My Prison, My Home: One Woman's Story of Captivity in Iran

by Haleh Esfandiari

  IN THE NAME OF DEMOCRACY

  Only much later did I learn how the interviews with me, Tajbakhsh, and Jahanbegloo had been cobbled into a program, In the Name of Democracy, that was put together by the Ministry of Intelligence and broadcast in two parts and with much fanfare on Iran’s national television network on July 18 and 19.

  The program focused on the “velvet revolutions” in Ukraine, Georgia, and other former Soviet Republics. It showed footage of opposition groups planning demonstrations, organizing for elections, and toppling regimes, with Americans always hovering in the background, presumably assisting the opposition or orchestrating the revolutions.

  The camera switched from such footage to me or Tajbakhsh or Jahanbegloo talking about our work with American think tanks and the democracy promotion programs some of them sponsored. The clumsy aim of the broadcast was to suggest a link between think tank activity and the revolutions in East Europe and in the former Soviet republics. The Intelligence Ministry even spliced two disparate sentences of mine to make it appear that I was conceding that I had taken part in creating networks whose purpose was to bring about fundamental change in the Iranian system of government.

  In the Name of Democracy was universally condemned abroad as a reprehensible example of coerced “confession.” The Wilson Center denounced the broadcast as “scripted, contrived, and completely without merit.” Shaul and the Wilson Center also moved quickly to discredit the conclusions the Intelligence Ministry wished to be drawn from program. Lee Hamilton called the program “shameful.” Shaul went on the BBC to stress that I was using vocabulary not my own and to point to the dishonest manipulation and splicing of my words. In a Washington Post op-ed, my daughter, Haleh, described the program as “a KGB-style television ‘confession’…a typical secret-police job of deception, vicious in intent yet clumsily contrived.”

  But it was the response to the broadcasts in Iran that fascinated me. Iranian national television aired snippets of the program two days before the broadcast, promising sensational revelations. During the broadcast itself, two analysts—mouthpieces of the Intelligence Ministry—provided commentary, referring to me, Tajbakhsh, and Jahanbegloo as “spies.” Afterward, publications close to the Intelligence Ministry ran sensational headlines about what the program supposedly revealed about foreign plotting against Iran. But there were also indications that the regime itself was conflicted about the program, how it should be presented, and its results. On the eve of the broadcast, a spokesperson for the Ministry of Islamic Culture stressed that Tajbakhsh and I would be appearing as “experts,” and not in relation to whatever accusations had been made against us. Several courageous reformist publications ridiculed it as hype and as obvious propaganda. Even Kayhan, in a post-broadcast commentary, criticized the program as badly executed and confusing in its message to the mass of viewers. The program clearly didn’t create the impression the security agencies intended. It was supposed to vindicate my arrest and long incarceration; but it persuaded no one, and its utter failure helps explain my subsequent release.

  NEWS OF THE OUTSIDE WORLD

  In early August Haji Agha offered me a TV for my cell. I said no. Even at home I rarely watched anything except the news. I also saw the offer of a television as a bad sign. On more than one occasion, Hajj Agha had threatened to extend my detention order for another four months. The offer of a TV suggested that they were settling me in for a long stay.

  I told Hajj Agha I preferred newspapers, to which I had so far been denied access. Three newspapers were generally available to inmates of ward 209, but Kayhan had been reduced to the organ of the Intelligence Ministry and specialized in lies and character assassination. Ettela’at and Iran published with an eye to the censors. Nevertheless, Ettela’at tended to be factual and unideological, and Iran specialized in economic news. Hajj Agha agreed to allow me access to these two papers, and I began to learn something of what was going on in the outside world.

  I had asked Ja’fari whether I could get Time and Newsweek, knowing, of course, that he would refuse, but I wanted to probe all the possibilities. “No way. You will read what they write about you,” he said. “Tear out the pages about me,” I replied. “The censors tear out the pictures of skimpily dressed women.” He paid no attention to me, but he had at least revealed that the foreign press was writing about me. Still, I experienced no great lift of spirits at these bits of information. I assumed that by now Shaul and Hamilton had left no stone unturned, yet I was still in prison. I concluded that only the intervention of a very senior and powerful Iranian official could get me released, and I saw no sign that the deus ex machina I had prayed for was going to appear for me.

  One morning in early August Twiggy came to my cell and told me to put on my chador. “A man is coming to install a television.” I was furious. This was my prison, a hellhole. I didn’t want them to make it homey; I didn’t want my interrogators to boast to my mother and the world that I was comfortable and had what I needed; and I hated the idea that they were preparing to extend my incarceration at Evin.

  My request for access to the BBC and CNN only elicited a laugh, as I knew it would. In a country where satellite dishes are officially banned (although every home has a concealed or a shockingly not-so-concealed satellite dish), one can’t expect CNN in prison. I used to turn on the TV to the twenty-four-hour Persian-language news channel, which also gave news in English for a few minutes three times each day, put on my blindfold, and listen as I exercised. My eyesight had grown worse in prison, without my usual medication, and I woke up each morning with excruciating pain. I wanted to avoid too much light or additional strain on my eyes.

  During the next two or three weeks, I learned a lot about Iranian provinces and new ski resorts in Iran. I heard numerous discussions of economic issues and of developments abroad. Most foreign news broadcasts began with a couple of anti-Semitic cartoons, showing, for example, a “Jew” with a long, crooked nose being dragged through the mud. On the anniversary of Israel’s 2006 war with Lebanon, I heard the speech and an interview given by the Iranian ally and Hizbollah leader Hassan Nasrallah numerous times. He was full of praise for the Iranian regime and its support for the anti-Israeli cause. But about me, the twenty-four-hour news service was silent.

  One day I saw clips of French president Nicolas Sarkozy being received by President Bush at the Bush family compound in Kennebunkport, Maine. The clips were like a stab to my heart—for personal reasons. The previous summer, we had spent a week in Kennebunkport with Haleh; my son-in-law, John; and our grandchildren. They had rented a house and had invited us to join them. We were supposed to go again this summer. Even if the rest of the family went, I would not be there. My strength ebbed away. I looked around at the four bare walls of my cell. This was my reality. I went to a corner of the room and sat down, my head in my hands. I wondered if I would ever see my family again or be able to watch the children grow up. I berated myself for having allowed the TV in my room; I berated myself for ever having turned it on.

  A SURPRISE VISIT

  One morning, as I was washing my clothes on the small terrace, Hajj Khanum walked in. “Your mother is here,” she said. My feelings swung from disbelief to alarm and back again. I couldn’t believe that after all this time they had granted my mother a visit. The thought even crossed my mind that they had decided to execute me and were letting Mutti see me one last time. During the previous afternoon’s interrogation, Ja’fari hadn’t said a word about a visit. I put on my chador and blindfold and with a heavy heart followed Hajj Khanum down the stairs. We walked out the same door through which I had entered the prison building three months earlier. Once we stepped into the courtyard of Evin, I removed my blindfold.

  For the first time in twelve weeks, I stood in the open air. Hajj Khanum and I got in the back of a rickety Peykan. The driver and another man sat in the front seat. My eyes hungrily took in everything. This was perhaps the last day of my life, I thought. I also feared the whole thing might be a
ruse, and that I wasn’t being taken to see Mutti at all. What if they are moving me to one of their safe houses? I thought. What if they take me to a deserted place outside the city, beat me to death, and dump my body in a ditch? Such “accidents” happened in the Islamic Republic.

  The car stopped in front of a large building still in the Evin compound. After Hajj Khanum signed a batch of papers, we went down a long flight of stairs and entered a hall the size of a theater. All over the room, inmates sat at small tables talking to family members. A man came and whispered in Hajj Khanum’s ear. “Let’s go upstairs again,” she said. “No visit?” I asked, heart sinking. “No,” she said. “They decided your mother cannot manage the stairs.”

  We went into a spare, smaller room, where a woman sat behind a desk. Suddenly the door opened and Mother came in. She was bent over, holding her cane with one hand and hanging on to Nahid, my cousin Farhad’s wife, with the other. She was wearing a black robe and black scarf. She looked worn out and emaciated, her bright blue eyes tired and anxious. It broke my heart to see her this way. I took her in my arms, fighting back tears. I wanted to stay strong for her. We held on to each other. I then led her to one of the chairs arranged against the wall, not letting go of her hands. I spoke in German. I tried to comfort Mutti by telling her I was doing well. I said I had fruit, books, newspapers, and a TV. I begged her to take care of herself, to receive people, to go out and not stay at home so much. I even urged her to get her hair done.

  Mutti explained how the visit had come about after several requests for a family visit had been denied by Matin-Rassekh. “Her mother can see her on television,” he had told my cousin Farhad. But Rassekh had called Farhad that very morning and told him Mutti could visit—today. He never explained the sudden reversal. Mutti went on to say that Shirin Ebadi was acting as my lawyer but had been denied any access to Evin whatsoever. I was not surprised. I knew how much they hated her. Mutti had written a letter to the supreme leader, Ayatollah Khamenei, pleading for my release. A friend in Tehran had seen to the delivery of the letter, and Mutti knew the leader had read it. She said the trio of Shaul, Haleh, and Hayedeh were doing all they could to have me set free. She couldn’t give me any details.

  I both heard and did not hear what she was telling me. I felt numb and tired. For three months, I had tried to shut out all thoughts of home and family. I had lived in the world of ward 209, with its female guards dreaming of rash-free skin and flatter tummies, interrogators endlessly repeating the same questions, and the doctor with the ridiculous hairpiece. Now all the memories I had tried to block came rushing back.

  Besides, I did not want Mutti to see me this way. I had not seen myself in a mirror until the day of the TV “interview.” Occasionally, I caught a blurred, indistinct reflection of my face in the metal water fountain on the small terrace. But for the “interview” I had been able to look into the mirror of my powder case. I did not like what I saw: a haggard, wrinkled face, sunken eyes, uncoiffed hair, a dark blue-and-white chador and an ill-fitting black robe, threadbare from daily washing, hanging loosely on my emaciated frame. I could see in the eyes of Nahid and Mutti how shocked they were at my appearance, and I saw tears swell in Nahid’s eyes.

  When it was time to go, we kissed and I held Mutti’s wrinkled face between my hands, then bent down and put my forehead to her palms. We said good-bye. I asked Mutti to promise not to come again. I knew the long car ride, the traffic, and the heat were hard on her. I thought this was the last time I would see her.

  I walked out of the building with Hajj Khanum in tow. We didn’t exchange a word. We drove to the main building. Once again I put on my hated blindfold and climbed the stairs back to ward 209. Sour Face, with her usual contemptuous look, was on duty. I asked Hajj Khanum if I could shower. I knew all eyes were on me, and I didn’t want the guards to see me crying. In the shower, I let go of myself and cried copiously. I cried for what I had done to my mother. Instead of the calm, happy old age she deserved, she was experiencing a living hell. I felt hatred in my heart for the men who had injected this torment into our lives. Had I the power, I would have called down the wrath of God on them.

  9.

  THE RELEASE

  BY THE END OF JULY, I was in despair. I waited for good news on important religious holidays, when the leader customarily issued pardons, but the birthday of the Prophet and of Imam Ali passed and nothing happened (I should have known I was hoping in vain, as pardons are issued only after trial and sentencing). Even my guards had stopped talking of my release. I saw less and less of Ja’fari and Hajj Agha. I certainly didn’t miss them or Hajj Agha’s repeated “We are doing our best to get you released,” but to be forgotten was as bad as to be lied to.

  All the other female prisoners in ward 209 had left, and the ward was virtually empty. This meant I had greater use of the outdoor terraces, and I sat outside as long as I could, even though the weather was hot and dry. I stuck to my rigorous schedule. I rose at six each morning, gathered up the six blankets that made up my bed and the chador that served as my bed sheet, had breakfast, and exercised most of the day. But despite all the hours of pacing and stretching, flesh was hanging from my arms and legs. My hair was thinner and duller. My cheeks were sunken. When I looked in the mirror of my powder case I was startled by the wasted face I saw.

  I prayed I would be let out in time for the anniversary of my father’s death. I knew Mutti would want to go to the cemetery and, after Modarress’s betrayal, she had no one to take her. I mentioned this to Hajj Agha. His only response was “Khoda rahmatash koneh.” May his soul rest in peace. My mother, I thought to myself, was hardly in a mood to let Father rest in peace. Before my arrest I had seen her standing before a picture of my father in the apartment and mumbling to him: “Helli is your daughter. Do something for her!”

  I decided to go on a hunger strike. They would then either free me or let me die. I understood the gravity of my decision, but the thought of spending years in prison was unbearable to me. It gave me a sense of relief to have determined on a course of action. In one of my books I copied out these lines from Shakespeare’s seventy-first sonnet, for Shaul, hoping, somehow, he would see them if I was gone:

  No longer mourn for me when I am dead

  Than you shall hear the surly sudden bell

  Give warning to the world that I am fled

  From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:

  Nay, if you read this line, remember not

  The hand that writ it; for I love you so

  That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot

  If thinking on me then should make you woe.

  THE LETTER

  On the afternoon of August 2, Ja’fari summoned me for another interrogation. As usual, he walked a few steps ahead, reminding me of the turns, of a stairway here, a low ceiling there. We waited for a group of male prisoners to pass. Beneath my blindfold I could make out a line of men in standard prison jumpsuits, blindfolded like me, shuffling past, each man holding on to the shirt of the man in front.

  Ja’fari led me to the room where I had already spent so many hours. A small worn-out rug and prayer stone indicated that someone had used the room for noon prayers. I hung my chador on a wooden peg and sat facing the wall. How much I hated doing that!

  Hajj Agha came in, sent Ja’fari to get me some hot water, and asked me how I was. I told him how unwell I felt. I had a flare-up of arthritis, my fingers were swollen, and my hands were hurting. While still facing the wall, I stretched my hand behind me to show him my swollen fingers. My eyes were weaker due to the lack of eye drops and the lights that were on in my cell twenty-four hours a day. “Why am I still in jail?” I asked him. “You know very well there is nothing more I can tell you.”

  He listened patiently and then very deliberately said: “Mr. Hamilton wrote a letter. An answer to this letter has been sent. They are waiting for a reply to this answer.”

  He was maddeningly vague. He did not say to whom Hamilton had writ
ten a letter. He did not say who had answered his letter and was now waiting for a reply. He did not reveal what either of the two letters said. But from his tone, I knew something significant was under way. Hajj Agha continued: “The answer to Mr. Hamilton’s letter went to the Iranian Mission to the United Nations. It has been sitting there for some time. It hasn’t been picked up.” He clearly wanted me to comprehend the gravity of this negligence.

  For the first time during my entire ordeal, I felt as if the Wilson Center had abandoned me. A letter about me had been sitting in New York and hadn’t been picked up! How could they be so indifferent, uncaring? In my agitation, I knocked over my glass of water. It fell to the floor and shattered. “Water brings light,” Hajj Agha said, citing an Iranian proverb, meaning that spilled water is a good omen.

  For a moment, I wondered if the business about a letter was a lie to make me believe no one on the outside cared about me. I probed for more information. “Why doesn’t Mr. Khazaee fax the letter to Mr. Hamilton?” I asked.

  Mohammad Khazaee was Iran’s UN ambassador. Oddly enough, he was a graduate of George Mason University, where Shaul taught. Before taking up his present post, he had served as Iran’s representative to the World Bank, then as deputy minister of economy in Tehran. He was reputed to be close to President Ahmadinejad and to Iran’s supreme leader. His predecessor, Javad Zarif, had tried to help, but his intervention on my behalf had fallen on deaf ears. I did not know if Khazaee would act simply as a messenger, relaying messages back and forth, or if he would throw his weight behind a resolution of my case. Still, I knew there was now a channel of communication between Hamilton and the supreme leader’s office, and that gave me hope. The letter exchange could be the key to my release.

  Hajj Agha said the letter was highly confidential and for Hamilton’s eyes only. It could not be faxed or read to him over the telephone. He had to pick it up in person.