PROLOGUE

Surveillance
I slipped into my long coat, which I used as an Islamic dress, and pulled a scarf over my hair. It
was the morning of June 27, 2009, and I was rushing out the door to meet a political analyst,
something Id done countless times in my ten years as the only New York Times correspondent in
the country. The routine of getting dressed to go out in public should have felt familiar, but this
time the smell of smoke and tear gas on my coat evoked a sense of uncertainty about the future.
Massive protests had erupted three weeks earlier, after a presidential election that many
Iranians believed to have been stolen by the incumbent, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. At first some
three million demonstrators had marched in silence, demanding only new elections. But then
government forces had attacked them, shooting at people and jailing scores of protestors.
Outraged by the brutality, demonstrators continued to pour into the streets and now clashed with
government forces. The demonstrations were the largest in three decades. I needed to make sense
of these events. What did the confrontation mean for the future of Iran?
The tree-lined street where I lived with my husband and two children was quiet under a
scorching sun on this Saturday afternoon. Tall new apartment buildings, with their granite
faades, towered over older, two-story brick houses. Over the past decade the neighborhoods
lush gardens had given way to garages and cement yards. The modern apartment buildings, one
of which we lived in, had robbed the neighborhood of its charm.
I drove my car out of our parking garage and stopped to let a delivery boy pass by,
pushing a dolly. A woman in a knee-length coat and headscarf lagged behind a terrier on a leash.
As I waited, I noticed a white Peugeot parked across the street in the shade of a sycamore
tree. The driver, a clean-shaven man, was staring at me. As soon as I noticed him, he seemed to
spot me. He quickly leaned forward to start his car and said to the man sitting next to him so
clearly that I could read his lips, Its her.
I hesitated for a few seconds, then pulled past the electronic gates, and turned right onto
the street. The white Peugeot was struggling to get out of its tight parking spot, but through the
rearview mirror I saw a gray sedan veer out onto the street and pull up close behind me. It was a
brand-new Renault L-90, factory stickers still on its windshield.
I glanced into the side mirror. The Renault was obviously tailing me. I made another right
onto busy Africa Street, the main thoroughfare of our neighborhood, and from the sound of
honking cars I could tell that the Renault had cut into the lane to stay with me.
With sweaty palms, I changed gears and moved into a different lane before stopping at a
traffic light. The street was packed with cars and motorcycles. Drivers were turning left and
right, cutting each other off as they did on any other day in the bustling Iranian capital.
Id left the Peugeot behindthere was no way it could keep up with mebut before any
relief could register, the Renault pulled up alongside my car. I pretended to adjust my side
mirrors. A drop of sweat slid down my upper lip.
Only government forces would tail you so brazenly. Theyd already arrested thousands of
protestors and hundreds of former government officials, activists, and independent reporters,
including my sources. I speculated they were after me because I had defied a ban: the
government had ordered me, along with every other reporter working for the foreign media, not
to cover the protests. My colleagues with the New York Times who had flown into Iran to cover
the elections had left. An Iranian friend with Newsweek had been arrested the week before.

As I was adjusting the side mirrors, two motorcycleseach bearing two riderspulled
up on either side of my car. Red mud flaps arched over the front wheels of the trail bikes.
Government forces had appeared on those motorcycles only two weeks ago to club the
demonstrators. Now one of the riders, with dark stubble, was staring at me. The one behind him
craned his neck to look inside my car.
I rolled up my windows and locked the doors. I knew that I couldnt go to the analysts
home with my escort, or I would put him in danger too. He was one of the few remaining free
analysts who were critical of the government and had also agreed to speak to me. A visit from
me would certainly land him in prison.
At the green light, I drove around the block, headed back to my street, and sped into our
garage. Shutting the electronic gate behind me, I hurried into the elevator to take refuge in my
fifth-floor apartment.
Theyd come for me.
Excerpted from The Lonely War: One Womans Account of the Struggle for Modern Iran by
Nazila Fathi. Available from Basic Books, a member of The Perseus Books Group. Copyright
2014.