73

We ate dinner cross-legged on the carpet – a meal that Aisha had prepared that was a cross between soup, and potato, tomato, chickpea and mutton stew. She was a busy girl. As well as looking after these two she was a medical student at the university, and had joined Mousavi’s green movement for reform. She had the wristband to prove it.

Ali was munching away like a good ’un, his pockets stuffed with the wad of oners I’d just given him.

Aisha, however, didn’t seem too pleased to have the extra income in the house. She was almost ignoring me. Ali was either too blind to see it or chose not to notice.

Every so often one of them would get up to check on their dad, but the Naloxone had worked its magic and he was no longer in any danger. It wasn’t the first time he’d overdosed, Ali said. He’d done it so many times, in fact, that when their mother left and they were just kids, they had become experts on what to do. Some days, the two of them would come home to their dad crying in a corner of the bathroom, clutching his knees, shaking with fear – or just throwing a wobbler and smashing the place up.

‘Have you two heard of post-traumatic stress disorder?’

They looked at each other for any recognition.

‘It’s an illness that some people can develop after having experienced one or more traumatic events – like fighting a war, like getting blown up, like seeing fourteen-year-old boys being blown to bits beside you. It affects some people hard. There’s no telling who. Maybe your dad . . .’

Aisha acknowledged me at last. Well, sort of. At least she was listening.

‘Guys with PTSD can have problems with alcohol and drugs. Sometimes they can’t communicate with family and can get violent against them.’

They both stopped eating and listened. ‘Does he have nightmares – you know, shout out in his sleep?’

Aisha stifled a sob, which I took as a yes. ‘It’s OK, he can be helped. Your dad needs treatment.’

Ali comforted her as she cried into his shoulder. I tried to lighten it up a bit. ‘Even the great Satan has a general who suffers from it because of his time in Iraq. Can you imagine that?’

Aisha pulled herself off Ali, her hair now pasted to her face. ‘How do we help him? What does the American general’s family do?’

It was a tough one. I wasn’t sure Iran was known for its mental-health record. ‘He needs to see someone who can treat psychiatric conditions, someone who understands what he’s going through and knows how to help. Tell them you think he may have PTSD – look it up online. He doesn’t have to be like this.’