Journey Back from Ixtlan: A Non-Ordinary Transformation Account of a Persian Enchanted Soul

Copyright © 2012 Bijan Ilyaie

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ISBN: 978-1-4497-4961-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-4960-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-4962-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012908907

WestBow Press rev. date: 5/17/2012

To all who touched my life and soul during my journey,

to those who helped my dreams come true,

to you who read this book and will continue its legacy,

and to Brida.

"And no one puts new wine into old wineskin;

Or else the new wine will burst the wineskins and be spilled,

and the wineskin will be ruined.

"But new wine must be put into new wineskins,

and both are preserved.

And no one, having drunk old wine,

immediately desires new; for he says,

‘The old is better.’

Gospel of Luke 5:37-39

Contents

Preface

Meeting the Warrior

The Little Warrior’s World

Illusion of Revolution

Shiraz

Wilhelm, Carlos, and the Six

Marmar

Candidates

Shadow or Shade

Preparation

Russian Roulette

Die Hard Twice

The Guru

Night Mara

A Shattered Shade

Destiny vs. Karma

Big in Japan

Close Encounter of the First Kind

Close Encounter of the Second Kind

Close Encounter of the Third Kind

The Return

The Act-ivist

Kathy

Perhaps Happily Ever After

Rejection

American Spies

Brida

Paulo

The Last Temptation

The Ring

Last words

Acknowledgment

Preface

MY DEAR FRIEND MARINA NEMAT, the Iranian-Canadian author of the bestselling book Prisoner of Tehran (Penguin Canada, 2008) says in her blog, "Literature is not to serve a certain ideology, but to become the honest bearer of the human experience and condition." (www.marinanemat.com/esseys Dissidence and Literature). That was what I believed before I started writing this memoir. But during the process, something changed in me. My intention, at the beginning, was (and still is) not to go into details regarding my belief system, but the writing process compelled me to be more specific on occasions for it was my faith that kept me alive when I walked through the valley of the shadow of death, even up to this very moment.

An experience can only be as valid as our belief system and can be defined within the context of our conviction. I’m still convinced that literature should be an honest bearer of the events that we face in life, but it cannot transfer the perception of an experience itself detached from who we are and what we already believe in. My comprehension of any new experience is based on analyzing its specific elements according to what I’ve already chosen as my belief system. Pain, sorrow, and happiness are defined according to our belief system, like in Buddhism. Meanwhile, in many cases, belief gives its place to a genuine and living faith—faith in people, faith in an ideology, faith in a better future for humankind, faith in our country, faith in freedom and democracy, and finally faith in a much higher, compassionate, and far greater force in the universe—God. We all represent an ideology, with or without an ism, whether it’s in the form of politics, religion, or philosophy. Faith makes life worth living, regardless of the hardships, sufferings, and rejection—and even the torture in a prison cell. Faith helps us endure the hardships of life. Only faith can give us a hopeful picture of a better world in the future, and it keeps us trying, testing, and moving forward until we reach what we hope for. There I said it—hope. We are here on earth in this moment, right where we are, in order to give hope to someone who desperately needs it. Yes, that is our reason to be. And it starts with having faith in the things that we personally hope for.

My deepest desire is to see this memoir serve as a means to communicate the truth that no matter where we are born or grow up, similarities of human experiences can be the most essential and effective means of perceiving life and the behavior of people around us, as well as our own. By understanding life we can make it more understandable for others, especially for those we are destined to meet on our journey. There is hope in this, a divine and unshakeable hope for those who feel they have to fight this battle all alone. We are connected to each other through the chains of common experiences. Knowing this truth helps me believe I’m not alone in my battles.

In 1972, Carlos Castaneda (an anthropologist who met with a Yaqui Shaman) published his third book called Journey to Ixtlan. He chose this title to refer to a non-ordinary state of mind (or reality, figuratively Ixtlan) into which he entered many times while being taught the secrets of Yaqui Shamanism by an old Indian sorcerer called Don Juan Matus. As a result of this magical experience, the foundation of the world we call reality became, for him, a mere phantom. I travelled to my own Ixtlan through practicing sorcery for years but, at the end, my experience convinced me otherwise.

Journey Back from Ixtlan is the account of a man, a hunter of knowledge, who lived in a realm of magic long enough to understand that his true battle awaits him in the real world. In this story, he comes to grasp the reality that what he used to call ordinary (and tried to surpass) is in fact the extraordinary destiny he has to face and fulfill as a warrior in search of the ultimate truth of life. And here is how he starts his Journey Back From Ixtlan.

Meeting the Warrior

I GUESS IT WAS A late spring night in 2000; his first trip to Iran. Mehrabad International Airport was filled with young people crowding here and there, talking about him on every corner. His books were on the top of the international bestseller lists. Presumably his Iranian Publisher had changed his flight date a few times to avoid any trouble possibly caused by his young fans, but still they had managed to figure out what day and what time he would arrive, just as I did. He was a phenomenon. In just a couple years, his fame as an author had reached the highest rating as a bestselling author in his country, in Iran, and around the world.

A huge crowd of young people had showed up in groups, hoping for a chance at an autograph or a moment with him on camera.

As I squeezed the letter tightly in my hand, I noticed how exited I was. I wasn’t sure if I would be able to hand him the letter, but it was worth a shot.

For some reason, rather than the regular butterflies we all feel in our stomachs at such times, I had the thought that something was not right! I went out to have some fresh air and to rehearse my sentences—the things I wanted to tell him, like how I admired him and how his writings had inspired me in the toughest times of my last few years.

I was reviewing these thoughts when that butterfly feeling hit me again. This time it was very strong. All of a sudden I knew for sure he wasn’t going to show up at the International Arrivals Terminal. Suddenly I found myself running toward the Domestic Arrivals, which was about a five minute walk from where I was. As soon as I got there, I knew I was at the right place. Apparently I wasn’t the only one with that weird feeling. About fifteen to twenty other young adults were also there waiting for him.

All of a sudden, we heard a whispering all around us; is it him, is it him? My heart beat accelerated. I saw him coming out, surrounded by some huge men, probably his bodyguards or the publisher’s people. I recognized him. He had finally showed up; it was him—Paulo Coelho!

People from his Farsi publishing company quickly surrounded him with baskets of flowers and handshakes. Without a second of delay, they led him toward the exit door. One of the publisher’s men told him, Mr. Coelho, we had to change the terminal because there are hundreds of young people at the International Arrivals. It may get out of control. Please accept our apologies.

Paulo smiled and said, I understand.

I thought, Come on, guys. I’m sure he wanted to see that young, passionate crowd. You guys don’t know him at all.

It was one of the most anticipated moments of my life. As soon as they grabbed his luggage and moved toward the exit door, I made up my mind and ran to him with the letter in my sweaty hand. I greeted him passionately, welcoming him to Iran. I told him that he had no idea what his visit to Iran meant to our younger generation. He listened to me attentively. Then I asked him if I could give him a letter. He smiled, shook hands with me, and said, A letter? For me? Wow, of course you can. I’m honored. No one has ever given me a letter in an airport before. I’ll definitely read it. Can’t wait to see what’s in it!

I wasn’t sure if he was just trying to be nice or if he actually cared. But now, after almost 12 years, I think he really meant it. Everything happened so quickly. A man from the publishing company ran to us as soon as he saw us talking. (It was Arash Hejazi, Paulo’s Iranian publisher. I met him later.) He appreciated my enthusiasm first and then turned to Paulo and said to him that they had to leave before others found out where he was. I told Paulo that inside the letter was my contact information, in case he wanted to contact me. He said he would read it gladly, and we shook hands again. Then they got in the car. Others were watching us, giving me their thumbs up as a sign of a good job. Maybe they thought I was very bold and courageous to approach him in that situation. Or perhaps they thought he was too famous or too unreachable to get close to. I think some of them really envied me.

Paulo never knew who he was for me. He and his real or fictional characters were among my few remaining intimate friends in the painful years leading up to that moment in the airport, and even until a little while later. Without them I wouldn’t be able to go through some of the toughest things that had happened to me. No, he didn’t know that. No one knew, except one person: Brida.

I left the building dancing and singing Hallelujah. It was one of the most exciting nights of my life. There were, of course, better days, but this one was somehow different. Maybe it was because of the similarities I shared with Paulo—not only in thoughts, but also in the events that had led my life to that exact moment—things that affected my life forever.

Pursuing our personal legend, our journey of life, seeking and searching, keeping the dreams alive, and experiencing life with all of our heart and soul were the key themes in all his writings. And that’s what I’ve been trying to do in my last 22 years. Of course, when I met with the warrior, I still had a long way ahead.

Once an old Buddhist guru predicted to me that I had two totally different destinies waiting for me, based on two options I faced at the moment. To give you a clear picture of those two choices, I am arranging the account of my life chronologically instead of through flash backs and flash forwards (except in two or three chapters where the story requires such a style). But I assure you that you will still be surprised at the true twists and turns in the story.

If you want to know what led to that wonderful night at the airport and what happened after that close encounter with the warrior, and if you want to know what two choices I faced, then take a deep breath. We are about to enter the rabbit hole!"

The Little Warrior’s World

AS FAR AS I KNOW, within the circle of those I’ve met so far, I was the only one who, at his twentieth birthday, was officially working for the Ministry of Defense, was a voodoo practitioner and medium, was a spiritual Guru with actual disciples, and was a heavy drug addict and dealer.

I was a shy boy. I rarely played football or any other tough sports or games. Since learning how to write and read, I always preferred being alone and reading books or articles about supernatural events, mysticism, magic, secret religions, and even UFOs and Eric Von Daniken’s theories about aliens and their prehistoric presence on the earth.

I was known among my relatives and friends as a nice and kind boy. I guess that was why some kids didn’t like me much and called me mommy’s boy. I always hated when they called me that. I was also what all parents always longed to see in their kids: a very good student. The first thing I did when I arrived home from school was my homework. Up to grade four, I was the best student in all my classes and always came first or second in exams.

My parents were the nicest in the family. They were well spoken of for their close relationship—you know, like lovebirds. I had two younger sisters, one eighteen months younger and the other one eight and half years younger. The older one was my polar opposite. She couldn’t stay at home. She was always late to and from school and was a sort of rebel. She was outgoing and social, while I always liked my solitude. She had a heart as big as an ocean, and she was, and still is, a joy to the people around her. We call her Sherrie, which is a shortened version of Sharareh; it means sparkling flames. Yes, that’s what she is!

The youngest one, which I prefer not to mention her name because of safety reasons for she’s still living in Iran, was something between me and Sherrie, more moderate, I may say. But as time passed, I began to see more similarities between her choices and mine, and that made me more proud of her. For instance, in music, her taste was much closer to mine; I was very proud of my musical choices. My relationships with both of my sisters were based on honesty, love, and respect. We were so close that I was almost the first to know if they were interested in any guys. I even remember giving them advice on how to solve their relationship problems in some cases. That was not good for my reputation as a guy or a brother, but I didn’t care. I’ve always respected girls. I guess it is sometimes counted as a weakness, both in the eyes of guys and girls.

One of the reasons I wanted to be nice to everyone was because I didn’t like conflict. In fact, conflict was the only thing I always ran away from. I always thought respecting others could diminish all the conflicts between people. But later, as I grew, I found out that life is not that simple. People are able to create conflicts out of nothing and then easily blame them on you.

My father was in the military. Even though he was not a very high-ranking officer, he was highly respected. He was even allowed to enter the four-star generals’ offices without an appointment or any permission in advance. He had connections in all of the military bases around the country. He was known by everyone at the Ministry of Defense. Because of the nature of his work, almost all other military personnel under his authority, or even above him, respected him. In fact, most of the respect he received wasn’t because of his position, but because of his character. He was loved for his kind and fair approach to everyone. I remember many times when his associates at work asked him to be the judge in their disputes, whether it was a family issue or a work problem. At the same time, he was also very authoritative. No one ever disobeyed him, as far as I knew. Every year during the summer, when the school was closed, he took me to his work place, and I personally witnessed how he treated others and how they respected him. He treated everyone with dignity and justice. I was a witness to that even as a young child.

I still clearly remember those days when I used to run in the long and empty labyrinths of the Ministry, playing hide-and-seek with the guards. Actually, they never played with me because they were like the guards at Buckingham Palace; they never moved from their stations. But still, it was fun to tease them. Sometimes they would scare me with a sudden move, and I would scream and run. There were times, when I was running in hallways or jumping up and down the stairs, when I would hear the sound of footsteps in the corridors. I had learned how to tell from the sound of the footsteps and the shouts of the guards how important the person was. Sometimes I had to quickly hide behind the huge velvet curtains until they were gone. I had probably seen two or three Ministers of Defense during my reign in the Ministry. As a child, I used to think I was the prince of that glorious palace—that my father was the most important person in the whole world, and I was second to him. I knew every corner and every hiding place in the Ministry.

On one occasion, I was seen by the Minister himself. I ran like I had seen a Jin. I was scared, for I’d always thought he and all other generals were bad people and that my father was the hero who was supposed to save others from their wicked hands. A couple minutes after I was seen by the Minister, everybody was talking about this little kid who was running around the Ministry. A search began, but as soon as my father heard about it, he called the Minister and told him that it was his son, who he had brought to the building for a tour. The Minister wanted to see me, so my dad took me to his office; I was scared to death. Sometimes I wondered why my father did not destroy them all in a wink of an eye! I was only six years old when that happened.

I was very popular among those who had been working under my father’s supervision. Everybody was ready to help and rescue me in case I was in trouble, even though it was dangerous for them. That was how I knew who was a friend and who was with the enemy. There were times when they had to hide me under their desks when a general would unexpectedly decide to check the departments. It was frightening and exciting at the same time.

Every summer for at least six consecutive years, from the ages of five to eleven, I had the chance to be in this magical palace, living in my tales of wicked rulers who were mean to their people and the savior (my dad) who was always there to bravely save his people from the hands of these monsters. Of course, as I grew up, I found out that things were a little bit different. They were not as bad as I used to think. Reality is, we all have to leave childhood behind and come out of the bubbles we build around ourselves. But soon we figure out that we have to build and live in another bubble called adulthood, which comes with responsibilities. That’s why most of us want to stay in the bubble of childhood; responsibility sucks!

My dad had a very gentle side, too. He played the santur, an original Persian musical instrument with seventy-two to one hundred strings that is played with two light, oval-shaped mallets. At most weekend parties with friends and family, he was asked to bring his santur and play while others sang old Persian songs. Every Iranian around the world has great memories of those days in the times of Shah, king of Iran. Those gatherings were like a tradition for all of us. Every Thursday night, which was like Saturday night in the West, all the uncles and aunts from both sides, along with the grandmas and grandpas and all cousins—young and adult—used to gather in one place, playing card games, dancing, singing, drinking (only the adults), and doing other fun stuff. At the end of night, when most of the adults were happily drunk, it was time for the santur and poems from Hafez and Rumi, or some current famous poets, to be sung in a traditional Persian atmosphere. I liked it very much, and I promised myself to learn to play the santur when I grew up. I even gave it a try for a while, but I guess I was made for something else, as you will read later. I personally do not know any Iranian who does not miss those fun, simple, and care-free nights in Iran in the times of Shah.

My mother was the sweetest of all and a very beautiful dancer. She, like most moms, was our secret keeper. She was another hero, but back at home. She was the one who always rescued us from the hands of bullies at the school, the one who protected us in the marketplace, and the one who found us if we were lost in the crowd. As we grew, we began to do the things we were not supposed to do, but she kept protecting us when our dad was angry at us because of all those so called bad things we used to do as kids.

Women are natural defenders. No matter the culture, the number of wives who have sacrificed their own dreams and desires to protect their families is much higher than the number of men who have done the same. We men tend to think we are the centre of the universe, and most of the time, we ignore and neglect our responsibility, not toward the family, but directly regarding our wives. But that wasn’t the case for my parents.

In general, and in comparison to other parents I’ve met, my parents were the best. I will always be thankful for all they did and went through to raise us up to be who we should be. Of course our own personal choices, as free human beings, can always change the course of our lives and lead us to places no parents want for their children. As we grow up we begin to make wrong choices but at the time of facing the consequences we tend to put all the blame on our parents because, as human beings, we don’t want to admit our mistakes or acknowledge our wrong choices. My parents really did their best for us and I personally do not blame them for the consequences of my own choices in life

When I finished grade four, at the age of nine, my parents enrolled me in an extra summer school for the talented. They wanted me to pass grades five and six in one tough exam and then go to junior high. I wasn’t sure if I was fully ready for such a great step, but I was only nine at the time. What could I possibly do? They just wanted to boast about me before the family. I couldn’t let them down. So during that long summer, I did my best, and I passed the big exam. Then, without having an exciting summer vacation, I entered junior high the same year.

I felt such pride walking among kids much older than me, but at the same time, the sudden immersion in junior high had its damages on me too. Because of my interest in history, geography, physics, English language, and literature, I was the best in my class, but not everybody likes geeks!

I was the youngest and smallest in my school. All other students looked at me as a geek, but I wasn’t one. That’s when some of them began to bully me and few others tried to protect me. Being someone who knew all the answers to the teachers’ questions caused many students to start close friendships with me. But as we all learn through life, popularity will also make enemies; some guys began to develop a jealousy of and hatred toward me, about which I could do nothing.

Back in those years, in the old educational system in Iran, almost all junior (middle) and high schools were one and were called high school. As a result, many of the students in my school were eighteen years old, and I had friends ranging in age from twelve to eighteen and, in some cases, even older!

I could tell you many stories of different occasions when I was picked by various groups and gangs in our school for different reasons— maybe because I was too small and fit for a game, or because my grades were great, or simply because they wanted to laugh at me. For whatever reason, everybody liked to have me in their gangs, and that was enough to make me feel important. I really liked it very much when older boys in our school approached me and asked me to help them with their grades. I was so naive that I always thought I was the greatest in our school, and because of my age, it never even occurred to me that they could have had other intentions!

As I mentioned, my desire to help others and my boastful feelings of being the best in school became my weakness and left me almost defenseless on countless occasions. When older guys began to approach me and ask me to help them in their studies, in private or at their place, most of the time I was happy to do it. But after a while, I began to understand that what they wanted was not my knowledge, but in fact, my body!

In several occasions, these guys tried to make me show my private areas to them. Some of them even used force. I was always quick to react and was able to escape. But on a few rare occasions, they succeeded in partially abusing me for their own pleasure. I didn’t like what they were doing, but I decided not to tell anyone about it. I sincerely believed that all they wanted was me helping them in their homework! One day I finally realized that I didn’t like what was going on, and I told myself, I won’t help anyone with their grades anymore! Of course, girls were an exception, as you may know.

By the time I reached the age of twelve, I began to notice new stuff about my own body and saw myself changing, not only physically, but also emotionally. The most important thing was that I wanted to be with girls more than I wanted to get better grades! I just longed to be with them every second of my life. I didn’t know what was happening to me, but it was so pleasant that nothing else could be compared to it. So I began to shift my focus from reading weird books on the supernatural to something even more exciting, breathtaking, adventurous, mysterious, and unpredictable—girls.

I learned that I could use my talents and charms to attract some of the most popular girls in our big family circle, as well as in neighborhood schools (even in the times of Shah, boys and girls were mostly in separate schools). It was a great discovery, much better than being picked up by any school gang or group. I felt there was something very special about girls, something as special and mysterious as reading mystical books. I was only twelve, but I knew many things about ancient civilization and the mysteries of the world, like the Mayas, ancient Egypt, Indian cults, Sufism, and UFOs! Girls produced the same chemical activities and excitement within me as studying these fascinating mystical subjects. When I grew up, three more things were added to the list of things that could give me the same feeling and excitement, but we’ll talk about them later.

In my surprised I noticed that girls were interested in me too; I liked it. Like any other teenager, I had my bad days too. One time, I thought I was deeply in love with a girl, but later noticed that she was interested in my friend, who wanted to do more stuff to her when they were alone! I used to think kissing a girl was a very serious offence to them; at least, that was what they tried to make us boys believe. But later, when I entered my thirteenth year, I noticed that, in fact, they were just pretending to be offended. So I decided to show more affection. Ironically, when I tried to be more intimate by putting my arms around their shoulder, they complained and pushed me back. Yet when I was polite and respectful they were even madder at me. I was confused.

I used to think, what’s wrong with them? Why do they do that? Girls are very complicated creatures! Or maybe it was me who didn’t know how to approach them at all. After few sadly-ending attempts at romance, I decided to leave the girls to my best friends (who were all older than me) and walk away. I thought girls were not clear about how they expected me to treat them, while they also got angry at me if I was not able to understand what they expected from me, even when they were not clear about what they wanted! I was like Mr. Spock in Star Trek. Logic was very important to me, and if I couldn’t find logic in human behavior, I didn’t want to have anything to do with them—the supernatural was an exception. However, despite all my logical conclusions, for some weird and pointless reasons, I still longed to be with girls. So after a year or so, I tried again and again, even though I didn’t know why I wanted to be with them after all the pain I’d experienced. On one occasion, I caught the girl I thought I loved with my best friend, and the feeling was so awful that, for the next few days, I experienced this constant pain in my stomach, like I was about to throw up at any moment. I would ask the same question, over and over again, Why do they do that?!

The good thing was that I always had my anchor to go back to, and it helped me pull myself back together again—mystism and the supernatural! It was still the number one driving force in my life, especially when I understood the fact that I couldn’t trust a girlfriend or even a best friend at all. Spiritualism never got angry at me, never betrayed me, and never hurt me. Oh my sweet sweet spiritualism—always there in thousands of forms, colors, and varieties; always filled with mysteries and excitements. I was almost 100 percent sure that my relationship with the mysticism would never end for any reason.

An older friend of mine in high school once said, All you see in those weird books is not comparable to the mystery of girls, so why not be with girls instead of living in those imaginary worlds? Friendship with benefits! Girls are as mysterious as the stuff you like.

My answer was, I don’t know. Maybe because I just feel there is no end to this mystical universe, but there’s an end to every girl; when you get her, you reach the end of that mystical experience.

I guess I was wise for a thirteen-year-old!

The child grew. Sometimes we wish we would never grow up, but it is inevitable. And this inevitability has its own twists and turns.

Illusion of Revolution

ALL PEOPLE, WHETHER YOUNG OR old, men or women, rich or poor, theists or atheists, scientists or non-scientists, are looking for something in life through which they can define their own existence. It is written in our DNA. It is born with us. We are all searching for something that seems to be lost or hidden from us. Even if we are in a state of denial, there is still the denial in us seeking more evidence to hold on to more denial. And there are enough facts in life to keep us going in any direction we may chose to walk, even walking in denial.

Do you believe in God? There is a lot of evidences to support or prove His existence. You don’t believe in God? There are plenty of theories to prove He doesn’t exist. Your spiritual or materialistic outlook may depend on where you were born, where you grew up, how you grew up, what your family beliefs were, what your culture set is, which school you went to, what religion you were born into, what your gender dictates to you, and what your five senses tell you to believe. Eventually, and as a result, these common circumstances tell you how to perceive and classify your further experiences. Even if your mindset is to think universal, which simply means, I don’t belong to any ism, you still believe in an ism in itself (like New Age spiritualists who claim to be followers of no ism while they call themselves a spiritualist".

Of course, there are many other reasons for you to be who you are now. Everything is connected, and everything is purposeful. As meaningless as this might seem or as meaningful as it can be, it’s an accepted fact that what you see and hear will undeniably affect your thoughts. You become what you see and hear. And, as you might also agree, your thoughts could give birth to your actions. Even reading these lines will probably have an effect; that’s the reason behind all media productions, whether a movie, a song, a painting, a poem, or a book—shaping minds.

The whole world is somehow connected, just like James Cameron’s imaginary planet of Pandora (in the movie, Avatar), in which even the smallest insects (as well as all other creatures) had this deep and beautiful connection with the whole planet, especially when something was threatening the very existence of the planet itself. What a movie!

There is a necessity behind the existence of every living thing, and even every lifeless object, that ever came into this world—whether it’s a piece of stone or a virus. That is why I believe there’s a search engine inside all of us, written in codes within our DNA which forces us to look for our meaning or our purpose in life. Of course, it doesn’t mean that we all will find our purpose or, if we do, that we will understand and embrace it. It’s there, and it drives us. It keeps us alive, in a sense. You may or may not be aware of it, and you may or may not accept it, but it’s there. You can disagree with me, which is not a surprise because you have the right to believe otherwise. A friend of mine believes there’s no meaning and purpose in life, and he lives accordingly. We are very good friends!

The same force—the search for meaning and purpose—was working in me since my early years of walking on this beautiful planet. But