As everyone in Washington is buzzing about leaked classified communications and top-secret disclosures, I figured now might be the right time to finally share my own brush with “state secrets.” Except mine weren’t exactly of the world-altering kind.
It was August 1997, a few months after Khatami had won the presidency and Rafsanjani’s crew had been politely shown the door. One sunny afternoon, I got a call from an official who knew I had experience in running media solution teams, with what could only be described as a matter of national emergency: “A former minister wants to start a magazine on equestrian sports. Can you whip up a concept plan in a few days?”
Oh, sure. Forget the economy, forget foreign policy—saddle care and show jumping clearly needed urgent intellectual attention.
The minister in question? Gholamreza Forouzesh, the former head of the Ministry of Jahad-e Sazandegi— known for ruining everything in the name of development and construction. You know, the one that claimed to have built half the country with prayer, concrete, and questionable accounting.
Now, in the grand tradition of Iranian political recycling, he’d trotted his way into his role as head of the National Equestrian Federation. Because obviously, when you go from paving rural roads and battling locusts, the natural next step is...dressage.
But Forouzesh wasn’t going to just ride off into the sunset. Oh no. He wanted a magazine. A glossy, glamorous, horse-lovin’ publication. Because when political relevance fades and the ministerial phone stops ringing, the only logical solution is to launch Horse & Glory Monthly on someone else's dime.
Naturally, I was both happy to make some money and confused to be chosen for this un-intellectually demanding project. I called a designer friend—someone who had survived a few newspaper layouts—and we threw together a concept plan. I, of course, was the one to present it to His Excellency, Lord of the Stirrups.
We were summoned to his “temporary” office. And not just anywhere—the Supreme National Security Council building. Because where else would you discuss the future of equestrian media? Not far from the president’s office, no less.
It was me, a colleague from the newspaper, and the official who had roped me into this surreal, horse-powered fever dream.
I turned to the official and asked, reasonably, “Why is Forouzesh squatting in the National Security Council building? Doesn’t he have, I don’t know, a broom closet of his own somewhere?”
Cue a spectacular display of mumble-jumble: something about the former president—now holding a cushy new position as the head of the Expediency Discernment Council—wanting to keep his ex-ministers nearby, like emotionally fragile action figures. So he had, out of sheer magnanimity, convinced the National Security Council to hand out office space and staff like consolation prizes. Because nothing says “protecting national interests” like a bored ex-minister editing horse trivia in a room next to intelligence briefings.
And thus began the great equestrian publication saga—brought to you by the Ministry of Irrelevance, proudly sponsored by the People’s Republic of Not-My-Problem.
The Minister and His Other Ministerial Guests
As we arrived and Forouzesh greeted us with all the pomp of a man who once signed rice import contracts, a few distinguished gentlemen strolled in like it was a Cabinet reunion party. Lo and behold—the former Minister of Transportation, the former Minister of Communications, and the ever-elusive former Deputy President for Environmental Protection. Their bodyguards lingered outside, probably rolling their eyes and wondering if this counted toward their pension.
Suddenly, we were no longer in a meeting about a horse magazine. We were in the presence of the Ghosts of Cabinets Past.
A bunch of had-beens trying desperately to radiate importance like they were still in power. You could practically hear their internal monologues: “I used to be someone, damn it! I gave orders! I had two landlines!”
My colleague and I sat politely off to the side, silently absorbing the powerful stench of nostalgia, ego, and irrelevance. And then we just... listened. To the horse-shit and bullshit being exchanged in equal measure.
A surreal mix of war stories, governmental rants, and something about national defense and espionage. I’m not even sure what was real anymore.
At some point, the official sitting next to us—clearly noticing the look of existential confusion on my face—slid me a handwritten note like we were in high school algebra:
“Nothing said at this meeting should get out of here. You and your colleague would be in deep deep shit if anything leaks.”
Ah yes, Top Secret Horse Talk. Of course.
As I was quietly sipping my tea—trying to look like a harmless magazine guy and not someone who accidentally wandered into a shadow cabinet meeting—Gharazi, the former Minister of Communications, suddenly decided it was time to change the subject.
And not to, say, fiber optics or long-distance call rates. No.
He leaned back in his chair, looked around like he was about to drop the next big idea, and said:
“So... when are we getting the Bomb?”
Excuse me, what?
What bomb?
The horse magazine bomb? A glitter bomb? A metaphorical bomb?
Nope.
The actual nuclear bomb.
I blinked. My tea suddenly felt radioactive. Was this... real life?
Gharazi turned to Torkan, the former Minister of Transportation who had also ran the Ministry of Defense before that—who, until that moment, had been mostly nodding along to equestrian talk—and casually asked, as if ordering lunch:
“So, Torkan jan, when are our brothers finally going to get their hands on the atomic bomb?”
I nearly choked on the pastry I was having with my tea.
Torkan shifted uncomfortably in his seat, clearly realizing that discussing nuclear weapons secrets in front of two semi-confused civilians of a half-baked magazine might not be the best PR move.
He gave the kind of vague, mystical answer one might expect from a mullah reading a horoscope:
“Well... when God wills it, we should have it, Insha’Allah.”
Ah yes. The holy warhead. The divine detonation. The nuke from the heavens. Because if there’s one thing nuclear scientists always rely on—it’s divine scheduling.At that moment, I realized, with a sinking feeling and a lukewarm cup of tea in my hand, that I was at the wrong place at the wrong time.
I had come to pitch a horse magazine. A horse magazine, for crying out loud. And here I was, eavesdropping on what sounded suspiciously like the Iranian version of Dr. Strangelove.
Then Gharazi, still feeling chatty and clearly mistaking the meeting for a classified strategy session, leaned in and said with a straight face:
“I’ve heard from my friends at the Revolutionary Guards' command… it should be ready before 2005.”
What. The. Actual. Hell.
I nearly dropped my teacup.
My pulse hit the same rhythm as a galloping stallion. I could feel my bladder staging a quiet rebellion.
If what he said was true, I had just accidentally stumbled into a conversation that probably required security clearance, a loyalty oath, and maybe a retina scan.
And me? I was a 27-year-old cartoonist and journalist for God’s sake. I didn't even have a proper job title, let alone diplomatic immunity. I was just trying to scrape together enough cash to throw a modest wedding party that December—you know, rent a hall, serve some traditional cuisine, and start a new life with my fiance.
But no! Instead, I was now an unwilling witness to what could only be described as "Nuclear Secrets, with a dazzle of horse shit."
I suddenly wondered if I’d end up in some underground cell, interrogated for knowing too much… when all I really wanted was to get paid for a layout mock-up and maybe—maybe—a couple hundred thousand rials to help with my wedding cake!
Then came the real Horse Shit!
Using Genie for Espionage
That’s when Dr. Hadi Manafi—the former head of Iran’s Environmental Protection Agency, who, by the way, was also the head of the Medical Hypnosis Association (because why not)—decided it was time to make his own grand contribution to the madness.
He leaned in and casually said,
“Did you guys know that the Ministry of Intelligence has been looking into using jinn(Genies) for spying operations abroad.”
My brain short-circuited.
First the atomic bomb, now jinn?
What was next—Aladdin’s magic lamp as a covert surveillance device?
Manafi Continued His Madness
Dr. Manafi, clearly enjoying the spotlight, leaned in and dropped the next bombshell with a completely straight face:
“So I was assigned to speak with Grand Ayatollah Bahjat… to find a solution on how to recruit the genies.”
At that point, I was actively trying not to piss myself from laughing. On the outside, I was nodding respectfully like a good little journalist; on the inside, I was rolling on the floor, crying. The man was absolutely unhinged.
Genie recruitment? Was this even real anymore? Where was I? Was I still in Tehran or had I wandered into a deleted scene from Men in Black: Islamic Republic Edition?
But he wasn’t done.
The room went quiet. Then Forouzesh, bless his heart, asked the most logical follow-up anyone could:
“But… how do you detect the good genies from the bad ones?”
Like, do they wear name tags? Carry references?
Without missing a beat, Manafi explained:
“We asked the same thing from Ayatollah Bahjat. He told us to only recruit Shiite jinn.”
Shiite. Jinn. As in, check their theology before you hand them a top-secret spying mission.
Apparently, some jinn had gone rogue—converted to other sects, maybe even other religions—and the Ministry of Intelligence had to do full spiritual background checks. No Protestant poltergeists. No Sunni specters. Definitely no Buddhist banshees.
The ministry’s HR department, we were told, had to review every genie’s resume and confirm their ideological alignment. Because God forbid you accidentally hire a Salafi smokeless fire-being and end up with your entire surveillance operation leaked through a genie Telegram channel.
This was no joke. This was state-level supernatural vetting. The stakes were high. The applicants were invisible! The paperwork? Probably on fire.
It was like the Ministry of Intelligence had merged with The Arabian Nights and no one told me.
My poor colleague, meanwhile, had gone into full ostrich mode—head down, pretending none of this was happening. He had opened a random book and was staring at the pages like it held the secrets of survival. I’m pretty sure it was upside-down. Didn’t matter. He was doing everything short of sticking his fingers in his ears and humming the national anthem to drown out the madness.
The official who had brought us there? Oh, he was visibly spiraling into a panic attack. You could practically see the smoke coming out of his ears. His left eye was twitching, his knee bouncing like a jackhammer. He kept glancing at us like we were walking liabilities in desperate need of a memory wipe. Every mention of nuclear weapons, genie espionage, or Shiite jinn background checks made him mutter curses—at himself, at us, at fate, and probably at Khatami for not winning with a bigger margin and ending this circus once and for all.
And me?
I just sat there, sipping what had become the most stressful cup of tea I’ve ever had in my life, praying silently:
“Dear God, please let me get out of this meeting alive. No mysterious heart attack, no ‘tragic rooftop accident,’ no polite invitation to ‘explain myself’ at an undisclosed location.”
Because one wrong word, one leaked story, one offhand cartoon based on this fever dream of a meeting, and I’d be sharing cell space with a guy who thinks pigeons are Mossad agents.
Because one wrong word, one leaked story, one offhand cartoon based on this fever dream of a meeting, and I’d be sharing a cell with a guy who thinks pigeons are Mossad agents.
And to think—I was only there to help design a damn horse magazine.
Not become an accidental accomplice to state secrets involving supernatural spies and radioactive aspirations.
We kept the whole thing a tight-lipped secret. I didn’t utter a word for years.
Fast forward to February 2000—I’m sitting in a cell in Evin Prison, trying not to lose my mind. And weirdly enough? Remembering that ridiculous meeting was one of the few things that could actually make me laugh. Genies. Bombs. The Shiite Jinn vetting process. I mean, come on.
Now, 28 years later, just days after Jeffrey Goldberg decided to air some top-secret laundry he didn’t feel like burying, my own bizarre memory bubble popped back up.
All I could tell myself was: “God, even my top-secret material isn’t worth leaking. I don’t get real espionage or geopolitical bombshells. I get nuclear horse shit. Literal. Figurative. Historical. And completely useless.”
This is why horse shit is worthless.
Here's some more horseshit:
https://www.theglobeandmail.com/politics/article-canadians-born-in-iran-afghanistan-turned-away-at-us-border-after/
Unbelievable! This is happening in Iran, and you were referring to events from 1997. Wow! Now, they are not as well-educated as they were before, and many are unable to obtain their diplomas, yet they are clearly stating, "This is our right; we will pursue it!"