Everybody is busy writing. Names are being written across Iran. They have been writing for a month now. First the religious ones. Then the communists. Then Jews, Armenians and Baha’is. Kurds, Turks and Baluch. Teenagers and old men. Mothers and sisters. Girls and boys. They are all writing their names. In Rajai Shahr’s death camp. In death camps throughout Iran. In Evin. When the names have been written, the people are taken to be hanged, row after row. They are picked up at night in wheelbarrows and thrown into trucks. The trucks take them to the mass graves. They bury the Muslims in mass graves. The rest, the infidels, are taken to an abandoned Baha’i cemetery to the east of Tehran. They’ve nicknamed the cemetery Damnation End. They throw our corpses to the ground and a digger piles earth over us.
The guards playfully push each other around. They laugh out loud and pluck the best flowers of Iran’s gardens from the metal trees.
The more people you hang, the quicker you get to heaven.
They are sending us to hell. Snakes and dragons. Wells filled with shit.
But they themselves are going to heaven. A delightful garden is waiting for them. Beautiful girls. Seven houris every night until they are tired out. Slaves. Seventy of them every night. We will burn while they enjoy themselves. We will be burning until the end of the world and they will be enjoying themselves with houris and slaves. They’ll be drinking milk and eating honey from heaven’s rivers.
They come to collect the people ahead of me in the queue. They are rolling in large tables on castors. They make the people stand on the tables. They have eaten off these tables and now they are using them for hanging. A bunch of fat guards get up on the tables. They wrap the ropes around the necks of the condemned, quickly, skilfully.
“God is Great. Khomeini’s our leader.”
The guards murmur their response collectively and pull the tables out from under the prisoners’ feet. The prisoners are hanging. They are turning. Human fruit hanging from metal trees as far as the eye can see. They bring in the second round. They are all girls. Wrapped in black chadors. Onto the tables. The dance of death on metal trees.
A guard comes in, and leads me out of the room. We go through another door. I hear the sound of a car door opening.
“Get in.”
I see Kianuri in the back of the car. I roll down my sleeve and automatically look at my scarred wrist. I am shaking like a leaf even though it’s hot.
The driver is a dark-skinned man with a strong build. He’s looking at us in the car’s rear-view mirror and asks Kianuri in a thick accent: “Listen, do you still believe in the Soviet Union?”
Kianuri says: “Yes.”
The driver asks: “What about America?”
Kianuri answers: “America is our people’s main enemy.”
With his huge fist the driver punches Kianuri and pushes him down: “Shut up, monster.”
Then the driver gets out of the car and spits. Even so, Kianuri says: “The thugs are running the show.”
The guard in charge of our transfer arrives. We drive through Evin’s large gate, up the Peech-e Tobah (Repentance Turn), and onto the motorway. When the motorway ends, the guard tells us to bend down and he throws a blanket over our heads. I grab hold of Kianuri’s hand in the dark. It feels cold and lifeless. Maybe like me, he had assumed that he was going to be hanged. Through the car’s movements I try to figure out where we are going but I fail. Eventually the car stops and there’s the sound of a large gate opening. We are entering Moshtarek Prison again. I am back at Moshtarek Prison for the seventh time.
A lot has changed here since last time. Complete silence dominates the place. They separate us and hand me the same blue prison uniform, but this time my number is on the shirt pocket. It is far too long to be memorized. We follow the usual route, the triangular courtyard, the stairs, Under the Eight. This time we are taken upstairs. The block’s numbers have three digits now, and the cell numbers have been added to them. I am in cell number 6537. In the same old block number six. The guard doesn’t open the doors. He just tells you your number. A famous poet had once written about this:
Once upon a time, I used to be a father and a brother, but, Today I am number six, just that.
At mealtimes they knock on the door and unlock it. The food is left outside the door. When you have collected the food, they relock the door.
I am left alone for forty-eight hours. I get myself ready for prayers. I am waiting for the sound of slippers and for you to arrive at any moment. Your threat is ringing in my ear: “I would like to shoot the final bullet myself.”
And I remember the words of the cultural events official at Ghezel Hesar: “It’s not like the Shah’s time when you could leave, feeling like heroes. We’ll destroy your reputation.”
The sound of slippers comes eventually. But it’s not you, it’s the shepherd guard. He doesn’t show any sign of recognition, but he presses my hand warmly. We walk down the stairs, pass through a triangular courtyard, to the left, we walk up the stairs. When we reach the first floor, a shiver goes down my spine, but we carry on walking up the stairs. Then he says: “Take off your blindfold.”
Once again I find myself in a large hall, filled with sunshine. Two young men, dressed in smart grey suits, are walking up and down and talking to each other in whispers. I say hello. They respond. They come towards me and shake my hand. There’s not a single chair in the large hall. They ask me what I am up to. I answer them.
One of them asks a random question and then, suddenly, he asks: “Why did you lie about the garden?”
I answer: “I didn’t know anything about it. Brother Hamid put me under pressure, forced me ... That night I told Brother Shamkhani that it was a lie.”
The second man says: “You lied so much that you managed to hide the truth.”
The other man laughs: “Did you really arrange meetings with the British ambassador at Naderi Cafe?”
I say: “But you must be aware that I have never been that sort of person, and have been lying all along.”
They walk away from me. They go to the window and whisper. Then one of them says: “Go to the staircase and wait until they come to fetch you.”
The following day they come for me again. The guard takes me to a room on the second floor. I am seated behind a desk, with my blindfold on. I see a file lying on the desk. A hand opens the file and a voice, which sounds young but not aggressive, again brings up all the questions related to the file. Then he asks questions related to religion. Eventually he asks: “Who’s your role model?”
I say: “Imam Khomeini.”
He says: “Take off your blindfold.”
I take it off. I see a young man whose appearance and way of speaking is similar to that of those other two men. They must all be working for the Ministry of Intelligence. He says: “Have you been working?”
I say: “I used to work in the fields at Ghezel Hesar.”
He asks: “What about Evin?”
I say: “I can’t work in a factory. My arm was damaged during my interrogation.”
“Why aren’t you doing any cultural work?”
I say: “No one has asked me to.”
He says: “Here the people themselves have to ask for work. Especially people like you whose heads are already on the chopping block.”
Then he closes the file and calls the guard over. All the way back to my cell, I hear his voice in my ears: “Already on the chopping block; already on the chopping block ...”
They come for me the following evening.
When I board the minibus, I find myself seated next to Kianuri again. It’s around ten at night when we arrive. The driver has to hand over some other prisoners and asks us to wait.
I take off my blindfold, slowly, quietly. There’s no one around. Kianuri and I are standing around in Evin on this cold night, waiting. I put on my glasses. I see the city in the distance. Life is going on. I see the road that leads away from Evin to the mountains via Darakeh. I can’t help thinking that that is the route o
ur companions have always taken to join those who are free. A cold wind is blowing. For the first time, I think of escaping from the prison. I imagine walking down the hill, jumping over the wall and running until I reach a house. I am yearning for freedom. But I have never been a hero, never had the courage for that sort of thing.
The driver eventually returns and hands us over at the prison gate. Kianuri and I are put into a solitary confinement cell. Once again I find myself sharing a cell with a leader. Years ago I shared a cell with a kind and smiling man who has now become the supreme leader of the Islamic Republic, of whom it is said there is not much kindness left. And this time I am with the powerful leader of the Tudeh Party, a man who has reverted to being a helpless child. This seventy something child is incapable of sleeping. We talk for many hours, and Kianuri speaks from the heart in a way I have never heard him speak before.
I too am feeling very strange, and find myself telling my life story to the Party leader. The same story that I told Khamenei but this time the story of Khamenei’s time in prison has been added to my story.
Then it’s his turn to tell me about his childhood. He tells me about the first time he joined the street protests, at the age of sixteen. He tells me of the painful love that came before he met Maryam and of his love for Maryam. Of his hatred of living in exile before the revolution. Of the little garden they kept in Germany, when life appeared meaningful only when he went into the garden with Maryam.
It was in the sanatorium that I saw you for the third time, Brother Hamid. One day, a crowd appears at the door. You are with Saeed Emami102 and Haj Nasser, and behind you there’s a large crowd of people dressed in civilian and military clothing.
Saeed Emami asks Kianuri: “Don’t you want to become a Muslim?”
Kianuri gives his usual response: “I’ve been a communist all my life and I am going to remain one.”
Emami says: “Tabari used to be like that.”
Kianuri answers: “I am not a liar, like Tabari. He is used to hedging his bets.”
Saeed Emami glances at Haj Nasser, who as usual has his hands in his pockets, scratching himself down there. Then he asks: “What is your opinion of the Soviet Union? It’s going downhill right now.”
Kianuri, leaning on his weaker leg, says: “That’s an American Imperialist conspiracy. If the Soviet Union is going downhill, then you’ll be next in line.”
Saeed Emami laughs mockingly, and the delegation accompanying him joins in, and they leave.
It’s December 1988. As usual, Kianuri wakes up very early in the morning. We go to the courtyard for some exercise. He’s lost weight and is very thin and gaunt. He’s always had a limp, but since the torture he was subjected to during his interrogations, he can barely lift his left hand. He resembles a dried up, barren tree trunk, the leaves and fruits of which – a hundred years of leftist movement in Iran – have fallen, leaving its bare branches shivering in the wind. He sits down and gets up with great difficulty. And each time, he calls up the name of one of those hanged.
He’s very emotional, especially when we get ready for the weekly visiting time. Early in the morning, after exercise and breakfast, like an excited teenager he presses his clothes with his shrivelled hands. He shaves carefully. He uses a pleasant eau de cologne and before the clock has even struck nine o’clock, he starts walking up and down the corridor. Then he fetches the newspaper and cuts out photographs of children and puts them in a photo album. It’s as if each and every single child is his very own child. He loves them. Every week, he takes the album to show it to Maryam. He always keeps a present for her. A flower plucked from the garden, a bit of cheese that his step-daughter, Afsaneh, has brought him.
Finally, they call us. Kianuri sets off, like a young boy in love, limping up the stairs. He talks to his step-daughters on the telephone and he’s allowed to see his wife in person for five minutes. I often see Maryam on my way up to the visitors’ room, with her long, wavy white hair under the black chador that she is forced to wear for her visit to the prison. She’s in her eighties but she still turns up, standing tall and straight and losing herself in Kianuri’s arms. When we return to our cell after the visits, we both talk about the sweetness of the meetings and the bitterness of separation in the whispered accounts of our past and our stories.
One day, Kianuri tells me: “Back in the old days, when we were young, we went to the famous museum in St Petersburg. By the stairs, located in a prominent part of the gallery, was a large painting of Muzzaffaruddin Shah. He had given his portrait as a gift to the Russian tsar. The museum guide had just started to explain the painting when Maryam said: ‘There’s no need for any explanation. My ancestry goes back to the king who’s pictured.’ ”
Another day, he was talking about Afsaneh, his step-daughter. She was trying to get a visitor’s appointment when the hated Haj Karbalaie, the official in charge of the visitors’ room, asked her: “Just who is this prisoner to you, that you are going to all this trouble to bring him cheese and medicine?”
Afsaneh had answered: “He’s the grandson of Sheikh Fazlollah Noori. And you, who are you?”
Kianuri spends most of his time learning English. He’s got hold of an easy-to-read novel and I help him. He has an extraordinary talent for learning languages and is picking up English very quickly.
He has a particular attachment to the news. When the TV or radio is available, he listens to the morning, evening and late night news. We have no radio or TV in block number 205. At exactly two in the afternoon, he walks down the stairs, limping and with much difficulty. He presses his ear against the door, trying to listen to the news on the radio belonging to the block’s guard.
One day, Kianuri comes running back from his trip downstairs to listen to the news. He kicks my side, waking me up from sleep, and says: “Get up! They are going to release us!”
He had heard the news of an amnesty for the remaining political prisoners.
On the first of January, they move us all up to the top floor. The leftists who have survived are all there. There are just nine or ten people. Most of the original five thousand103 have fallen victim to the Islamic Republic’s violent purges.
We are given a TV set and are allowed to write letters. Once a week we receive visitors. We take turns to read the only newspaper available on the block. Usually, when my turn comes, I open the newspaper without much interest, but one day the headline on the front page pierces my heart, like an arrow: “Mossad agent arrested in Tehran”.
Below the heading there’s a photograph of a woman, dressed in a white chador. The report says: “Official sources who want to remain anonymous have announced that they have arrested a Mossad spy. The woman, whose name is Sonia Zimmermann ...”
I have still not come back to my senses, when the guard comes for me and says: “Thank your lucky stars. You are going to the interrogation office.”
We walk through heavy snow. I’m only wearing slippers and my feet immediately freeze, but my head is hot from the sun. The scent of spring is in the air. Mint plants are sprouting through the snow.
As usual I am forced to wait for a while. Then I enter a room and a voice tells me to sit down. In front of me, I see a man wearing a wintry jumper with a pleasant pattern on it. I hear a voice, asking those same eternal questions. It’s as if it’s some sort of hobby for them to ask me again and again what I have been up to, when I was arrested, and how long my sentence is. I answer all the questions. Then suddenly, out of the blue: “Right. Let’s imagine we let you out. What would you do?”
It’s one of those moments when I am myself again and nothing, not even the threat of dying, could stop me. I ask: “Shall I tell the truth or lie?”
He says: “Tell us the lie first.”
I say: “I’ll join the Hezbollah. I’ll never miss a prayer. I’ll attend the Nudbah prayer. I’ll hold the Qur’an.”
The voice says: “Now, tell us the truth.”
I say: “I have nothing left in this world apart from my wi
fe, literature and beer. These are the only things of importance to me since I regained my independence in prison.”
The man stands up. He comes behind me and pats me on my shoulder: “You are the only one who has not lied to us. Just make sure not to drink too much British beer ...”
Later, when I look back on this episode and think about this sentence, I ask myself: “You idiot, what was that about?”
And the phrase, British beer, goes round and round in my head and goes back to the part of the file that had remained active.
Chapter 26
Iran of Today: The Reign of Thugs
This is my twenty-sixth and last letter, Brother Hamid. We’ve reached the final chapter, which itself is the beginning of another chapter. It’s been two years since I started writing this, spending my nights and days with you. And now the time has come to say goodbye. I don’t know why something inside me tells me that we will meet again someday, somewhere. But where? I don’t know.
Tehran’s streets, 11 February 1989
They have chosen the anniversary of the revolution for our release. There had been approximately five thousand political prisoners in Iran, though some accounts put the number nearer to seven thousand. Of those, only around four to five hundred of us survived. We have lied in court and have been spared death. Now they are freeing us, with much pomp and ceremony. The survivors have all been brought to Evin. We are put onto buses and when the large gate opens, the cameras flash. It’s a sunny day.
The buses stop in front of the United Nations’ office in Tehran and we are ordered to get out. We stand in a line, surrounded by photographers and the Revolutionary Guards Corps dressed in civilian clothing. The prisoners try to look away or cover their faces with their hands to avoid being photographed. Some of them pull down their woollen hats to cover their faces. The officials in charge, dressed in civilian clothing, run up and down the queue, swearing and sometimes hitting us to make us turn our faces towards the photographers’ lenses.
Letters to My Torturer Page 30