President Mohammed Khatami strides across the Mehrabad Airport tarmac to the salute of soldiers in ceremonial sashes. Mullahs in dark robes, bearded aides in suits with tieless shirts and militiamen carrying Kalashnikovs trail him up to Iran's equivalent of Air Force One--an old American-made Boeing 707 from before the Islamic Revolution. In minutes he is roaring off to a speech--it is an anniversary in the Iran-Iraq war--near the Iraqi border. There is no mistaking Khatami when he slips back from the front of the plane, wandering down through a cabin decorated in late-1970s style. In contrast to his entourage's rough-edged, revolutionary look, his clerical attire is soft and cheerful: a pear-colored robe, a chocolate tunic, sporty tan calf loafers. He flashes the smile that has given hope to Iranians depressed by two decades of official somberness. As he makes his way, greeting officials, bodyguards and Iranian journalists, he spots the two Americans on board. "Where are you from?" he asks, opening his arms. Could the President answer some questions? He laughs. "Inshallah [God willing]." The phrase could be construed as an Islamic brush-off: right now, at least, the President is talking to almost no one in the press. These days the President of Iran is moving very carefully.
It's a good day for Khatami. When he lands in Khorramshahr and heads to a local mosque to speak, the crowds are spread in front of him like a giant Persian carpet: turbans, signs, balloons. He speaks to thousands, delivering the scrupulously worded message of moderate change that has made him a hero to many--and a terrifying figure to the hard-liners who have dominated Iran's politics since the death of Ayatullah Ruhollah Khomeini in 1989. Khatami's struggle to reform Iran is proving a dangerous task. One of the President's closest friends is recovering from a gunshot wound to the head, nearly assassinated by hard-liners. Dozens of other supporters are in jail or heading there. Iran's hard-liners have sent a chilling message that they won't go without a fight.Through all this, Khatami has been conspicuously quiet, hoping his absence of comment would be seen as thundering determination. His supporters approvingly call it "Khatami's silence."
Yet the silence risks spreading disillusionment. Khatami's impatient, enraptured young supporters greet him with chants of "Kha-ta-mi! Kha-ta-mi! Doostet darim [We love you]!" This is a nation desperate for change, starving for leadership. And Khatami's difficult task is to rework Iran's system from within. It's an excruciatingly difficult way to be a reformer, fighting battles by not fighting battles. The pressures are exacting a toll. Chest pains sent him to the hospital recently. He winds down each night by scratching out a few pages of his memoir--in ink--at home. Khatami is a former Culture Minister and a onetime head of the national library. He is not a born politician. His colleagues speak of his "delicate sensibilities." They fear he might resign or refuse to run for a second four-year term next year.
For now, he fights on--carefully. He was, for instance, willing to give TIME access to his office and his schedule--something that would have been unheard of a year ago in Iran. But he would not offer an interview--something that remains too politically sensitive.