Mohammad — The Messiah of Kurdistan

Selected by Faezeh Sasanikhah
Translated by Kianoush Borzouei

2025-10-29

“Sanandaj is crowded and in turmoil.”

Boroujerdi immediately said to Darvish, “Ready a few men; we’re going.”
Then he moved toward Mostafa, who was studying the Kurdistan map. Mostafa straightened his back and said, “During my service in the army I experienced a full-scale war in Kurdistan. Guerrilla warfare in Kurdistan follows its own rules. The anti-revolutionary commanders want to draw us into a battle chosen on their terms.”
“We must approach by another route. Something in the stories I hear about Kurdistan doesn’t add up. We need to understand the people’s genuine reaction.”

He left the room at once. He took his seat behind the wheel of the Simorgh and, after a few prolonged horn blasts, shepherded the men toward the waiting minibus. Once they were outside the city, Boroujerdi accelerated—overtaking after overtaking—so that the speed scarcely fell below 120. Darvish gripped the dashboard with both hands and fixed his gaze on the road and on the cars they passed. Suddenly the continuous blast of a truck horn snapped Boroujerdi back; he veered onto the right side of the road. He cast a sidelong look at Darvish, whose face had paled, and said, “Don’t be afraid — you’ll get used to it.”
“This way we may never arrive.”
“We will. I know what I’m doing.”

Then silence. Boroujerdi fell into thought. He dwelt on the kind of liberty that Ayatollah Taleghani had dissected in his Friday sermons. Perhaps he sought a place more consequential than the Vali-e Asr barracks. Seeing the sign for Sanandaj expelled him from his daydreaming and he lifted his foot from the accelerator.

In the distance the crack of gunfire grew audible. The city lay shrouded in a pall of smoke. Boroujerdi oriented himself toward the rattle of the volleys and reached the Governor’s Office Street. He stopped at the intersection and ordered the men to get off, armed.
“Take positions on both sides of the street. Do not fire until I give the order. Let me see who is friend and who is enemy.”

Darvish interrupted, “Can’t you see that this crowd is armed — they’re chanting and firing?”

Some three hundred people were arrayed in the middle of the street, chanting with clenched fists and advancing in long, measured strides. Boroujerdi stood in the street and stared at them one by one—examining clothing, age, the manner of their chants, the depth of their conviction, even the way they walked. “These people don’t all look like counter-revolutionaries. The inhabitants of this city have not yet experienced the regime’s worst. Their anger can’t be profound.” He gestured to Darvish and said, “Bring that handheld loudspeaker.”
“For what? We need machine guns. Any moment now they’ll tear us apart with a hail of bullets.”
“Machine guns will be for the final stage.”

Darvish dashed into the minibus and returned with the loudspeaker they had anticipated. Boroujerdi planted himself in the middle of the street, squared his chest, and fixed his gaze on the crowd, whose fury filled them. His voice, amplified through the loudspeaker, found a place amid the gunfire. “I want to say a few words to you. Please stop chanting for a few minutes.”

One of the anti-revolutionaries, his face wrapped in a white cloth and wearing an American overcoat, raised a Kalashnikov and, after firing a warning shot, shouted, “Traitor, get lost! Get out of here!”

Boroujerdi stepped forward a few paces and repeated the same sentence. Suddenly one of the men raised his hand and, in a tone of self-righteousness, cried, “Quiet, quiet. Let him speak. Perhaps he has something to say.”

The volley ceased. Boroujerdi’s resonant voice extended down the length of the street: “The aim of the tyrant was clear; we expelled him and humbled him. The Imam awakened our nation so that victory might be ours. Now it is time for the region to become secure so we can make up for lost ground.”

Suddenly the same young man, his face masked by the white cloth, raised his hand again and shouted, “Traitor, get lost — traitor, get lost!”

This time not everyone answered. Boroujerdi, satisfied yet calm and respectful, said, “I know you are devout and religious. Your actions are being construed as opposition to the fundamentals of the regime, whereas many of you do not hold that view.”

He paused. The demonstrators exchanged puzzled looks.
“Now, those who believe my words—who, for the sake of the regime and Islam, wish to leave this gathering—please depart.”

Silence again spread through the street. Slowly, doors to courtyards opened and people came out of their homes. Some watched from rooftops. Half of the demonstrators broke ranks and left, slipping away as if a commander had called the names of his units. Boroujerdi’s tone grew more serious: “And you! What is our obligation toward you? We want the people of Sanandaj to live in security—a right you have denied them. Look to the rooftops and focus on the suffering faces of women and children. Those who favor security and the regime should separate from this assembly and return to their lives.”

About seventy men left the ranks and turned aside—like detachments whose commanders had summoned them. Boroujerdi now faced seventy or eighty individuals who appeared somewhat bold; another approach was required. He raised his voice: “Your presence here constitutes an open struggle against the regime. Therefore we must fight you. Now, those who do not want to fight us face-to-face should step aside. We do not yet consider you guilty.”

Again some left the ranks. Those who remained were mostly armed and chanted with increasing passion. As Darvish moved the platoon forward, Boroujerdi ordered, “Fire, but aim only below the knee. Create such terror in their hearts that, besides fleeing, they will not dare return to the city soon.”

With the first burst the front ranks were taken by surprise and scattered rapidly. The street quieted; shopkeepers drew up their shutters and breathed a collective sigh of relief.

The following day, several reports reached Tehran from those who regarded Boroujerdi’s conduct with suspicion: “Boroujerdi turned the people of Sanandaj into a scene of bloodshed.”

When Boroujerdi returned to Tehran he did not put pen to paper in his own defense, and when pressed in the Coordination Office of the Revolutionary Guards he gave a very cool account that reassured the worried faces. In that gathering he carefully examined the countenance of Davood Karimi. For a few seconds the two exchanged looks as if conversing with their eyes. “What is Boroujerdi doing in the Organization of the Mojahedin of the Revolution? These men are little different from the the Monafeghin. He seeks to attract the attention of the authorities through these heroic exploits. Boroujerdi—a man to be kept at arm’s length.”

Without ever discerning a bit of the heartfelt motive in his old friend’s heart, Boroujerdi left. He had not imagined that this brief mission in Kurdistan would open a new chapter. He was to undertake a mission whose nature he did not grasp. He packed his belongings and, without informing the forces of the Vali-e Asr garrison, departed for Sistan.^[1]