“Well, what do you want me to do?” I asked. He suggested I tell my mother to pass a message to Shaul: Hamilton must go to New York and take delivery of the letter. “This is important,” he said.
I did not think Mutti would understand the complications of this letter exchange in Persian. I told Hajj Agha I would have to talk to her in German. He agreed and added, “The sooner you are released, the sooner we can get back to our normal lives,” as if I had been detaining them all this time.
Rashti was on duty when Ja’fari took me back to the ward. He told her I could call my mother and speak in a foreign language. The significance of this break in protocol registered instantly; even Rashti sensed something was afoot. We went straight to one of the phones outside the ward. Mutti was excited to hear me speak to her in German. I could hear her frantically taking notes as I spoke and I imagined the huge capital letters she would have to use due to her rapidly failing eyesight. She would then read her notes to my sister, Hayedeh, in German, and Hayedeh would translate the message for Shaul. I put the phone down. Rashti looked at me with a silent question in her eyes: “Any hope?”
“Maybe we have a goshayesh—an opening,” I said.
I was asked to call Mutti again the next night, on August 3. She had spoken to Shaul, and learned something of the background to the letter exchange. Hamilton had written to Ayatollah Khamenei at the end of June. A month later, near the end of July, Hamilton received a call from Ambassador Khazaee in New York. A letter had been received from the office of the leader for Hamilton, Khazaee said, but he had to pick it up in person. Hamilton, about to go out of town on a speaking tour, said he would drop everything and come to New York. But he was told there was no urgency. It was a puzzling reply, given the weight Tehran now attached to the letter. Clearly, there had been a miscommunication. Hamilton may not have understood that Khazaee was engaging in Persian ta’aroff—excessive courtesy—and was leaving it to Hamilton to say he would come immediately. Shaul had now told Hamilton that the letter could be important, and Hamilton planned to go to New York; but it was already Friday; the mission was closed Saturday and Sunday and Khazaee was engaged all day Monday. Hamilton was scheduled to go to New York on the following Tuesday, August 7.
Sunny Face summoned Ja’fari for me—he and Hajj Agha wanted to know as soon as I heard from Mutti—and ten minutes later we stood face-to-face at the iron door of the women’s block of ward 209, I in my robe and scarf but without a blindfold or chador, he in his checkered shirt and sandals. I told him Hamilton was going to New York on August 7 to get the letter from the leader. He corrected me: a letter, he said, not from the rahbar but from the rahbari, meaning not from the leader but from the leader’s office. He and Hajj Agha carefully adhered to this form of words in subsequent exchanges with me. It clearly was important to them.
I thought about what this parsing of language meant. The leader, I assumed, was considered too important to get involved in such mundane matters as my detainment. Besides, this precise formulation offered deniability. Hamilton’s letter had persuaded Khamenei to take steps to end my ordeal. It came from an American of standing in Washington. It was a personal appeal. My incarceration had dragged on, and the adverse publicity was damaging Iran’s international standing. Khamenei probably decided it was time he stepped in to bring the case to an end. However, if anything went wrong, if there was an uproar in Iran and the decision had to be reversed, the supreme leader would be protected. He would not have been directly involved.
I was to call Mutti on August 7 to find out what happened during Hamilton’s meeting with Khazaee in New York. It seemed so far away. Haleh, John, and the children would already be in Kennebunkport. They were staying for two weeks, and I dreamed of getting out soon enough to join them, to walk with them by the sea, and to take the children for breakfast at the pancake place near the house where they were staying. I had a fantasy of walking into the house unannounced and surprising them all.
The next four days were the longest of my stay in Evin. My mood oscillated wildly between hope and despair. At one moment I pictured myself on a plane heading for home; in the next moment, I saw myself pacing my cell week after week and month after month, in timeless, Sisyphian futility. In the morning I imagined Hajj Agha handing me my Iranian passport and telling me I was free to go; in the afternoon I pictured him apologizing yet again that another gereh, or hitch, had developed and he could not set me free. I had trained myself in Evin to avoid such thoughts and mood swings, and not to hope in order not to despair. What, I now asked myself, had happened to my iron discipline?
On the seventh, I impatiently counted the hours before calling Mutti. We spoke in German. She had heard from Shaul. Hamilton, she said, had been to New York. He had met with the ambassador, read the letter in Khazaee’s office, and replied orally. The meeting was positive and they were all very hopeful, she said.
To me, this all sounded very vague and not the clear break in my case I had desperately begun to believe in. I experienced a sharp letdown. I had maintained my fortitude in front of my guards and interrogators, but I was feeling physically unwell and increasingly fearful I wouldn’t be able to hang on much longer. I broke a rule never to cause Mutti anxiety about my health. I needed to convey to her and to Shaul my sense of urgency. I also wasn’t sure how much longer I would be allowed to speak to Mutti in German. I told her the ugly growth on my arm had become enlarged and I feared it could be a tumor. My arthritis had grown worse and my eyesight was weaker. I also managed to tell her in coded language that I had lost twenty pounds—one-fifth of my body weight. We hung up.
This time Twiggy located Ja’fari and I told him what Mutti had said about the New York meeting. He, Hajj Agha, and their superiors at the Intelligence Ministry now knew Hamilton’s mission to New York had been accomplished.
THE DELAY
For the next several days, I did not see Hajj Agha or Ja’fari—surely not a good sign. On the phone, Mutti too sounded exhausted and in poor health. The bits of news I picked up were not encouraging. In Ettela’at I read two brief references to me. The head of the Supreme National Security Council, Ali Larijani, told reporters he expected my case to be brought to conclusion soon and that “we don’t want to keep her,” or words to that effect. But I no longer believed anything Iranian government officials said. Separately, the spokesperson for the judiciary told the press that I still had some written work to do before my files could be completed. The information he gave out was incorrect. I had no written work to finish. Besides, if the Intelligence Ministry was about to hand my case over to the judiciary, this could mean formal charges, a trial, and a guilty verdict. Given the accusations against me, a sentence could mean anything from twenty years to penalty of death.
There was worse news. Pacing in my cell while listening to television news in mid-August, I heard that the Bush administration was about to designate Iran’s Revolutionary Guards a terrorist organization. Whatever the reasons for this decision, I knew Kian Tajbakhsh and I would pay a price. The regime would see our release as giving the appearance of softening under American pressure. For the first time, I felt like a disposable chess piece in a contest between Iran and the United States. Iran wanted to use me as a bargaining chip; the United States, engaged in an undeclared war with Iran and focused on its global interests, would not stop to consider the impact of its decisions on the fate of a single individual.
Athlete announced she was taking a few days off and came to the door of my cell to say good-bye. “I hope you won’t be here when I get back,” she said. I asked Hajj Khanum whether she too was going on a holiday. “Not as long as you are here,” she said. “Then, I shall be keeping you company for a long time,” I said. I was feeling desperate. Nothing was moving. Matin-Rassekh might renew my detention order for another four months or, at best, issue an order transferring me from ward 209 to the general ward for women prisoners. I would be out of the clutches of the Intelligence Ministry but, oddly enough, I did not welcome the p
rospect of becoming an “ordinary” prisoner or being lost in the general prison population. I would have to share a cell with other inmates, and I would be allowed to bathe and call my mother only once a week. Here I at least had privacy, and I had imposed on the deadening dullness of ward 209 a rhythm and order that allowed me to survive.
On August 18 or 19, Hajj Agha showed up without Ja’fari. He met me, in my blindfold, by the iron door of the ward and led me to one of the interrogation rooms next to the dispensary. He said he wanted to review the Wilson Center’s relationship with the Soros Foundation, using the singular form, as he always did, and the Open Society Institute; he also asked, as he had on many occasions before, how well I knew the OSI associate director, Anthony Richter. He was reviewing material we had covered many times before, but he said he wanted to make sure that I hadn’t left out anything.
I was facing the wall; but behind me I could hear the rustling of paper as he leafed through my file, going over the responses I had given to earlier questions. In a matter-of-fact tone, he proclaimed, yet again, that I had been an unwitting pawn in the hands of the Wilson Center, and that the center and other think tanks were engaged in a plan to overthrow the Islamic Republic. I had heard the same tired accusations countless times. I felt so weary, I did not even bother to refute them.
Hajj Agha was by turns conciliatory and threatening. First he said, “We are satisfied that you did not know,” as if wrapping things up. Then he claimed: “The Islamic Republic is merciful, and we are giving you one last chance to tell what you have kept from us.” I insisted I had nothing to add. The session did not last long. As we got up to leave, my heart sank at the fact that he had said nothing about the exchange of letters between Hamilton and the leader’s office. He had not mentioned Larijani’s comment—“We don’t want to keep her.” He had not mentioned the Bush administration’s designation of the Revolutionary Guards as a terrorist organization. Most important, he made no mention of my possible release. He led me back to the ward. All I had seen under the blindfold were his hairy hands. Once again, I felt a powerful urge to look up, to have him look me in the face. But that was not possible.
“YOU MUST BE JOKING”
Two or three days later, I was doing my afternoon exercises in my cell, standing as close as possible to the door and its peephole to catch the bit of cool air from the air conditioner in the hallway. I had decided not to think about the letter. Two weeks had passed since Hamilton had been to New York, and there was still no movement in my case. Don’t raise your hopes, I told myself. You’re here to stay. Hajj Khanum came in and told me to prepare for interrogation. The interruption annoyed me. At the door of our block, Ja’fari gave me his elongated, polysyllabic salaaaam.
“Che ajab?” I asked. Why the visit? “Hajj Agha wants to see you,” he said.
I sat in the interrogation room, facing the wall. Hajj Agha walked in. “Salaam,” he said. “How are you?” I went through a long litany of my physical ills. “I am sick,” I said. “But what is the point of complaining about my health to you?”
“I have good news for you,” he said. “You can go home.”
I sat bolt upright in my chair. I felt giddy with anticipation. “Shookhi mi konid,” I said. You must be joking. “No,” he replied. “I am serious. You can go home—right now.” In my excitement I half rose in my chair and could hear Hajj Agha swiftly turning his back to me. I laughed. “Don’t worry,” I said, “I know I am not supposed to see you.” I inquired about bail. Hajj Agha said only, “Don’t worry. All the conditions to allow you to go home have been met.” I asked to call my mother to tell her I am coming home. “She is already here, waiting for you,” Hajj Agha replied. It finally sunk in: this was for real; it was not a ruse or cruel trick. The narrow, suffocating interrogation room seemed suddenly larger; instead of pressing down on me, the walls seemed to be moving back; the ceiling seemed to be rising. Finally, I had room to breathe.
Hajj Agha was getting ready to leave: “I will call you at home,” he said.
“Will I get to see you outside prison?” I asked. I wanted so much to look into his face, to see if I could detect any sign of remorse in his eyes. He repeated the words he had used during my first week in prison: “Sharmandeh.” To my shame. In other words, I am sorry, no. He left. I too got up and was about to walk out of the interrogation room when I heard Ja’fari’s loud “Kojaaa?”, the a elongated as always. “Where do you think you’re going?” I realized that in my excitement I was walking out without my chador and blindfold. I put them on.
I would have run back to the ward had I not feared crashing into a wall or another blindfolded inmate. Hajj Khanum answered the buzzer at the door. “Azad shodam,” I told her. I am free. For four months, I had prayed for this moment, and I could not leave ward 209, Evin Prison—and Iran—fast enough. I quickly went about my business, asking for two large garbage bags, which Twiggy brought from the back room. I removed my scarf and robe and threw them in the bags. I gathered every item of clothing in my cell; they went into the garbage bag, too, to be thrown away. Twiggy, thoroughly excited, had brought my handbag and a pair of trousers, a T-shirt, a robe, and a scarf I had set aside for the day I was freed. I dressed, determined to walk out wearing nothing bearing the mark or odor of Evin. Having lost twenty pounds, I had to hold up the trousers with a safety pin. I chose a blue scarf rather than the black scarf I had worn every day since my incarceration. I even used some face powder on my cheeks.
Hajj Khanum walked back in: “Where are your discharge papers?” A jolt of panic shot through my body. No one had given me any papers. Sour Face, who had been glaring at me, looked gleeful: “You cannot leave without an official discharge; and it has to be in writing,” she said. Hajj Khanum pushed her aside and went out to make a phone call. I put Tajbakhsh’s books in a pile and mine in a plastic bag. Twiggy brought my clean underwear from the clothesline on the terrace. These went straight into the garbage bag, too. I wanted nothing that belonged to the prison to touch my body again. I wanted to erase all Evin’s traces; I wanted to be clean again. I set aside only a couple of T-shirts and pants that I had never worn in prison and a few personal items to take home with me.
Hajj Khanum returned. Everything was in order, she said, but I had to sign a receipt, confirming the return of my handbag with its contents and money intact. I also had to fill out a questionnaire regarding prison conditions: the cell, the food, the medical attention, the general hygiene, and how I had been treated. I gave the prison guards a glowing evaluation, then I embraced each guard in turn, even Sour Face. I asked Hajj Khanum to say good-bye to Athlete, Rashti, and Sunny Face for me. With her finger, Hajj Khanum traced the name of Imam Ali on my forehead, as she had done when I went for my TV interview and sometimes even when I went for interrogation. It was a form of blessing, a prayer for protection.
Twiggy took charge of my bags. For the first time since entering Evin, I walked out of the ward without a chador or blindfold. As we moved toward the exit, I saw a group of incoming prisoners: they stood blindfolded and facing the wall, anxious and disoriented—grown men and women reduced, like children, to helplessness.
We stepped out into the hot sun of the prison courtyard. Twiggy and I got into a white car that was waiting for us; Ja’fari followed in a new Peugeot. We stopped at the building where I had met my mother two weeks earlier. Inside, a crowd of prisoners were waiting to be discharged. Twiggy, suddenly authoritative, went to the top of the line and handed over my discharge papers. There were other papers to be signed; I was fingerprinted again. We were soon done with the formalities. I walked with Twiggy across the cobblestones toward the great iron gates of Evin.
I walked out of the gates that I had entered nearly four months earlier. It was only late afternoon, but I felt I was stepping out of darkness into sunlight. The hulking prison, with its gray walls and barbed wire, its cells and interrogation rooms, which had been my prison and my home for 105 days, was now behind me.
Outside the
gate, a television camera crew was waiting. A reporter stuck a microphone in my face. “How do you feel?” I thought it a most stupid question. Any released inmate feels the same. “I feel wonderful,” I said. I thanked the people who made my freedom possible, without mentioning any names. The reporter persisted: How did the prison authorities treat me? What was solitary confinement like? How was the food? I was impatient to go, but wanted to handle this last ritual with composure and dignity. I told the reporter I had dealt only with the prison guards, and they were helpful and courteous. Solitary confinement was hardly pleasant. The prison food was good. Jay-e shoma khali, I was tempted to add, a Persian expression meaning, Your place was empty beside us, or Wish you were there. When he asked me once again whether I was happy to be out, I replied, “Yes. But I will be much happier if you let me rejoin my family.”
I had seen Mutti a little way off, cane in hand, holding on to Nahid and waiting for me. I ran toward her and took her in my arms. She let go of Nahid and held on to my arm. I kissed her and Nahid. I turned back to embrace and say good-bye to Twiggy and waved good-bye to Ja’fari. He stood alone by his Peugeot, the usual smirk on his face, as if to say, “This is not good-bye; you’re not yet free from our clutches; I will be seeing you again soon.”
In the car, Mutti, Farhad, and I began to piece together the events preceding my release. A few days earlier Farhad had phoned the investigative magistrate to request another visit for Mother, since she was very concerned about my health. The magistrate, Matin-Rassekh, insisted he could discuss my health only with my mother, but when she called he was curt and cutting. She mentioned my deteriorating health. He said there was nothing wrong with me. She reminded him that she hadn’t heard from me for four days. He snapped, “That is not very long.” She asked when I would be set free; he replied, “Whenever her work is finished” and when she pointed that out they had held me in prison for more than three months already, he replied, “Hamineh ke hast,” a rude expression in Persian that means, That is the way it is. In effect, he was telling my mother that there was nothing she could do about it.
My Prison, My Home: One Woman's Story of Captivity in Iran Page 21