One of my Danish friends, out of frustration, pulled down and stepped on the portrait of Imam Khomeini, the founder and leader of the Iranian regime. He then went into hiding in Iran, as other students from America, the UK, and Australia began to search for him, promising to break the leg he used to insult the portrait. He contacted me seeking assistance, and I managed to smuggle him out of Qum to Mashhad, where he took a car and left the country for Iraq. He now lives in New York, allegedly as an ex-Muslim.
The university contacted me one Saturday morning and requested a meeting with me in the evening. I knew this was going to be a set up, so I contacted my family in Perth, Western Australia and told them that if they didn’t hear from me by the end of the following week, they should report to the Australian authorities that I had been detained by the Iranian regime. However, I did not go to the meeting on Saturday, and waited until Monday arrived because the Australian Embassy was closed. I took a taxi to the Australian Embassy in Tehran and met with Australian Ambassador Marc Innes-Brown. I informed him and his first secretary, Mark Betts, of my current situation. He responded to me saying, “We can’t help you, really. You need to not get yourself into trouble.” I didn’t expect much from the ambassador, but I had to try to notify Australia.
Two days later, on Wednesday morning, I approached the university principal, Shaikh Bakshi, and apologized for not being able to make it on Saturday. The university principal told me that I would receive a call soon. My phone rang at around 1 pm and an Iranian intelligence officer requested that I attend a certain location with my Australian passport. The location was Setad-e Khabari, Rah Ahan, in Qum. It was a building beside the city’s railway station with a long, white sliding door made out of metal. I didn’t know that the call was from the Iranian intelligence services, but I discovered this when I approached the building. I honestly thought it was an external university department. I knocked on the glass window, and a receptionist opened the window. I informed him that I had been asked to come here. He looked through the names then looked back at me and said, “You were supposed to come on Saturday. Why didn’t you come?” I apologized and said that I couldn’t make it. He responded saying, “Listen, you donkey skull, when we tell you to attend, you attend on the day we tell you to. You don’t attend on the day you wish to.” He then opened the door and I entered. I had to hand over my cell phone and passport, and enter an interrogation room. The room had plenty of bright sunlight and two doors. The first door led to the reception area, while the second door was where the interrogators entered. The receptionist followed me into the room and told me to sit down on the couch. It was yellow, and very comfortable. He turned the heating on and locked the door as he walked out. I remained seated for around 45 minutes. I began to sweat excessively and realized that this was one of their tactics to intimidate and pressure me. But I remained calm and didn’t show any sign of worry. I looked at the ground and showed no sign of fear or discomfort, although inside I was eager to know what their plans were. Suddenly, I heard a voice I was familiar with, and I turned my head towards the window to see that a famous lecturer, also a follower of Shirazi, had just finished being interrogated and was being released. This made me burst out with laughter because this very lecturer used to warn me about the intelligence services, so seeing him being released seemed hilarious at the time. Before I had finished laughing, the second door opened and an intelligence officer walked in. He was bald, short, and had dark bags under his eyes. He wore a suit with no tie, and his very yellow teeth stood out to me. He sat in front of me with my passport in his hand and without greeting me he began to say, “Your name is Mohammad Tawhidi, and you’re an Australian citizen studying here, correct?” I said, “Yes, that is correct.” He said, “What is your nationality?” I said, “Australian.” He said, “No, I mean your country of origin.” I said, “Australia.” He said, “You’re speaking to me in Farsi with an accent. Then what is your background?” I said to him, “The passport you are holding is an Australian passport and it states that my nationality is Australian. Therefore, I am to be treated as an Australian, not as an Iranian-born person.” He asked, “Where were you on Monday?” I now knew that I had been followed to the embassy, or that the Iranian guard standing outside the embassy had snapped images of me and reported my visit to the ambassador. I said, “I was in Tehran.” He said, “And where did you go within Tehran?” I said, “I visited the Australian Ambassador.” While tapping his pen on his other hand, he said, “And what did you and the ambassador discuss?” I said, “We discussed the beauty of Iran and its amazing government.” He said, “Do I look like an idiot? I am also a cleric. You went to the Australian Embassy to do what?” I said, “To drink Australian coffee.”
During this time, the receptionist brought tea for both of us. The interrogator demanded that I drank my tea before it got cold. I said that I was fasting, although I really wasn’t. I said this simply because I was worried they might poison me. He said, “Well you’re going to be here for a while so I suggest you break your fast.” I said, “I am a lecturer and I can speak for long hours without drinking fluids. I will manage.”
He then asked, “Why do you attack the Iranian regime on Facebook?” I said, “My Facebook page was hacked. They weren’t my words.” He said, “Why do you visit Shirazi? He is an opponent of the holy and sacred Islamic regime!” I said, “I am sorry, I never knew this.” He then said, “You will need to sign this paper.” I read the paper; it said, “I, Mohammad Tawhidi, will never enter the house of Sadiq Shirazi ever again.”
I took his pen and wrote beneath it, “I, Mohammad Tawhidi, will go wherever I like and visit whomever I like.” And I signed it. After reading what I wrote, he said, “For our department, clashing with you is as simple as drinking tea.” When he directed this threat at me, I responded saying, “Sometimes tea can burn your throat on the way down.” The interrogator then reminded me of the financial gift I had received from Iran’s supreme leader, and questioned whether my opposition to his regime was a form of thank you.
Even though I was worried about their plans for me on that day, I wasn’t going to show them that I was afraid. He threw the paper at me and said, “Sign it now.” So, I eventually did. He got up and said, “Wait here.” He went inside and returned after approximately 30 minutes. He said, “Here’s your passport. You may leave through the front door.” He made copies of my passport, and I was banned from leaving the country until 2013. After this incident, I decided to put an end to my preaching against the regime, and to focus solely on my studies.
Throughout the entire period of 2009–2012, I attended Islamic lessons both at the Iranian regime’s university and privately at the Shirazi Institute. I was exploring the differences between the Iranian regime and its opposition. My study schedule, other than the month of Ramadhan, would reach 16 hours a day, and I achieved the status of a Muslim scholar in three years. When I sat my final exam at the Shirazi Institute, I passed it with a grade of 100%. In June 2010, Grand Ayatollah Sadiq Shirazi ordained me as a scholar and crowned me as an imam in a public event held at his home. I continued my studies within the regime-run university as an ordained scholar, despite being advised not to.
Now that I was dressed as a Muslim scholar with my white Islamic turban, the students that were bullying me during my days at the Al-Mahdi Institute began to spread rumors that I was a “fake shaikh.” This was not because I had not completed my studies, but because they considered the grand ayatollah who crowned and ordained me as an Islamic scholar an apostate. I also knew that my annual educational visa was about to expire, which meant that I would be forced to