Four government-supported gunmen killed Sadegh Sharafkandi, Iran’s Kurdish opposition leader in a mafia-style in Mykonos Restaurant in 1992. Sharafkandi was murdered along with his four other friends on a gloomy winter night on the east side of Berlin. Due to the attack against a sovereign nation, Germany and Iran went through diplomatic chaos.
Faraj Sarkouhi, editor in chief for Adineh Magazine, published an article about the trial of Iranian individuals in Berlin when it was taking place in 1996. Since then, Sarkouhi and many journalists and editors were blacklisted by the Iranian government.
I didn’t want to pick up the damn phone. The phone was ringing off the hook, and I couldn’t bring myself to answer it.
I couldn’t ask anyone to pick up the phone, because there was no one home. And I didn’t want to pick it up myself. The phone kept ringing, and I kept ignoring it. “Why is she not cutting it?” I thought. I wasn’t even sure whether the phone was for me. But, my gut sense knew the truth.
I knew I must pick up the phone. But, I didn’t. After a 25-second pause, the phone started ringing again, only this time the ring sounded louder. “God damn it, why don’t you just give up son of a bitch,” I whispered. The only way to make sure the call was for me was to check my mobile phone.
I flew to my leather knapsack in search of my mobile. The small rectangular screen atop the number keys on my 1997 cubic-shaped mobile was completely black. The phone was dead. “Damn it,” I said, “No wonder she’s calling me on the landline. I rushed to plug in the mobile to the power outlet.
The phone was ringing for the fourth time when I returned to the kitchen. I felt the ring was even louder than my cousin’s percussion set.
“I’m going to kill you, son of a bitch whoever you are,” I said and picked up the phone.
“Yes,” I shouted.
“Sara, why don’t you answer the goddamn phone?,” Fariba said, trying to keep her voice quiet and calm. Before I could tell her not to say anything, she spitted out, “They arrested Faraj Sarkouhi. I just learned. I’m at Hamshahri Newspaper right now, with Mousavian. We are all shocked,.” she whispered over the receiver.
I knew she was covering her mouth over the phone’s receiver to control her voice volume and to prevent lip reading.
“Oh, no!” I said. I felt a sudden electric shock course through my body as if a fairy touched my head with her wand and froze me. I could feel the cold sweat on my forehead.
“Yes,” Fariba said. “I’m coming over,” she continued.
“Oh, no. Stay where you are. I’ll call you on my mobile. It is charging,” I said and hung up the phone. I took a great deal of discipline not to say the forbidden word, “Mykonos.”
I waited an excruciating ten minutes while pacing my 132 square-foot room. After a great deal of swearing, which was extraordinarily limited in my vocabulary system, the blue light on my mobile lit up.
The phone was ringing for the fourth time when I returned to the kitchen. I felt the ring was even louder than my cousin’s percussion set.
I called Hamshahri Newspaper‘s main switchboard. “Salam Aziz, can you give me the social desk,” I said. “Oh, Sara khanoom, is that you?,” the voice said. “Why don’t you call them directly?”
“Because I wanted to hear your velvet voice,” I lied with a smile.
“Oh, thank you azizam,” she said. “Hold on a sec.” She was a girl at the switchboard that I frequently met at the restaurant. We always exchanged smiles and greetings. I never learned her name. I never cared about learning people’s names anyway. “What’s for? ” I thought. “Why should I bother if I’m going to die in a few months, if not weeks or days?”
“Hi,” I heard Fariba’s voice from the other end.
“Mykonos,” I said. “Yes,” she replied. “Everyone is so worried here. We don’t know if we should run the story. Mousavian and the editors are in a different room. Safavi himself is here. We are expecting a few people from the Supreme Leader’s office coming over,” she said.
“And, what the heck are you doing there?” I asked. “Why haven’t you taken your damn ass away from the newsroom?,” my voice was shaking. “Leave now, son of a bitch. I’ll see you at Rose in Ghandi,” I said and hung up the phone.
All I knew was that a few Iranian gunmen, attached to the Iranian government, killed Sadegh Sharafkandi, the Kurdish opposition leader, in Germany, in a restaurant called Mykonos.
I grabbed my beloved knapsack and left my room on the second story of the house. I rushed to pick up my blue silk manteau and my yellow and red scarf from the entrance hallway downstairs. I headed toward the main door while putting on the extra clothes mandated by Iran’s Islamic government. Before I could open the door, I remembered I should leave a note to my mom, dad, and sister. Otherwise, they would get worried about my whereabouts. “I’ll be back late at night. Please do not lock the doors. I’ll do it before I go to bed.” I left the note on the kitchen table.
As soon as I turned the key in the engine, I was calm and composed. Tehran’s traffic was, and still is, so bad that I always drove carefully. I never wanted to get stopped, either by the police or by the morality forces who usually strolled the streets to arrest women with loose or bad hijab. Therefore, I became a good driver.
” Mykonos, Faraj Sarkouhi, Germany, Sharafkandi,” I kept thinking. “They are going to kill Faraj,” I thought anxiously.
Virtually no one heard of Mykonos, Sharafkandi, or Faraj Sarkouhi. The only news we were allowed to publish was that Germany recalled its ambassadors from Tehran, and closed down its consulate at Ferdowsi Ave in 1992.
I only saw a few short clips played during the 7 p.m. news program on channel one, Iran’s major national TV station. The current Secretary of State condemned Germany’s decision to shut down its embassy without giving any pretext about the cause of Germany’s decision. He was trying meticulously to never mentionmen Mykonos and Sharafkandi.
“And now, they want to kill Faraj,” I thought. “I think he published something about the Mykonos Restaurant murder in Adineh Magazine.”
My information about the murder in Germany was so limited. All I knew was that a few Iranian gunmen, attached to the Iranian government, killed Sadegh Sharafkandi, the Kurdish opposition leader, in Germany, in a restaurant called Mykonos.
I heard that the whole attack was orchestrated by Rafsanjani, Iran’s current president, and stamped by Iran’s Supreme Leader. I didn’t know Sharafkandi, nor did I know anyone who was killed alongside him. But, I knew now that the regime would give the orders to murder any opposition leader or dissidents inside or outside Iran.
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