A State of Fear

by Dr Reza Ghaffari

  A number of tensions grew between members of the Islamic regime, the judiciary, the Majles and prominent members of the clergy – in particular Rafsanjani, the Speaker of the Majles and the president. These two, in particular, held out for continuing the harsh repression within the prisons. Every so often, we would see emissaries from the authorities inspecting the prison. These people had been handpicked by Khomeini himself and so they would be sent into prisons with definite objectives in mind.

  On one occasion, of the three emissaries who visited, one was a representative of the head of the regime’s judiciary. Nothing stays still, and life does not develop in a linear fashion. The regime wanted an immutable prison guard to uphold its immutable laws, but what it created had its own dynamic, going through continuous changes of both a quantitative and a qualitative kind. Eventually, it became its own antithesis. The Tavabs became a major stumbling block to the Islamic jailers, forcing the regime to cut itself free from what it had created.

  As these tensions within the regime were played out, in particular between Khomeini and Montazeri, we also noticed that an open debate was being conducted in the official newspapers by Montazeri as to who was and who was not an Islamic Tavab. In essence, the regime had to justify doing away with the Tavab system. The remedy proposed by Montazeri for Tavabs was ershad, the ideological indoctrination of the prison population as opposed to the physical elimination of prisoners, which was proving impossible to carry out. As these debates ensued, Khomeini changed the personnel heading the prison authorities – a sign that Montazeri was winning the argument. We only heard about all of this through visits from our families – the prison regime ensured that it was kept from us. So the prison visitors became known to us as ‘Montazeri’s Brigade’. This was headed by a young clerk called Ansari, a man who had been active in the occupation of the American embassy in the early 1980s and who was later elected to the Majles. Through his role in the prisons he became known as a reformer.

  The first sign of real change was the removal of Haji Davoud as head of the Golden Fortress. We noticed that he had not been seen for a whole week – then we met his successor, sent from a provincial prison in Shiraz. But our ears, eyes and whole bodies remained on the alert for signs of Haji Davoud. Then a number of prisoners were taken from the Golden Fortress to Evin to be freed at the completion of their sentences – and as they passed through the office for discharging prisoners, the person in charge was none other than Haji Davoud himself! Imagine, the man who had made life so unbearable within the Golden Fortress was now reduced to a mere clerk, rubber-stamping release papers. Though representing a now inappropriate method of prison management, the likes of Haji Davoud were still retained by the regime to keep order when directions from above changed abruptly.

  The new broom at the Golden Fortress introduced changes which affected the structure of the organisation and the control of the prison blocks. Although there was still a Tavab in charge of my block, the control room was marginalised. Now they no longer had the authority to beat anyone. In each block, a number of prisoners were asked whether they would be renouncing their past activities in opposition to the regime. They were told that if they were ready to record appropriate interviews on video they would be pardoned and released. Strangely enough, except for the Tavabs who were doing everything possible to leave prison, no more than 25 to 30 per cent of the prisoners agreed. Even more strangely, the Tavabs were most likely to be turned down for release after their videotaped confessions. Because they had become part of the opposition, the regime was wary of releasing them in case they stirred up trouble in the country at large. In fact, many of the Tavabs were shot in the ‘massacre’ which took place all over the country.

  But the Tavabs were absolutely devastated at not being released in the numbers they expected after their video interview. This led to widespread demoralisation within their ranks. It was the final blow that ended the Tavab reign. The regime no longer required them so they were now being shunned by both sides – by the other prisoners and now by the regime – their Islamic masters! Their only way out was to renounce Tavabism and to join the ranks of the intransigents.

  The process began with some leading Tavabs calling for a general meeting of prisoners within a block. Each Tavab would confess to all the atrocities that he had committed. Every now and then, when a Tavab was confessing some atrocities, a fellow prisoner would raise his hand and recount episodes that had been omitted by the Tavab, usually an incident in which he had been at the receiving end. This was our day of jubilation as we saw the former allies of the regime recanting their ‘repentance’. One of the most hated forms of prison life had evaporated in front of our eyes and we saw that we had won an important moral victory over the regime. Our solidarity had been vindicated, despite everything, and we rejoiced.

  CHAPTER 16

  GETTING BETTER ALL THE TIME

  The Montazeri reforms opened up the potential for freer movement within the prisons. Cell doors began to open, allowing us to associate. Without the Tavabs constantly looking over our shoulders, these opportunities were seized upon whenever they presented themselves.

  From being locked within our cells 24 hours a day, we began to be allowed free movement around the block and in the exercise yard throughout the hours of daylight – considerably more freedom of association than is permitted, say, in British jails. This didn’t apply to prisoners identified as ringleaders of prison resistance, who were still under 24 hour lock-up in solitary cells. There was no abrupt shift to a more liberal prison regime. The authorities wanted to maintain control and ensure that there was no danger of it running away from them. In some prisons, the transition occurred relatively quickly. But in the Golden Fortress the officials only gave away every concession grudgingly. For instance, when we attempted to elect block representatives to liaise with the prison authorities, they refused to countenance such a move – one which had already been put into action in other prisons, such as Gohardasht and Evin.

  Our attempts to organise communal exercise in our block met the same stony response. In the early days of this handover period, the new governor visited the block. Unlike his predecessor, he arrived without club-wielding retinue and visited each cell in turn. He introduced himself as Haji Meysam, sat on the floor and invited his inmates’ comments on how to make this place more liveable – leaving the main gate open would have been nice.

  As he passed down from the Tavabs towards the intransigents, his stops at each cell became longer. When he reached our cell at the very end, he spent nearly two hours squatting on the floor. Men from other cells, including Tavabs, gathered around the room to listen to the discussion, often chipping in. Those who couldn’t get in stood in the corridors, some standing on tiptoes to see over their comrades’ shoulders. The head Tavab of the block sat close to the governor, but did not have much to say. The whole tenor of the discussion was not pleasant for him.

  The governor offered us group exercise. Haji Davoud had banned this, fearing that it would reinforce the prisoners’ solidarity. But this proposal was conditional on us accepting a Tavab as its organiser. One cellmate, Saíd, insisted that the main problem before had been the Tavabs, and as long as our activities were conditional upon their supervision there could be no real improvement. We would not take part in any cosmetic exercise of this sort. But the governor insisted that this was the bottom line. ‘We’ll give you three names, and you choose one, but there must be a Tavab present.’ This was not good enough. Saíd replied that as long as we had Tavab watchdogs, we would boycott all the events that they were supervising. The whole cell murmured its agreement.

  We argued each other to a standstill. Our demands were not met there and then, but a couple of weeks later word came down that we could organise our own exercise sessions. Our determination had paid off. Our demands were conceded in such a way that Haji did not lose face by giving in at the meeting. I am certain that this was no isolated incident. He must have got the same message wherever he had
gone in the prison – get the Tavabs off our back or no deal. And we won.

  We were also offered a ping-pong table – if we clubbed together 2,000 Toumen to pay for it. Were we being bribed? some wondered. The Mojahedin and some small left groups argued that this was a shallow public relations scam by the regime to conceal its atrocities. Of course it was, but then so was our weekly kebab and we weren’t going to turn that down.

  Within a week of this cell discussion, prison food markedly improved – although we still had ‘prison seasoning’ – bromide with everything. Minced meat kebabs with rice were added to the prison diet, along with two or three rice-based meals. Guaranteed three days’ rice and meat meals per week, we ate better food than we had in years.

  Education was brought up at this meeting. Some young prisoners had been arrested at 14 or 15 and had now spent around five years inside. There were thousands of young men and women like this in the prison system. Haji Meysam allowed us to carry on education among ourselves, with the aim of getting prisoners through exams, which were externally organised. It gave us the right to organise classes, something which would never have been allowed under Haji Davoud. He accepted the right of prisoners to receive educational material, textbooks and the like, from their families – after they had passed under the watchful eye of the Hezbollah.

  We were now able to organise a form of block library. Each cell would ‘lease’ all its available books to the whole block. The entire stock was listed. If you saw a title you wanted, you just put your name down for it and hoped it was not too popular. The central prison library was partially opened to us for the first time, making non-Koranic texts available through the official channels. No one was going to let us get hold of Che Guevara’s Guerrilla Warfare, but approved anti-Soviet or anti-Marxist texts were made available to us – ironically enough, including the Persian translation of Tony Cliff’s State Capitalism in Russia and Charles Bettelheim’s Class Struggles in the USSR.

  Haji Meysam’s little public relations exercise short-circuited the whole Tavab system. They got the message that they were no longer in charge; the Islamic Republic no longer required their services. This would have also been impressed on them privately, but the regime wanted to make it public, so that we knew they no longer held the reins.

  These changes made possible a freer relationship between inmates, which in turn developed a deeper and more profound political discourse between the different trends within the prisons. We still had to watch for informers, and would not open up to anyone we did not trust, but debates could now extend further than a hurried, furtive whisper.

  We relaxed. We even permitted ourselves some festivities at times, grouping together in cells to celebrate key dates. I remember one Persian New Year vividly, celebrated on the first day of spring 1987. The week before we had done a full week of spring cleaning in the blocks: scrubbing down the walls, washing the floors, cleaning out the toilets, all of us working with an almost child-like enthusiasm and frisson of expectancy.

  When we had convinced ourselves that the grey concrete walls sparkled, representatives of each cell met to plan out the night’s celebrations. Different cells had responsibility for providing different dishes for a communal meal. Kurdish, Persian, Baluchi, even Turkish and Arabic dishes were prepared in as authentic a manner as conditions allowed. Decorations were prepared from paper, and we sought to brighten the grim uniformity of the block with anything of colour that we could lay hands on.

  A month in advance an Armenian comrade began to build a guitar from scratch, to help the musical entertainment on the night go with a swing. Musical instruments were banned, as the religious authorities felt that such things would ‘degenerate men’s souls’.

  The strings were made out of plastic threads picked from rice sacks. All of us ripped off wood from packing cases to build the body and neck. In its raw state, it was unusable: unshaped and too thick. It was sanded by making it wet and rubbing along the grain on the abrasive concrete floor until it became more flexible. The pieces were then left in the sun, each one laid at an angle calculated to warp it to just the right shape. These pieces were then painstakingly bound together with plastic twine so that the join was airtight. No craftsman ever produced in more difficult conditions with so few resources. With two days to go, the guitar was ready and hidden away.

  All political groupings pitched in to make the party a success, although such co-operation was at times uneasy. In our cell, a couple of Peykar and Minority people were adamant that they did not want anyone from Tudeh or the Majority visiting their cell even to convey New Year greetings. ‘But if we visit their cells, they’ll naturally want to return the compliment,’ others objected. To preserve peace in the cell, we conceded to the selective inhospitality.

  We did our best to replicate the festivities outside, but such vital trappings as bonfires were out of the question. Entertainments were planned, as was block security, to ward against the discovery of our solemnities by the guards.

  Yet while our New Year may have been covert, it was the same outside. Khomeini condemned New Year festivities as pagan, warning, ‘We cannot celebrate until the war with Saddam has been won.’ Small children became subversives as they built secret bonfires, scattering as the armoured cars – attracted by their blaze –bulldozed them under their wheels. So, this New Year, we had clear common cause with the people of Iran outside our prisons. We all celebrated in the same arduous position, feeling the same warm glow of satisfaction of having done it anyway.

  The centrepiece of the celebration was to be a cake, which our cell had volunteered for. Baking was out of the question, so we had to find other means. The base for it was bread, dried over our primus stoves, which we had bought from a shop in the jail that was run by the guards rather than by the prison itself (you could get anything for the right price) and pounded into a powder. We then mixed it with a little water to make a dough, and flavoured it with coffee and jams. The mix was augmented by figs, dates and raisins. We then moulded the mixture with our hands into a cake about three feet in diameter. It was placed on a plate made of pieces of cardboard stuck together in layers to allow us to move it. The cake was then left to dry and set. Like digging an escape tunnel in Stalag 17, this was a big job that demanded teamwork. Lookouts were posted. At any sight of a guard, the cake was shoved under a bunk, and blankets were hung down to conceal it.

  The final touches were icing sugar decorations: in white on a dark brown cake. We wrote ‘The New Year will bring happiness and victory to the workers’ above the cake’s centrepiece, a five-pointed white icing star, on either side of which was an icing hammer and sickle. The Armenian guitarist organised a vocal group around him, with rehearsals taking place sotto voce at night.

  All day on New Year’s Eve, religious programmes were broadcast over the PA system and Khomeini’s New Year message was shown. He dabbed at tearful eyes, telling the boys going to the front, ‘I wish I was a Pasdar, so that I too could be a martyr.’

  From 5pm on, each cell was itching to serve its delicacies and carefully honed artistic talents. We prepared a communal eating area in the main corridor, with large plastic sheets as a makeshift tablecloth, again bought from the guards. Along the lengthy of the corridor, around 600 prisoners emerged, waving and smiling at each other. Men milled around, sampling food from along the tablecloth, mingling and talking. Our banquet lasted from 8pm to 10pm. When people had eaten their fill, the entertainment began, and our cake was carried out, shoulder high, by four men.

  Our Armenian guitarist and his band took centre stage. Songs in Turkish, Kurdish, Armenian and Persian followed one another, reflecting all the different cultural elements that make up Iran. Individual performers then came up – poets, singers and comedians. I got up to sing, but my tuneless voice brought howls of derision. I gave up, my cracked notes collapsing into laughter.

  Over the PA we heard the 20-cannon salute that announced midnight and the New Year. We all embraced those around us, wishing good luck to
their families and freedom to themselves. Words of encouragement were exchanged between comrades. For two hours, 600 men threaded through their fellows, wishing each a happy new year.

  As we got happier, we got louder. It was inevitable that we would attract attention to ourselves, as noise of the revelry seeped from the block. Few, unfortunately, seemed aware of this at the time. Those who appealed for quiet were ignored as killjoys. Then the main door burst open and large numbers of guards tore into the crowd, beating the men around them and kicking the food to the floor. We were all ordered and pushed towards our cells. We watched from behind cell bars as the New Year decorations were torn apart. The guards began to systematically search the block, looking for revolutionary poems, homemade wine or anything else remotely incriminating – which was most of what we had for the party.

  As the guards reached the end of the corridor, where our cell was, they gathered in horror around the still uncut cake, with its star and hammers and sickles. ‘Who is responsible for this?’ demanded a guard. ‘Fucking godless communists,’ he cursed, ‘Haven’t you learned your lessons yet?’ Those of us in the nearby cells were set upon. One of my cellmates, Massoud, watching others falling under hails of blows, shouted out ‘It was me!’

  ‘Pick the cake up,’ ordered a guard. He struggled to pick it up, with a guard supporting it on the other side, so heavy was it. Both marched down the corridor with it and out of the block. Massoud was held in solitary the following week and we made a point in toasting him in his absence. He gained much respect from the whole of the block for his brave and selfless action, which saved many others from a severe beating.