night. Kneeling. Always kneeling. Watching her leave, not knowing if she was coming back. Ramzi crying for his mother, too young to understand why he gets a plastic bottle instead of a breast. Mommy will be back soon. She always came back. Always with the same look on her face. Resilience. She never talked about what they did to her. There was nothing to gain, a lot to lose. She didn’t want it to change the way I looked at her. Tidir was a journalist, and a good one at that. Some pain came with the territory, but she felt guilty for making us share it. There are days when I regret not getting her to stop, not even trying. Not many, but some. Now she’s kneeling again. She’s calm. She knows this. She’ll do what she needs to do to protect our children.
—Everyone! It seems we have a good Samaritan among us.
That voice is coming from across the window. It’s louder than before. I could not make out what anyone was saying a moment ago.
—You! Samaritan! Look at me!
He’s banging on the window. Is he talking to me? Don’t draw attention to yourself. That is what they told me. He is talking to me, standing behind the glass to my left. No one else is speaking. Deference. He must be the man in charge. He is smaller than the rest of them. There is a holstered pistol on his belt, nothing in his hands. Everyone else is holding a weapon.
—I said look at me!
I am looking at him, but I can’t hold his stare. I have to say something. He singled me out because I helped the man in the baseball cap. He saw defiance. I put my head down again. Submission.
—I just . . . I tried to stop the bleeding.
That was a mistake. I shouldn’t talk. I should do nothing.
—Do I look shy?
What? Don’t answer that. Nothing good can come of this.
—I asked you a question, Samaritan. Do I look shy to you?
—I’m sorry. I don’t—