by Ava Homa
Despite vehemently denying the charges, Farzad never received a fair trial. Instead, what he received in abundance was brutal and sadistic torture at the hands of the state. He wrote:
I was beaten because I was a Kurd, because my cell phone had a Kurdish ringtone. They’d tie my hands to a chair and pressure various sensitive points of my body . . . they would remove my clothes with force and threaten to rape me with a baton or sticks . . . they would chain my feet and electrocute me.
Amnesty International reported* that Farzad suffered from spasms in his arms and legs because of repeated beatings, flogging, and electrocution. The organization also quoted Farzad’s lawyer Khalil Bahramian as saying that the trial where he was accused of “endangering national security” lasted no more than five minutes, with the judge issuing his sentence without any explanation and then promptly leaving the room. “I have seen absolutely zero evidence presented against Kamangar,” Bahramian said. “In my forty years of legal profession, I have never witnessed such a prosecution.”
In the meantime, I was in Toronto, contemplating my freedom and isolation in exile. I had achieved many of my goals—winning a scholarship from the University of Windsor to pursue my master’s degree in creative writing, signing my first book deal, and applying for immigration as a skilled worker. It was sinking in, however, that although I was not censored in Canada, I wasn’t being heard either. While appreciating my adopted home for all that it offered me, I was taken aback by just how discriminatory the job market and the publishing industry were. I had several part-time jobs and could barely afford a studio apartment or time to write. What was the point in storytelling anyway? Then I came across Farzad’s letters, which he’d been writing from his cell in a nefarious prison and had been shared on social media. I read and reread them.
One [interrogator] hit me for my ethnicity, the second for my words, the third said I had endangered national security, the fourth hit me to see where in the world my screams would reach.
I fainted and later regained consciousness in my cell. I kicked and screamed in pain and told myself that they were the signs of life. All newborns squirmed and screamed.
Farzad then quoted the legendary poet Ahmad Shamlou: “A mountain begins with its first rocks and a human with the first pain.”
Farzad was merely one of the countless thousands who have suffered excruciating torture at the hands of Iranian authorities. But he was one of the rare few who possessed the ability to safeguard his inner life: “I will eventually get out of here. ‘The butterfly that flew away in the night told me my fortune.’” He turned his pain into poetry and relied on his imagination to survive in a place that tried to annihilate his hopes before destroying his body. In one of his letters Farzad wrote about almost choking on his own blood after a severe beating. Then he heard the faint music of a wedding happening nearby. If I were he, I’d think, How are people celebrating while I’m being tortured? The very people I fought for? But no, of course he didn’t think like that. Instead, he relied on the music to leave his anguished body and imagine himself the groom, dancing with his bride, giving a toast in honor of all those who risked their lives for freedom and all the parents who were awaiting a reunion with their brave children, now kept behind bars.
That’s who Farzad Kamangar was and that’s how, on his own, and only with his words, he won millions of hearts and shook the foundations of a theocracy that fed—and feeds—on division, despair, and apathy. Farzad knew that every time people like him lost hope, submerged in self-pity, or were overcome by fear, the oppressors became a little stronger. Despite his obvious innocence—and perhaps because of his influence and resilience—on May 9, 2010, at the age of thirty-three, Farzad Kamangar was executed; alongside him Shirin AlamHoli, Farhad Vakili, Ali Eslami, and Mehdi Eslamian were hanged. Contrary to Iran’s own law, his family was not informed.
“He had such a tender soul,” Farzad’s mother later said in an interview I came across online. “He loved his students to pieces. Spring was his favorite season. He was born in the spring.” Tears stopped her from continuing. I realized he’d been killed during his favorite season.
I wailed and sobbed for hours upon hearing the news that Sunday morning, feeling thwarted and tormented, feeling guilty that political prisoners were killed and I could do nothing, feeling desperate that Kurdish women set their bodies on fire to end their torturous lives and I was helpless.
Farzad’s murder by the state left me with many questions that whirled in my head. What are you and I to do when we can neither bear to face the atrocities, nor overlook them? If I recuperated the eagerness to push on and write about the Kurds, would it be read? I had noticed that, even in North America, certain lives were valued more than others. Whose stories are heard?
Whose lives are saved? Whose losses are mourned?
What if Farzad Kamangar was released from prison but drowned in a sea on his way to imagined safety, like Alan Kurdi?
What if he survived the ocean but was detained in an immigration center where he witnessed numerous refugees commit suicide, like Behrouz Boochani, author of No Friend But the Mountains: Writing from Manus Prison?
And yet, I had just learned from Farzad that giving up was the worst idea. I believe that when humanity grows truly sick of inequality, we will push toward forming a global community, above narrow identities, and build a fierce and intensifying coalition that values all lives indiscriminately. What can get us there?
Literature cultivates our senses by humanizing the unpeople—the “ungrievable lives” in Judith Butler’s words—by encouraging us to recognize our (un)conscious human/less human binaries. Literature fuels us to bring awareness to and change our conditioning formed over thousands of years, according to which a person who looked different was equated with danger.
I saw that I was standing on the shoulders of giants, as the saying goes. When people like Kamangar fought tirelessly for justice even from inside the most wicked prisons and didn’t lose hope, there was much I could do as a free woman, despite xenophobia. There was no time for disappointment or doubts, for fear or despair.
So I picked up my pen again and have never put it down since.
I started crafting a novel, the one you’ve just read, about siblings, and in honor of one of my friends (a Kurdish activist who risks her life in Iran to save lives) I named the sister, the protagonist, Leila. At the same time, I commenced my efforts to decrease suicide rates in the Kurdish region of Iran. I have written and spoken publicly about self-immolation—including at the United Nations, the video of which is posted on my website—and I work with a reliable team who educates suicide-prevention strategies in Iran, away from the eyes of a government that wants us dead and desperate.
This novel was inspired by Farzad Kamangar’s resilience, but claims no resemblance to his actual life or family history—it is entirely fictional. Fiction imitates life, but unlike life, it is required to have a reasonable sequence of cause and effect. Fiction is expected to be sensible and have a resolution.
For example, Farzad’s body (like the bodies of many others who were executed) has not been returned for proper burial. His family visits a ceremonial grave when they miss him. They know it’s empty. They also know any part of their region could be an unidentified graveyard.
So this book only touches the tip of the iceberg. And yet, perhaps it’s no coincidence that the book is released on the tenth anniversary of his execution. Tyrants fall one after another. Farzad Kamangar and his likes transcend.
* “Special Rapporteur on the situation of human rights in the Islamic Republic of Iran,” UN Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights, March 5, 2018, https://www.ohchr.org/EN/HRBodies/HRC/RegularSessions/Session34/Documents/A_HRC_34_65_AUV.docx.
* “One Year After Execution Kurdish Political Activists Still Persecuted,” Amnesty International, https://www.amnestyusa.org/one-year-after-execution-kurdish-political-activists-still-persecuted/.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I
n the decade it took for this book to come to fruition, the only thing that was more difficult for me than writing was not writing. I had a dozen reasons to give up and yet how could I? The story demanded to be written. The story was mightier than my doubts. I am grateful to my family and friends, professionals, and institutions who supported this undertaking.
Chris Kepner, my warrior agent, I am indebted to you for fighting for this book when I had little hope left in me, for supporting diversity with more than words.
Chelsea Cutchens, my wonderful editor at The Overlook Press, your superb editing skills and your dedication to this book enriched the manuscript and most importantly warmed my heart in ways I could not have predicted. I am indebted to all you have done to guide and support my writing. You are my book’s godmother. Infinite thanks also to your entire team at ABRAMS.
Jennifer Lambert, my incredible editor at HarperCollins, thank you for having faith in me, for stirring the book with your skills and wisdom. I also extend my gratitude to publisher Iris Tupholme and to the HC team in Canada.
Ehsan Attar, my beloved, my reliable travel companion, I am truly grateful to you for sharing our life’s journey with so many invisible characters, for believing in me when I struggled to believe in myself.
My amazing editors/friends Susan Walker, Dr. Jenny Ferguson, and Dr. Brandon Moors, thank you for going through earlier drafts of the novel. For friendship, sympathies, and sharp eyes, thanks to Gavin Wolch, Karen Heading, Rachael Rifkin, Neda, Dr. Philip Loosemore, Dr. Zeinab Mcheimech, and Dr. Kamal Soleimani. My talented critique group, OC Fictionaires, it’s been delightful to be a member of such a vibrant group of professionals.
I owe thanks to my mentor David Bezmozgis, PEN Canada, and the Humber School for Writers for the scholarship, to the Joy Kogawa Historic House and the George Brown College for the residencies, and to the Toronto and Ontario Arts Councils for the grants.
Ako and Azad, my brilliant brothers, I have loved you ever since I have known you. Together, you’re my muse.
To my family and relatives whom I miss dearly in the cruelty of exile, your love has put borders and distance to shame. I cherish you with all my heart and I know that we will meet again one day. To my new family in Canada and the US, your love gave me back the home I thought I lost.