Prisoner of Tehran: A Memoir (No Series)

by Nemat, Marina

“This is terrible! I had no idea.”

  “Well, now you do.”

  I wanted to know if his parents knew he supported the revolution, and he said he couldn’t tell them because they wouldn’t understand.

  “Many people die in revolutions,” I said.

  “I’ll be fine. You have to be brave, Marina.”

  I was worried; I didn’t want anything bad to happen to him. A cold feeling had just swept over me. He held my hands.

  “Marina, please don’t worry. I’ll be fine. I promise.”

  I tried to believe him. I tried to be brave. After all, I was thirteen years old.

  I didn’t get into any more political discussions with Arash for the rest of the summer. I wanted to forget the revolution; maybe it would go away. Arash played his flute for me every day, and we went for long walks and bike rides on the beach and read poetry sitting on the swing in his backyard.

  Arash had to leave for Tehran two weeks before I did. My mother and I usually returned to Tehran in early September. This gave me enough time to get everything ready for school, which started on September 21, the first day of autumn. I watched Arash drive his father’s white Paykan away from his aunt’s cottage with his grandma sitting in the front passenger seat and his brother in the backseat. They all waved good-bye to me, and I waved back until they were out of sight.

  I arrived in Tehran on Thursday, September 7, and called Arash right away. We decided to meet in a bookstore on the ninth at ten in the morning.

  On the ninth, I woke before dawn. Feeling anxious, I stepped onto my balcony. At that early hour, the usually busy street was deserted, and the gentle breeze rustled the dusty leaves of maple trees. I wanted to call Arash and ask him to come earlier, but this was crazy. I had to wait. Then, I heard a strange noise, a hissing sound. I stared into the darkness. On the other side of the street something moved. I looked more carefully. A dark figure stepped into the glow of a streetlight and began writing something on the brick wall of a store with a can of spray paint. Someone yelled, “Stop!” but I didn’t know from where, for the word echoed between buildings. The dark figure started running. I heard a loud thunderlike sound. The figure disappeared around the corner, and the shadows of two armed soldiers appeared. I ran inside.

  After the sun came up, I went back on the balcony. The gray brick wall on the other side of the street was covered with large, red words: DOWN WITH THE SHAH.

  I arrived at the bookstore a few minutes early and started browsing through the shelves. At a quarter past ten, I looked around; Arash was never late. I checked my watch constantly. Every time the door opened and someone came in, a flash of hope brightened my heart—but he never came. I waited until eleven o’clock and kept on telling myself that it was okay, that he was fine and was probably stuck in traffic, or maybe his car had broken down.

  I walked home, went straight to the phone, and called Arash’s house. Aram answered the phone, and from the way he said hello, I knew something was wrong. I told him that Arash was supposed to meet me at a bookstore but had not shown up.

  “Aram, where is he?” I asked as calmly as I could.

  Aram said he didn’t know. Arash had gone out the previous morning and was supposed to be back the same day for dinner but had never returned. His parents had called everyone, but no one knew where he was. There had been a big protest rally against the shah that day. It had been held at Jaleh Square and had been organized by Khomeini’s supporters. The army had opened fire on the crowd and many had been hurt. One of Arash’s friends had just told Arash’s father that he and Arash had gone to Jaleh Square together but had been separated. Arash’s parents had called every hospital in Tehran. His father had even gone to Evin, but they had not been able to find him.

  “They do terrible things to political prisoners, things that just hearing them makes you sick.” I pushed the thought away and made Aram promise to call me as soon as he heard anything.

  An empty, cold distance squeezed between me and the room I was in, as if life itself had pushed me away. The muffled hum of the cars moving along the street became strange and unfamiliar. I knew this pain. This was grief.

  The next morning, I rang the doorbell of Arash’s house and waited. Aram opened the door. We hugged and neither one of us could let go of the other. I opened my eyes to see Irena staring at us. I had to be strong. I let go of Aram and embraced Irena. Then I helped her walk to the living room and sit on the couch. Arash’s father came into the room, and Aram introduced us. Arash looked very much like his father.

  “Thank you for coming,” Arash’s father said. “Arash has told me all about you. I wish we could meet under better circumstances.”

  I sat next to Irena and held her hand. She was crying. Arash’s mother came in, and I stood up and kissed her cheeks. Her face felt cold and her eyes were swollen. There were family pictures everywhere. I didn’t have any pictures of Arash and me together.

  I asked Aram to show me his brother’s room. It was very simple. There were no pictures or posters on the walls. His black flute box was on his desk, and there was a small white jewelry box sitting next to it. Aram picked it up and gave it to me.

  “He bought this for you a few days ago,” he said.

  I opened the box. There was a beautiful gold necklace in it. I closed it and put it back on the desk.

  “I found a letter in one of his desk drawers. I didn’t mean to get into his personal things, but I had to look around to see if there were any clues about where he was,” Aram said, giving me a sheet of paper. I recognized Arash’s handwriting. The letter was addressed to his parents, grandmother, brother, and me. He had written that he believed he had to stand up for what he knew was right. He had to do something against all that was evil. He explained that he had been supporting the Islamic movement against the shah to the best of his abilities, and he was well aware that what he was involved with was dangerous. He wrote that he had never been very courageous, but now he felt he had to put fear aside, and he understood that he could lose his life for his beliefs. At the end, he mentioned that if we were reading his letter, it meant that he was probably dead, and he asked for our forgiveness and apologized for causing us pain.

  I looked at Aram.

  “My parents didn’t know how involved he was with this stupid revolution, but I knew. I tried to stop him. But you know him; he never listens to me. I’m the little brother who doesn’t know anything.”

  I sat on Arash’s bed and handed the letter back to Aram. There was a blue T-shirt on Arash’s pillow. I picked it up. It was one of his favorites that he had worn many times during that summer. I smelled it; it still carried his scent. I expected him to enter his room, smile his warm smile, and say my name in his kind, gentle voice.

  I had watched the news the night before and there had not been any mention of the Jaleh rally at all. However, all TV channels were state-controlled and had ignored most of the recent events and the casualties. I couldn’t understand why the shah would order the army to shoot people. Why didn’t he listen to what the protesters wanted and why didn’t he talk to them?

  I went to the window, looked outside, and wondered if Arash had ever thought of me as he stood by his window and watched the quiet street. Aram stood next to me, staring outside, and my heart ached for him. He and his brother were very different and yet very close.

  In the living room, a picture of the two of them had caught my eye: two little boys, seven and nine years old maybe, with their arms around each other’s necks, laughing.

  Eight

  “It’s our building’s turn to have warm water tonight,” Sarah told me. It was my first night at 246. She explained that we got warm water only once every two or three weeks, and each time for only two to three hours. Our room’s turn to use the showers would be at around two in the morning. “Each person has ten minutes in the shower. I’ll wake you up,” she said.

  It was time to go to sleep. The lights in the rooms were turned off at eleven every night, but the lights in
the hallway remained on at all times. Sarah introduced me to the girl who was in charge of “beds.” Each of us received three blankets. Everyone slept on the floor side by side, each person with a designated spot that was rotated occasionally. There were so many girls that even the hallways were used for sleeping. I got a spot next to Sarah in the room. I triple-folded one of my blankets and used it as a mattress, the second one was my pillow, and the third was my cover. When everyone had settled down, there was no room to spare. Going to the bathroom in the middle of the night proved to be a challenge; it was almost impossible to reach the bathroom without stepping on someone. During the time of the shah, 246, upstairs and downstairs combined, had fifty or so prisoners in total. Now, the number was close to six hundred and fifty.

  Sarah woke me as she had promised. At first, I was disoriented and didn’t know where I was. I realized I wasn’t in my bed at home. This was Evin. The sound of water from the showers mixed with the voices of the girls. Sarah helped me up, and I hobbled along. The shower room had cement walls and floors, which had all been painted a dark green, and thick plastic sheets divided it into six separate stalls. Two girls were to share each stall for ten minutes. The air was saturated with steam and smelled of cheap soap. I scrubbed my skin and cried.

  The moment I took off my blindfold on the night of the executions, my life had changed completely. I’d had many profound experiences before that night, but they had left the essence of my life intact. I had lost loved ones, and I had been arrested and tortured, but on that night, I had traveled too far. My time in this world had ended, but I was still alive. Maybe this was the line that separated life and death. And I didn’t belong to either side.

  We went to our sleeping spots after showering. Space was so tight that if I lay on my back, I would disturb my neighbors, so I faced Sarah and kept my knees as straight as possible. Sarah opened her eyes and smiled.

  “Marina, I don’t say this in a mean way, and I know it might sound stupid, but I’m glad you’re here with me. I was so lonely before you came.”

  “I’m glad we’re not lonely, too.”

  She closed her eyes, and I closed mine. I wanted to tell her about the night of the executions, but I couldn’t. There were no words to describe it. And I didn’t want to tell her about my life sentence, because it would only distress her. Were they really going to keep me in Evin forever? This meant that I would never embrace my mother, see Andre, go to church, or see the Caspian again. No, they just wanted to scare me, to make me feel desperate. I had to pray long and hard. I had to beg God to save me. Not only me, but Sarah as well. We were going home soon. Both Sarah and I were going home soon.

  It seemed as if we had only been lying down for minutes when the sound of the moazzen filled the room through the loudspeakers: “Allaho akbar. Allaho akbar….” It was time for the morning namaz, which had to be said before dawn. Sarah and most of the girls got up and headed toward the bathroom for the ritual of vozoo, the washing of hands, arms, and feet, which has to be done before every namaz. I could finally lie on my back. Someone touched my shoulder, and I opened my eyes. It was Soheila.

  “Don’t you want to get up for namaz?” she asked.

  “I’m a Christian.” I smiled.

  “You’re the first Christian I’ve seen here! We had…I mean have Christian neighbors. They live right next door to us. Their last name is Jalalian. I’m friends with their daughter, Nancy. They once invited us to their house to have Turkish coffee with them. Do you know the Jalalians?”

  I said I didn’t.

  She apologized for waking me and asked if Christians prayed. I explained that we did but that unlike Muslims, we didn’t have to say our prayers at specific times.

  We had to tidy up the room at seven in the morning. I was surprised at how quickly this was done and at how rapidly the tower of folded blankets went up in a corner. The two girls who had mealtime duties spread thin sheets of plastic called sofreh, which were about a foot and a half wide, on the floor and distributed metal spoons and plastic plates and cups. We didn’t have any forks or knives. Then, the two girls went to the foyer and came back with a large, cylinder-shaped metal flask containing tea. The flask was very heavy, and they each held one of its handles, panting as they carried it into the room. They also brought our ration of bread and feta cheese. We lined up, received our food, sat around the sofreh, and ate. I was starving and swallowed my food in seconds. The bread was rather fresh. I was told that the prison had its own bakery. The tea was hot but had a very strange smell, and Sarah told me this was because the guards always added camphor to it. She had heard that camphor stopped female prisoners from menstruating; most girls didn’t get their periods at all. But camphor had side effects, including swelling of the body and depression. I asked her why the guards would want to stop us from menstruating, and she said it was because sanitary pads were expensive. After the meal, the two girls who had dishwashing duties put the dirty dishes in plastic bins, took them to the shower room, and washed them with cold water.

  I soon learned all the many rules. We weren’t allowed to go past the barred doors at the end of the hallway unless the sisters called us over the loudspeaker. This usually only happened if we had to go for further interrogation or for visitations. Visitations were once a month, and the next one was in two weeks. Sarah hadn’t had any visitors yet but was hoping that her parents would be allowed to see her soon. I also learned that only close family members were permitted to visit and that they could bring us clothes. There was a television set in each room, but the programs were strictly religious. We had books, but they were all about Islam.

  Lunch was usually a little bit of rice or soup, and for dinner, we had bread and dates. There was supposed to be some chicken mixed in with the rice and the soup, but whoever found even the smallest piece of meat in their food was considered very lucky and showed it off to her friends. The representative of each room, who was sometimes chosen by the girls and sometimes appointed by the guards, organized the food distribution and cleaning duties and reported any serious illness or problem to the office.

  One day, about ten days after my arrest, I sat in a corner of the room and watched the girls say their midday prayers. They stood in rows, facing Mecca. The first time I had closely seen a Muslim pray had been when I had watched Arash say his namaz at his aunt’s cottage. I loved to watch him bow and kneel and whisper all the things he so passionately believed in. Would he have approved of this new government and all the terrible things it was doing in the name of God? No. Arash was good and kind; he would never have accepted such injustice. Maybe, we would both have ended up in Evin.

  One of my roommates spoke to me, and I jumped. It was Taraneh, a twenty-year-old thin, fragile girl with large amber eyes and short amber hair. She sat in a corner most of the time, reading the Koran. Every time she stood for prayer, she pulled her chador over her face. Then, when she took off her chador, her eyes were red and swollen, but she always smiled.

  “You looked like a statue for the longest time. You weren’t even blinking,” she said.

  “I was thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “About a friend.”

  I asked her why she had been arrested, and her answer was “long story.”

  “Well, it seems like we have a lot of time on our hands,” I said.

  “I don’t,” she responded.

  A feeling of dread filled me. Sarah had told me that two girls from our room were sentenced to be executed, but Taraneh was not one of them.

  “But Sarah told me—”

  “No one knows,” she whispered.

  “Why haven’t you told anyone?”

  “What’s the point? Then people fuss over you and feel sorry for you. I hate that. Please don’t tell anyone.”

  “Why did you tell me?”

  “You were supposed to be executed, weren’t you?”

  My heart sank. I couldn’t lie to her. I collected all my strength and told her about the night of
the executions and how Ali had taken me away at the last moment. She asked me why Ali had saved me, and I said I didn’t know. Then, she found her way to what she really wanted to ask.

  “Did he ever touch you?”

  “No, what do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean. Men are not supposed to touch women unless they’re married.”

  “No!”

  “This is strange.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve heard things.”

  “What things?”

  “A couple of girls told me they were raped, and they were threatened that if they told anyone about it, they would be executed.”

  I only had a vague idea of what being raped meant. I knew it was something terrible, something that a man could do to a woman, something that no one should ever talk about. And although I wanted to know more, I didn’t dare ask.

  “How about before they took you for execution? They didn’t touch you then?” Taraneh asked.

  “No!”

  She apologized for upsetting me. I tried not to cry. I told her how painful it was to have survived when the others had died. She said it wouldn’t have changed anything for them if I had died, too.

  “How did you know about my death sentence?” I asked.

  “When you came in, you had your name written on your forehead.”

  I didn’t understand.

  “After I was arrested, they beat me on and off for two days, but I didn’t cooperate,” she said. “Then my interrogator dragged me outside one night and took off my blindfold…There were bodies…covered in blood. They had been executed…ten or twelve people. I threw up. He told me that the same thing would happen to me if I didn’t talk. He had a flashlight and aimed it at the face of one of the dead. A young man. His name was written on his forehead. Mehran Kabiri.”

  Although I knew all that had happened on the night of the executions was very real, I had dealt with my memories as if they were a nightmare. I had pushed them as far away as I possibly could. However, now they had come back to life. My breathing became heavy. What I had witnessed that night could happen to Taraneh. And there was nothing I could do.