by Jim Carroll
Dreams, then, with Jesus as the star, provided the crucible in which the divinity or non-divinity of Jesus could be challenged and discussed. Dreamers told non-dreamers about their experiences. Often the questions were: “Why did Jesus come for me and not Muhammad or the last Mahdi? And why would Jesus come for me at all when I rejected Him? Why does He bother with me?”
But not all the dreams were of Jesus. A number of men came to me with their dreams, perhaps for entertainment as much as anything else. I was indeed engaging with my stories of Jesus in the life of my family. Majid Nafisi’s dream, however, was not so innocent or entertaining. Majid was imprisoned for the theft of documents pertaining to the illegal financial dealings of those high in the government. He had been convicted in the Public Court of the first level, which dealt with serious crimes. His sentence was five years at Kashan.
“My dream shows me facing a judge I’ve not seen previously. A noose of coarse rope hangs from the ceiling of the courtroom. I’ve had the dream three times.”
Although the dream seemed strange to him, he disregarded any possible significance for himself personally because he had already been tried and sentenced.
Our meetings all took place in the open courtyard. The weather was cold and rainy, and I had no coat. I had not slept and was in a surly mood. “The meaning is clear. I think you’ll be tried again and hanged.” A quick, cruel response on my part. His only defense was a forced laugh as he turned his back on me.
But there is no definite end to judicial action in Iran. One verdict can be overturned or changed by another court, even on matters thought settled. Majid received notice the next day that his case would be tried again in the Court of Cassation, a higher court with the right to take up matters resolved in the lower Public Court. His brown skin turned gray. An additional charge was added to the felony of theft: attempting to damage the reputation of the Council of Guardians. The Guardians are twelve jurists, six appointed by the supreme leader and six by parliament. The Council of Guardians holds considerable power, even the voiding of parliamentary action and the approval or disapproval of presidential candidates.
The trial convened the next week and lasted only two days. Majid was allowed to speak to his attorney once, and then only briefly. He was convicted and sentenced to death by hanging. I saw him as he was taken back to his cell in handcuffs and ankle chains. He looked at me without speaking, but his eyes told the story. He spat in my direction. I was sorry I had made such a blunt prediction, which had served no good purpose.
In two days, on a Monday, the sentence was carried out. We were all brought out of our cells to watch. Kashan prison did not use gallows for hanging but a much more efficient, portable apparatus. The hanging rope was suspended from the end of the arm of a small crane-like tractor. The executioner placed the noose around Majid’s neck, and the tractor slowly elevated the arm of the crane until he was suspended off the ground. The weight of his generous girth caused his neck to stretch quite remarkably. Death was not rapid with this method as it was with the usual one in which the drop from a gallows was swift enough to dislocate the upper bones of the neck and damage the brain stem, resulting in immediate death. With gradual elevation by the crane, Majid was slowly strangled by his weight instead. For fully five minutes I saw his face contort and his legs jerk rhythmically. How long it takes a man to die!
Many prisoners were aware of my accurate interpretation of Majid’s dream and its outcome, and for several weeks most were reluctant to talk with me. But the effect dissipated, and the varied conversations resumed over time.
Although dreams formed the nexus for the introduction of the gospel in Kashan, its spread occurred mainly in the usual manner – new converts telling others about their experiences. If I had not seen this for myself, I would not have believed it. The gospel’s mode of entry demonstrated its grace. None of the dreamers had sought Jesus. All knew they had done nothing to deserve His intervention. Through the tiny Bibles that entered Kashan, the converts learned what God had done through Jesus. Before Kashan I believed God’s gift to me was dream interpretation; I thought I had the power to manage His grace. But in truth, I was only an observer. I didn’t begin to understand what grace meant until Kashan. My imprisonment was God’s gift to me. I say this with great hesitation, and it required a great deal of time for the gift to be digested. Even so, a lump remained in my stomach.
And even more strangely, through the fact that most Kashan prisoners were Shia Muslims, the groundwork was being set in place for the coming of the last days and the return of Jesus. Now those who had formerly awaited the coming of the man Jesus awaited the return of the divine Jesus instead.
During my imprisonment the international scene continued its complicated intricacies unabated. In August 2014 Iran shot down an Israeli drone hear its Natanz uranium enrichment site. In November, Russia, ostensibly to ease Iranian demands to have their own uranium enrichment, agreed to build up to eight nuclear reactors for Iran. Most saw this agreement as Russia’s attempt to assist Iran covertly in their nuclear program. Further discussions failed with Western powers, but all parties agreed to an extension for talks to resolve the matter. That Iran would eventually build its own nuclear device was a foregone conclusion; only the timing was in question. Had the world ever prevented any country desiring a bomb from getting it? What a silly thought.
Meanwhile much of the Muslim world was in turmoil due to the spreading activity of the Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant (ISIL). This Sunni group with its extraordinary, ultra-Wahhabi viewpoint had turned the Muslim world upside down. They justified their actions based on Quranic interpretation, which left many Muslim clerics at a loss. ISIL emphasized the singular oneness of God, a position that could not be disputed by monotheists. From this they concluded that anything which interfered with that principle was punishable by death. Most clerics offered no rebuttal, no explanation. For Iran, with its’ predominantly Shia population, the situation was somewhat clearer, at least with respect to the threatening Sunni theology. They could disavow the Sunni position and even offer assistance to Iraq, which gave them an increased foothold in that troubled country.
Every trouble in the world is old. All this trouble had begun with the slaying of Hussein, the Prophet’s grandson, in the seventh century. Hussein became a hero to the Shia. For a long time, the old strife between the two sects of Islam remained minor. Shia and Sunni families intermarried and lived together in relative peace, but the conflict was spurred on for centuries and in the current age rested mainly in the arms of Sunni Saudi Arabia and Shia Iran, the two opposing groups.
As I sat in my bleak cell it became clear to me that this long-existing Shia-Sunni conflict could be the root of a coming conflagration as yet unimagined by Muslim scholars of the day, and the result would be God’s doing, not theirs. The Lord had planted these seeds of struggle for His own purposes. And now my half-brother Esau had entered the fracas. But whom did he favor — the Sunnis or the Shia? Or did it matter to him?
By December 2014 the gospel had grown sufficiently in Kashan that knowledge of its spread could not be avoided. How did the warden let this happen? Strangely, the prison authorities remained oblivious to the events that were blossoming under their noses.
The next week, I learned the prison warden was under investigation by the state for misuse of funds. Perhaps his vision of prison events had been obscured by his personal troubles. He summoned me to his office, where papers were spread all over the table behind his desk. His sandwich of olives and avocados had fallen to the floor, and he was plunging through the documents, perhaps hoping to discover the critical missing piece.
Any such summons to see the warden was urgent. Rashid Mokri was a thick-browed man with a black, curly beard and moustache. He was shy with a deference and quiet demeanor not expected in a prison warden. There was a thick callus on his forehead that could only be acquired with the most persistent, prayer genuflection. He rose, paced, and bit his lower lip.
“
Mr. Al-Tamimi, perhaps you’ve heard there is some question about our financial management here at Kashan.” Why did he think I’d heard? Probably because everyone in the prison had. “I’m not sure if there is a problem or not, but I see from your dossier that you’re educated in the area of money management. I need your help.”
“I would be happy to help, but I would need full access to all the prison’s financial records to do that,” I began. I realized this opportunity could have boundless possibilities. “I must have some idea of the scope of the problem and where the trouble lies.”
“I’m afraid I’m being accused for reasons that are unconnected to the actual finances.”
“What reasons?”
“Perhaps we can discuss that matter in the future. They are saying that money intended to purchase prison supplies is being siphoned off for other purposes.”
“Couldn’t the prison accountant check the figures himself?”
“He’s the brother of a powerful cleric. They couldn’t find any other job for him. I cannot be sure of him.”
Mokri took me down to the accountant’s office. He was not there and the secretary informed us he had not come in for work for the past week. The office was in a worse mess than the warden’s – piles of computer printouts scattered like a trash heap. Spreadsheets lay in disarray, and the computer keyboard was dusty, seemingly untouched for some time.
“You’re to take over this office. It’s now your responsibility. I’ll leave instructions to give the so-called accountant a desk out in the room with the secretary if he ever shows up again. I can only give you a week. Any longer will be too late for me.”
I set about the task, which was not intellectually difficult, merely tedious. I gathered the spreadsheets from the floor and desks, organizing them chronologically, as I plowed through the incoming budget and the expenditures. It was quickly apparent that the prison accountant, one Mr. Nouruzi, was not as slow-witted as Mokri had thought, just messy. His mistake, however, was being absent at a critical juncture, leaving the evidence in plain view. There had been no attempt to obscure his diversion of funds; the spreadsheets told the story. Every other biweekly disbursement to the prison had been sent in total to an offsite account. The dust on the computer keyboard reflected the likelihood that he had brought in his own computer to make the transfers. It was a simple matter to take the spreadsheet numbers of the disbursements in question, plug them into the prison computer, and see where they had gone.
The routing number of the receiving bank was the same for all the transfers. All the money had been deposited in the same account at the Saman Bank in Isfahan. I called the bank, gave the account number, and asked the balance. I wasn’t sure if they would release the information by phone, but it was the weekend and late in the day, and the lower level bank functionary likely wanted to finish and go home.
“The balance is 41.8 billion rials (about 1.5 million dollars).”
“There must be some mistake. Could you check the name on the account for me?”
“Hafez Nouruzi,” he answered. That was the name of the cleric whose brother was the accountant.
“Thanks very much,” I replied, clicking off. Other than the clutter in the office, no effort had been made to conceal the transfers.
In two days I presented a detailed written report to Warden Mokri. He was, of course, infinitely grateful. The next issue was on how to report the fraud. Even telling the tale could be dangerous. Mokri decided to submit the report to the administrator of area prisons rather than to the state officials who had raised the accusation against him. After the submission Mokri heard nothing more for two weeks. The accountant never returned to work nor was there any word from him. Mokri did not try to reach him. I was installed as the accountant for the prison until further notice. After the flow of funds was restored, the amount supplied to the prison turned out to be quite generous, and we were able to support a new prison library.
My job was quite simple and was not full-time. It did require my visiting Mokri regularly, and we shared stories – me, of my prison life, and he, of his recent spiritual experiences. We became close friends, and the reason for the apparent tolerance of the gospel in Kashan became clear.
“Why do you have the callus on your forehead? I thought you had that because you were a strict Muslim.”
“I’m from a Muslim family. They don’t know I’ve turned to Jesus. I still pray in the same manner, and the callus cuts off questions. It’s a common device in Iran among Muslim converts.”
“What’s going to happen in Kashan?”
“As for me, I’m going to allow the gospel to continue unfettered. We can’t stop it anyway.” He leaned back in his desk chair, hands clasped behind his head.
“What’s going to happen to me? I’ve not been charged with any crime nor have any outside officials come to meet with me. I’m sure my family wants to know what’s happening.”
“You now have computer and Internet access. As long as you recognize the computer may be monitored, you may say whatever you want. You can be sure we’re all being electronically scrutinized by a variety of means.”
The position as the accountant of Kashan placed me at the top of the inmate hierarchy. As such, even greater numbers of inmates turned to me for counsel in all sorts of areas – financial, family, questions about being a Christian, and, of course, dreams.
My imprisonment there extended to July 2015. By that time, negotiations over Iran’s nuclear status had become so complicated that there seemed to be no simple conclusion. The Iranians continued with the technique of first agreeing to a plan and then issuing contrary statements to the news networks – all the usual tricks employed by countries desiring to play the international community. Tensions in the country were high because the economic sanctions were affecting the private lives of average Iranians. The negotiations between the U.S. and European nations continued with no resolution. Rouhani and the Foreign Minister Mohammed Zarif pushed the Iranian religious system to cooperate.
Then, suddenly in mid-July, a breakthrough was announced, and an agreement was reached that seemed to satisfy all participants. It was a victory for Iran, even though the text seemed to prevent their getting a nuclear weapon. For Iran, the bomb was in sight, and everyone knew it. The Obama administration and the U.S. negotiators under John Kerry had done all they could. Kerry had continued to work for a resolution, despite breaking a leg in the middle of the negotiations. The resulting agreement allowed the U.S. some modicum of an honorable peace.
In Yemen the Houthis with their Shia leanings battled Sunni forces from the Gulf and Egypt. Victory was elusive for both sides. Shia Iran continued their proxy war in Yemen against the Gulf Sunni states, mainly Saudi Arabia. Iraqi Shias were assisted by Iran in fighting against ISIL. Thus, the war between Sunni and Shia took a fixed form with no apparent way out of the gathering conflict. Still, I could see no role for Esau in this struggle between Muslims. Was he using both sides?
And then Kashan was over, suddenly and without warning. As I walked toward his office, Mokri was handcuffed and taken away by the secret police under control of the Basij. He looked at me as if to say I’m sorry. I presumed it must have had something to do with his reporting of the fraud. Or maybe the many Christian conversions in the prison had leaked out. Two days later they came for me. “We know what’s going in here. We know you’re responsible.”
“Responsible for what?”
They did not respond. I was placed in yet another black vehicle and driven north on Route 7. I went through the options in my head. None were good. Soon we passed the holy city of Qom, a mockery of the word “holy” to me now. In less than three hours we pulled into the reception area of Evin prison. The entry area was an innocent-looking structure with white, horizontally slated siding, bars over the few windows, and a sign in Farsi and English which read “Evin House of Detention”; but Evin was infamous for its torture of so-called political detainees. This prison was on top of any Iranian’s I-don’t
-want-to-go-there list. I never considered ending up there. My arrival was like a nightmare come true.
CHAPTER 8
EVIN
I was taken to a holding cell and informed my questioning would begin the next morning. The cell contained a single water tap, a hole-in-the-floor toilet with a metal grid plate for squatting, and a bed with a thin mattress, no covers. No food. Cold and hungry, I was unable to sleep, my eyes stuck open all night long. Most of all, I was terrified about what the morning would bring.
My interrogator appeared at seven the next day with a blanket, fried egg and cold coffee for me. He introduced himself as Ali. His skills in questioning surpassed those I had encountered before.
“Why have you been brought to Evin?” he asked, looking away in apparent indifference.
I wrapped myself in the blanket and gobbled down the egg in two bites before I answered. “I don’t know why I am here. I’ve not been charged at any point in my detention.”
“Surely, you’ve done something wrong. I understand you admit to being a Christian, so I suppose you left Islam?”
“No. I’ve been a Christian since birth. I can’t be accused of leaving Islam because I was never a Muslim.”