Read Children of Jihad: A Young American's Travels Among the Youth of the Middle East for Free Online

there’d be no American Embassy to call and no diplomatic relationship to cite. I was totally alone.
    Shapour put me in a taxi and told me not to leave my hotel. What a disaster this trip had been: I had run out of money, my research—which would rely on my ability to interview as many as fifty Iranian government officials—had failed within the first week of my trip, and now it appeared that I was about to be arrested for unauthorized journalism. After another emotional outburst, I was put in a taxi and told to return to my hotel. I would no longer be able to leave for any reason.
     
     
     
    T he taxi ride back to my hotel was the turning point of my time in Iran.
    In the backseat, certain that I was being delivered to a fate whose terror I could hardly begin to imagine, I listened to the driver trying to make small talk. I wasn’t exactly in the mood to chat, and I certainly wasn’t in the mood for the elaborate game of charades that would break our language barrier. This young man, probably no older than twenty-seven or twenty-eight, was persistent and very interested in talking to me.
    As we drove, I looked out my window and saw a gigantic picture of Ayatollah Khomeini on the side of one of the buildings. Willing to humor the driver’s talkativeness, if not necessarily indulge his desire for conversation, I pointed to it and said simply, “Khomeini.”
    “Khomeini is very bad,” he said.
    “Well, what do you think about Rafsanjani?”
    “He is very, very bad.”
    “Jannati?” I asked. Ayatollah Jannati is the cleric who notoriously declares “Down with USA, God willing,” during his Friday prayer sermons.
    “Very, very, very bad.”
    “What about President Khatami?”
    “Medium bad.”
    It went on like this as I ticked through at least ten members of the Iranian leadership. Finally, I asked him what he thought of Ayatollah Ali Khamanei, the country’s spiritual leader and the most powerful man in theocratic Iran.
    He turned around to look at me. “He is like animal,” he said.
    I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. Had the harsh censorship and threats of the regime bypassed this candid, honest young man?
    Out of curiosity, I asked him about the American leadership. I wasn’t expecting anything positive
    “What do you think of Condoleezza Rice?”
    He smiled, “She helps us, very good.”
    “What do you think of George Bush?” I asked.
    He looked at me with an air of pride and said, “He is like real man.”
    His hatred for Khamanei and admiration for George Bush slightly stunned me, but also excited me. I’d only heard the government line since arriving in Iran, but this young taxi driver gave me confidence that there was more to hear. When we arrived back at my hotel, I wanted to embrace the driver.
    “How much do I owe you for the taxi?”
    “Where are you from?”
    It didn’t appear that he had understood my question, but I answered his anyway.
    I extended my arm to give him four ten-thousand rial bills (roughly four dollars) but he pushed my hand back ever so gently. I thought this was my second experience with what Iranians call taroof , a concept I had first learned of after I graciously accepted the free biscuits from the children in Behesht-e Zahra. Taroof involves offering something as a gift to demonstrate courtesy, when in actuality money is expected. There is usually a charade that follows, whereby three or four offers and refusals take place. Taroof is sometimes looked at as a cultural characteristic of saying one thing and meaning another. While some will argue this is the essence of this cultural tradition, most Iranians suggest that it is a politeness and a courtesy that they extend to one another.
    After six or seven offers it became clear that either I was missing the signals, or this wasn’t taroof , the Iranian custom of polite refusal. I finally asked him, “Is this taroof ?” He assured me that it wasn’t and that he simply loved Americans.
    I took another