“This place is covered with surveillance cameras,” she said. “If you are caught talking, it will cause problems.”
We exchanged brief greetings with the ladies and then sat down.
Next to us were two handsome young men in suits. They heard us talking to a couple of lawyers in the room about our charges and started asking questions.
“Why have you been arrested?”
“Because we are Christians,” I said.
“Really!” one of the men exclaimed. “What a charge! They have no mercy on anybody. How did they know you were Christians? Were you involved in any church activities?”
At that moment, our guard told the man with all the questions to stand up. She then took his seat next to Maryam, leaned over to us, and said quietly, “These are plainclothes secret police, the basiji. They are trying to collect damaging information about you.” This guard from Vozara had sympathy for us and was trying to protect us.
A group of men came in, some walking only with difficulty. They had been arrested with the women at the bakery and badly beaten by the basiji. The basiji who had hit them were the two handsome young men talking to us.
The ladies went into the courtroom, declared their innocence, and told the judge they wanted to file complaints against the basiji. The judge replied that if they would not file any complaints, he would release them on bail. If they insisted on pressing charges, they would stay locked up. The ladies were so relieved at the prospect of being released that they agreed to the deal. However, as so often happens in Iranian courts, the charges were not officially dropped. Once the bail was paid, the women were free to go, but the charges against them remained on the books indefinitely, in case the government wanted to pressure them in the future.
Every judge in the Revolutionary Court has a large, impressive office. We were called into the office of a fat, pompous man with a dark beard. He was Mr. Sobhani, the judge for the Revolutionary Court who had received our case from Mr. Rasti at police headquarters. He had a red mark on his forehead that devout Muslims get when they pray for long periods with a prayer stone pressed against their brow. However, I could tell that, like others we knew, he had heated the stone before using it. That made a red mark right away, displaying his devout status without all that time-consuming prayer. He wore a huge ring inscribed with verses from the Koran. On the wall were photos of Iranian soldiers fighting and dying, some of them covered with blood. There were photos of Ayatollah Khomeini, who had seized power from the Shah in 1979, and Ayatollah Khamenei, the current supreme leader of Iran. Some of the pictures looked to be of Sobhani himself. The courtroom was a monument to martyrs for Islam. The judge wrote out a list of questions for each of us and ordered us to write the answers without talking to each other. They were the same questions we had already answered many times, and our answers were practically identical:
Do you accept the charge of advertising activities against the regime and insulting religious authorities? No.
Do you accept the charge of promoting Christianity in Iran? No.
Do you accept the charge of distributing Bibles and evangelizing in a restaurant in Tehran? No. We gave New Testaments only as gifts to people who asked for them. We did not initiate conversations about Jesus with anyone in a restaurant.
What church do you go to? We do not go to a church in Iran.
Which church have you been baptized in? Assemblies of God (Maryam) and Pentecostal (me).
We continued on to the end, and then signed and fingerprinted our answers.
Back in the car, as the driver navigated the heavy noontime traffic, I assumed we were returning to the detention center. Instead, we were taken to the Gisha police station and soon found ourselves face-to-face again with our old friend Mr. Rasti.
“I hope you’ve been thinking carefully,” he said, nibbling on a piece of bread. “Have you?”
I wondered if he knew how hungry we were, or if he always ate in front of prisoners.
“What should we have been thinking of?” Maryam asked.
“About telling us what we want to know about you and your activities, people you have worked with. We have other ways of getting prisoners to communicate. Tell us what we want or we will beat you. You might as well tell us now and save yourselves.”
Mohammadi, the officer who had searched our apartment, came in with little signs and a camera. We had to hang the signs around our necks and have our pictures taken. The signs said, “Marziyeh Amirizadeh, accused of promoting Christianity in Iran,” and “Maryam Rostampour, accused of promoting Christianity in Iran.” We thought it was an honor to be identified that way, and we both smiled broadly for the photos, which made Mr. Rasti grumpy. We were supposed to be afraid, but his tactics weren’t having the desired effect.
“I have checked your laptop and read all the evidence against you,” he said sternly. “You must tell us everything about people you have contact with, which organizations you work with. Otherwise, we will lock your hands and feet together and beat you until you die. Think about that as you prepare for your interrogation.”
Pushing back abruptly from the table, he walked out, leaving us with “Mr. Truth,” the first policeman we’d met at Gisha the day of our arrest.
Mr. Haghighat took us to the basement of the police station to await our interrogation. It was a dark, damp, filthy room, reeking with the all-too-familiar smell of defective plumbing. As we eventually discovered, there actually wasn’t any plumbing at all; the toilet was simply a hole in the floor. Roaches scampered around the opening and up the walls. It was cold, so we grabbed a couple of dirty blankets and wrapped ourselves up on the floor, huddling together for warmth. Who could have imagined that such a big, impressive-looking building contained such a squalid room? Of all the places we were imprisoned in the months ahead, this turned out to be the worst.
Despite our earlier bravado, we were afraid. For all we knew, this could be our last day on earth. We held hands and prayed to the Lord to calm our hearts. Our greatest fear was that we would break and say things outside of God’s will. We prayed for strength. We wanted our captors to see that we were confident and brave. If we are tortured, give us the power to stand fast.
Praying made us feel better. Famished and exhausted, we fell asleep, even as we waited for the sound of death at the door.
The rattle of a key in the lock woke me with a start. Maryam and I held each other silently as footsteps approached. But instead of the rough-looking character we expected, a female guard came in with two young women, both of them crying. The women were sisters who had been arrested for using GoldQuest, an Internet business networking site that had been banned in Iran. After allowing us to pray for them, one of them said, “You are like angels in this place. How do you stay so calm and strong?”
“It isn’t our strength,” I explained. “Only the Lord is strong enough to get us through this.” Within an hour or two, we were talking like lifelong friends. We held hands and prayed together. When we finished, the sisters kept right on praying.
We heard a key in the lock again and at the same time, the rant of a very familiar voice. Leila! The sight of her, screaming and struggling against the guard, petrified the sisters. I told them not to worry.
“We know her,” I said. “She looks rough, but she has a tender heart. She told us she has a husband and a son.”
Leila was overjoyed to see us. Somehow she had gotten down to the basement cells with a whole box of tangerines. She shared them with us and the sisters. Within a few minutes, we had gobbled them all down.
“We thought you were being released,” I said. That’s what she had told us when she left for court that morning. Her husband was coming to pay her bail and get her out.
“I thought so too,” she answered. “But these bastards won’t let me out unless my husband shows them a birth certificate or wedding certificate proving he’s responsible for me. He said he couldn’t find them and was going to bring them this afternoon. He’s not here, so he can go
die!”
“How about a cigarette?” she shouted toward the door. When there was no answer, she shouted again.
Finally, a guard appeared and said, “Shut up! Your husband should come and get you.” As a married woman, Leila couldn’t be released except to her husband, according to the law.
“Go to hell, coward!” Leila screamed. “Damn you and damn your Islamic religion! Death to you and to the regime!” The guard disappeared without a word.
As the day went on, Leila was told that if she could come up with bail money of 30,000 tomans (fifteen dollars), they would let her out. She had some of the money, and when I offered her the rest, she shouted for the guards to release her. But it was all a cruel joke, and they ignored her pleas. There had been no bail offer; the guards were only teasing. Later, they told her that her husband was on the way, and she cried with happiness at the news. But that, too, was a joke. Finally, they got him on the telephone for her. We could hear the two of them arguing before Leila hung up on him with a curse.
Completely spent by her raving, she fell asleep with her head in my lap. Maryam and I both stroked her hair like she was a child. Goodness knows how long it had been since anyone had touched her with kindness and compassion. The sisters looked on amazed as she slept. It was such a contrast to her wild behavior to see this hard-looking, tough-talking, violent woman resting so peacefully.
When it was time for the guards to go home for the night, they couldn’t leave as long as we were there, so they sent us back to Vozara. They handcuffed the five of us together, which meant that when one of us stumbled, we all fell. This prompted another string of curses from Leila. It was nearly midnight, so traffic was light, enabling the prison van to fly through the city streets, careening around corners, throwing us around in the back like a load of vegetables.
Despite the late hour, Elena and Shirin were waiting for us at Vozara with another supply of chocolate and juice. This time, we hid them under our clothing to eat later. This was when we first learned that others had heard about our arrest and were trying to help. In the days to come, our sisters would be our lifeline to the outside world. As our case became known, we hoped that news of Christians being threatened with torture or death by the Islamic regime would encourage the faithful to pray for us and work for our release. We hoped this meant our freedom was coming soon.
Inside Vozara, we were asked a now-familiar series of questions, this time by the warden of the detention center, before they allowed us back into our cell. Were we born Christians or did we convert? Why did we reject Islam? Why did we give out Bibles?
After some more questions, the warden demanded, “Who are you?!”
“I am a daughter of God,” Maryam answered.
“Then I must be his son, right?” he replied sarcastically.
“Right!” Maryam said triumphantly.
The official jumped up, livid with rage. “Blasphemy! Stop with your blasphemy against Islam! Stop! Stop!”
His reaction frightened one of the guards, who advised Maryam to stop arguing. “These are dangerous people,” she whispered. “You gain nothing by making them angry.”
“The court will decide,” the warden continued. “Then you’ll see what’s what!”
We went to the familiar detention cell block, chose a couple of stinky blankets, and wrapped ourselves up on the floor. We were both too exhausted to think. Images and experiences of the day swirled around inside my head like a crazy kaleidoscope. Yet we had survived so far! Without a bed, without a meal, without even a hint of justice, we had been spared by the mercy of God. I had no idea what the Lord had planned for us the next day. I only knew that whatever it was, His grace would be sufficient.
CHAPTER 5
NEW FRIENDS, OLD QUESTIONS
Marziyeh
Monday, March 9, began with Leila’s usual racket, though it was affecting us less every day because we were getting used to it and because we were waking up weaker from lack of food and exercise. The guard called out the names of women to be taken to court. The GoldQuest sisters were called, along with Sayeh, still disheveled and dirty. She asked us to pray to Jesus that she would go to social services and have a clean place to sleep. Leila was also called. The guards told her that since her husband had not come for her, she would be transferred to Evin Prison. The news threw her into a rage. Evin was notorious as a place where people who committed crimes against Islam—which were also crimes against the regime—were held indefinitely, often tortured, and sometimes killed. She was going there simply because her three days in detention were up. Now she would have a prison record for the rest of her life. As she left, she stopped screaming insults and obscenities long enough for us to say good-bye and wish her well.
Our three days of detention were more than up. If Leila was headed to Evin, we might be sent there too. But we had no news and didn’t know what was next.
Only a handful of prisoners remained after roll call, including Sahar, the attractive young runaway with the close-cropped hair, and a new arrival we were anxious to meet, named Masomeh, a short, beautiful woman with friendly looking eyes. While the other women talked, Maryam and I started cleaning the cells and toilets. We had taken this on as our regular morning job. We asked the guards if we could clean around their office too. They were shocked that we would offer, and gladly accepted. If we did the work, it meant they didn’t have to. The guards got their drinking water from the kitchen, which was off-limits to the prisoners. We asked permission to go to the kitchen for a drink. When they said yes, we were overjoyed, drinking our fill straight from the tap because we didn’t have a glass. It was the first water we’d had in four days. We drank at least a pitcher each!
“You two are not like the other prisoners,” one of the guards told us. “How did you end up here? What are the charges against you?” After we explained, she said, “You’re too good to be here. It’s a shame for innocent people like you to be locked up. I hope they release you soon.”
Another guard, who had overheard part of our conversation, asked, “What are they here for?” When the first guard told her, she went berserk, flailing her hands at us and shouting, “They deserve to be in detention!” With surprising strength, she pushed us roughly down the hall into our cell and locked the door.
A little while later, we were taken outside the cell block to an office where two male inspectors and two female guards awaited us.
“What is your charge?” one of the men asked.
“Christianity,” Maryam answered.
He looked at us with disbelief. “Christianity is not an offense.”
“We were not born Christians. We converted eleven years ago.”
“Oh, you converted! And are you advertising it too?”
“Yes, with friends and family who want to know more about Jesus.”
The same familiar questions followed, as they had so many times before. The man said he wanted to know more about Jesus and the Bible because he might want to convert.
“Do you know Jesus?” Maryam asked.
“Yes,” the man said. “He is one of the prophets.”
“We believe that Jesus is the Son of God and the Savior of humankind, not just a prophet. He sacrificed Himself for our sins and rose from the dead.”
“So you do not believe in Mohammed and the other prophets?”
“No, but I respect everyone’s point of view.”
To my astonishment, there were tears in the man’s eyes. Looking down at the papers in front of him, he said quietly, “You don’t need to tell anyone else what you have told me. It will cause problems for you.” He then asked about our trip to the Revolutionary Court and what conditions were like in the cell block at Vozara. We told him how bad things were.
“But wherever the Lord puts us is the best place for us to be, even if it’s here,” I added.
“Be strong and hold on to your faith,” he murmured. “I hope you will soon be free.”
Back in our cell block, we introduced ourselves to some
of the new prisoners. One was a short, chubby woman who had been arrested for check fraud. When we began sharing our story, she started to cry. “I believe in Jesus too,” she said softly so no one else would hear. “A few years ago, in Sweden, I went to church and was baptized. I know about Jesus and His teaching, but I’ve never read the Bible.” She asked us to pray for her, which we were glad to do.
Masomeh, the friendly looking woman we had hoped to meet earlier, turned out to be flinty and prideful. It’s amazing how wrong first impressions can be. She reminded us that it’s hard to know someone by their face alone. We had developed an idea of her character from her appearance and trusted her at first, but as we got to know her better, we saw a truer picture. Masomeh told us that her father was a martyr who had died fighting against Iraq. She didn’t like her stepfather and had moved out to live on her own, supported by her father’s inheritance. She had become involved in lesbian relationships with two women, who had accepted her money and favors but left her heartbroken. She later began a relationship with a man, lavishing gifts on him, including furniture and a car. Then one night the security police burst in on them in her bedroom. The rest of her story came out later: She had set the man up because he was wealthy. She told the police when they would be together and used her influence as the daughter of a martyr to convince the judge to order the man to marry her. When he appeared in court later that day, it was apparent he had already been lashed.
Emboldened by Masomeh’s story, Sahar gave us more of her own history. She said she was sixteen and had a boyfriend who sent sex workers to Dubai. She wanted to go, too, but her brother found out and shaved her head and beat her. She ran away and was arrested. Her plans were to reconnect with her boyfriend as soon as she was released and get a job in Dubai. We tried to talk her out of it, but for her this was a ticket to freedom and financial independence.
Sex was a very popular topic in prison. It was impossible to know how much of what we heard was true and how much was bluster. Another new inmate, Tannaz, a sixteen-year-old girl from the city of Mashhad, wore skinny jeans and a revealing black top. She had been arrested while having sex in a park. She boasted that she had police files all over the country. When she heard our story, she declared that we must be executed as infidels. “My sins can be forgiven,” she said harshly to us, “but you sinned against Allah, and that can never be forgiven!”
Captive in Iran Page 6