Mr. Mosavat was livid, his voice strained, his fury scarcely under control. “So I suppose you are not looking forward to your release.”
“No one would want to stay in this place,” I replied. “But I respect God’s will above my own, and I think His will has been for me to come into this prison to witness the suffering and injustice here. You are not fighting me. You are fighting the will of God. In the end, His truth will prevail.”
“I have to go away for a week,” Mr. Mosavat said. “I advise you to carefully rethink your position until I return. This is in your own interest.”
“I will think about it,” I said, “and you’d better think about it too. If you’re such an expert in Christianity and know all about the Bible, have you ever read the story of Paul?”
“Who’s Paul?”
“If you don’t know who Paul is, there’s no way you could have read the Bible. Paul arrested and tortured Christians on behalf of his government. One day, the Lord appeared to him as a blinding light on the road to Damascus and challenged his brutal acts of repression. After that, he became Jesus’ most important supporter. Eventually, he sacrificed his life for the gospel. Think about the years you’ve been persecuting Christians the way Paul did, and how you might one day see the light as Paul saw it.”
“I’ll think about it,” Mr. Mosavat said. “And you think about why most Christians get out of prison in a week or two but you’re still here.”
MARYAM
While Marziyeh was being questioned by Mr. Mosavat, I sat alone in my tiny room, listening to their conversation. Blindfolded and facing the wall, I thought of all the women who had sat in this chair. Had Shirin and Silva been in this spot? It was probably where Shirin had sat blindfolded when she was slapped until she was dizzy.
While I waited, I answered the long list of written questions, beginning with how I had been arrested and who had arrested me. I peeked under the bottom of my blindfold so I could see the pages to write.
Behind me, I heard two people enter the room. One of them took the questions and answers from me.
“Miss Rostampour,” the voice of Mr. Mosavat said reassuringly, “I am here to help you. Unfortunately, the people who arrested you are a fanatical group, and it has taken us this long to get your case and fight them on your behalf. This is an intelligence case, not a security case. We only ask you to cooperate so we can close your file and release you and your friend as soon as possible.
“Miss Rostampour, I have seen these questions already and studied your answers from before. You previously confessed that you owned a large number of Bibles and were active in spreading Christian propaganda.”
“We had only a few New Testaments among our personal belongings,” I answered. “And anyway, are you sure those answers are mine?”
“What do you mean? Didn’t you answer the questions? Christians don’t lie!”
“Mr. Rasti at the police station asked me the questions aloud and wrote down my answers himself,” I explained. “I had to sign the statement without being allowed to read it. Therefore, I refute everything put down in writing, because I don’t know what he wrote.”
Mr. Mosavat and the man who was with him were stunned into momentary silence. Then they spoke angrily to each other about how stupid Mr. Rasti was. Mr. Mosavat’s cool façade slipped for a moment, before he brought it back under control. “If that is true,” he said calmly, “we’ll have to ask the questions all over again, and you must answer in your own handwriting so you cannot deny it this time.”
“I don’t mind.”
There were some new questions this time around. “Why did your sister give an interview to Voice of America? Did she tell the truth? Were you really sick?”
I tried to hide my surprise and excitement. This was the first time Marziyeh or I had any idea that someone on the outside, other than our sisters and friends, knew about our situation. Voice of America is a worldwide news and information network, uncensored by the Iranian government and heard and seen in secret by people all over Iran.
“Yes,” I said. “I still have symptoms of my infection, and my hearing is still damaged. If my sister were in here and I were in her place, a TV interview is the least of what I would do.”
“Do you know that talking to foreign TV reporters is a crime?” Mr. Mosavat demanded sternly. “We could put her in prison for this. But we understand she did it only out of concern for you. We know she is a member of a church and has been baptized. Be sure we would have arrested her already if we intended to do so.”
Suddenly he sounded concerned. “If you still feel ill, you can go to the doctor here in 209.”
“No, thank you. I had all the prison doctoring I want in Ward 2.”
“You sound upset. What did they do to you there? Tell us and we will investigate.”
“You are totally aware of the situation there and at Vozara—the malnutrition and mistreatment. Why pretend to be ignorant? The health and lives of prisoners are worthless to you—”
“They are convicts,” Mr. Mosavat snapped, interrupting me, “and they should be treated as such! You two, on the other hand, are distinguished ladies and shouldn’t be kept with prisoners. If we had known about your detention at Vozara, we would have brought you here sooner.
“I don’t want to know about other prisoners,” he continued. “Have you yourself been mistreated in any way? Is there anything you want to report?”
“First of all,” I said, “those ‘other prisoners’ are human beings. And they’re not all guilty. You seem to have convicted them already in your mind, but most of those people shouldn’t be here at all. This oppressive culture has branded them as criminals for claiming the right to think as they please—the most basic human right. The head of the cultural center shouted at us, saying we weren’t allowed to use the center, that we were apostates and should be executed. My friend and I have been sick repeatedly and have been refused medical attention. Even when I was poisoned by bad medication, no one would help me.”
“This is impossible!” Mr. Mosavat exclaimed. “How can someone who is poisoned not be taken to the clinic?”
“Eighty prisoners will say they witnessed it.”
“We will definitely look into this.” Mr. Mosavat paused briefly. “However, Jesus Christ teaches you to forgive, so let’s forget the matter.
“I don’t know why your case has taken so long. Far more important people than you—priests and bishops—have been here, but none stayed more than a week. We will transfer you both to Ward 209 next week, though if you’re unhappy in Ward 2, we can have you transferred tonight.”
“Thank you, but I’d rather stay with the ‘criminals’ over there. They are my friends, and I’m more comfortable with them.”
“All right. I’ll be studying your case file. I just received it from the police this morning. We’ve been so busy with your situation that I can’t fall asleep at night for thinking about it.”
I suppressed a laugh and only smiled beneath my blindfold.
“I know you don’t believe it,” Mr. Mosavat went on. “You’ve been so mistreated that you’ve lost confidence in us. But we’ll do everything in our power to set you free as soon as possible.
“During this next week,” he added, “take some time to rethink your position.”
Marziyeh
Our separate interrogations lasted three or four hours. By the time we got back outside and took off our blindfolds, it was dark. We followed a guard across the yard to the women’s prison and Ward 2. He told the guard there that we were to be sent to separate rooms and were not allowed to talk to each other, even during breaks. This was Mr. Mosavat’s way of punishing us for standing our ground during his questioning. One of us had to go to one of the dirty, smoke-filled cells downstairs. We were completely drained from the interrogation, both still suffering from our sicknesses. Each of us wanted to let the other stay upstairs with our friends. In the end, I insisted the most forcefully and went downstairs to live with the prostitu
tes. Of course, this was an opportunity to witness to them. Mr. Mosavat’s intended punishment opened the door to bring the gospel of Christ to a whole new audience.
While Maryam was welcomed back to the ward by Silva, Shirin, and other friends, I had to get used to my new surroundings on the first floor. All our shared dishes and snacks were upstairs, so our friend Arezoo brought food, blankets, and a few other things downstairs to me. While she was there, she spoke to the leader of the first floor, Mrs. Niromand.
“Marziyeh is one of our friends upstairs. We will need to come and see her from time to time. She has to stay here for a while, but if anything happens to her, we’ll know you are to blame.” After two years in prison, Arezoo was not shy about speaking up, especially to people in authority who were prisoners themselves.
“Don’t worry, my dear,” Mrs. Niromand said. “I’ll take good care of her.”
While I was still getting settled, Mercedeh and Setare came into the room. When they saw me, they screamed with joy and ran to give me a hug. Setare offered me some fruit, partly in thanks for all the little treats I had given her over time.
It was soon clear that the women here treated each other differently than the women upstairs did. Prisoners on the second floor were generally better off financially, but were very selfish with their belongings. Downstairs, most of the inmates were very poor, yet they freely shared what they had. The cells were darker and grimier than upstairs, and the women spoke only in whispers; yet it was a much warmer atmosphere of friendship and trust: no gossip, no betrayal to the authorities, only mutual help and support.
Even so, the harshness of prison life was never far away. During dinner the first night I was there, two prisoners got into a fight. Mercedeh went to intervene, but I pulled her back. Mrs. Niromand rushed in, separated the girls who were fighting, and slapped them both hard. They settled down immediately.
After the meal, several of the women turned their dishes upside down and started banging on them like drums. Other women started to dance; even Mrs. Niromand came and joined the festivities. The sight of these women dancing and having some fun together was a welcome surprise that lifted my spirits. They found joy in living, even when life seemed so depressing and hopeless.
The next day, I saw Maryam at break time, but we didn’t speak directly because we’d been warned not to. Instead, our friends carried messages back and forth for us. The day after, however, we decided to talk despite the ban. No one tried to stop us. We even ate together, sitting on newspapers outside on the ground. Silva, Shirin, and some other women joined us. After lunch was over, we moved into the corridor and spread our newspapers there. Each day, more women joined us, so that soon there were fifteen or more gathered around us every afternoon, some with food and tea like it was a picnic. We had long, meaningful conversations with them and answered countless questions about our charges and our own personal faith journeys. It became more than a picnic: it developed into a worship experience. That crowded hallway was now our church.
Living downstairs gave me lots of time with Mercedeh, Setare, and Nazanin. I finally convinced Nazanin to talk about her relationship with Mercedeh to Maryam.
MARYAM
A day or two later at break, while Marziyeh talked with Mercedeh, I had an opportunity to talk with Nazanin.
“Why do you seem so possessive of Mercedeh?” I asked.
“I can’t stand to see her talking with anyone but me,” Nazanin said.
“Do you have a homosexual relationship?”
“No. We used to, but Mercedeh doesn’t want to anymore. Not since she was tortured. But I love her so much!”
“Do you think God would approve of two people of the same sex having a romantic relationship?”
“I don’t know. But aren’t you and Marziyeh lovers? Wouldn’t she be jealous if I held your hand?”
“Marziyeh and I share an apartment and love each other very much. But it isn’t romantic love. We feel no sense of possession toward each other. We’re very different in some ways, and we allow each other to do what we want. We speak to young people like Mercedeh all the time to tell them about Jesus, but not to have a sexual relationship.”
While we spoke, Nazanin watched Mercedeh across the courtyard like a hawk.
“Are you still angry at Mercedeh for talking to Marziyeh?” I asked.
Nazanin lit a cigarette. She started shivering and began to cry. I took her hand.
“God understands your feelings—”
“No He doesn’t!” she shouted. “He doesn’t love me! He has never helped me! I hate men, and all I have left is Mercedeh. If I lose her, I lose the only hope I have left in life.”
“Why do you hate men?”
“I was not always homosexual. I had a boyfriend I loved very much. Then my father raped me. After that, I couldn’t have any relationship with my boyfriend again. I hate myself. I hate my father. I hate everybody but Mercedeh, and I want to save her.”
We stood holding hands for several minutes without speaking, as Nazanin cried and looked over at Mercedeh. My heart was filled with thoughts of my own father, who loved me so much and whom I loved in return. How I wished Nazanin could have known such peace and security in her past. I prayed for her that she would feel a father’s pure love from her heavenly Father and that she would be surrounded by the kindness of Christ. Whether the message penetrated or not, I couldn’t tell.
A girl we hadn’t seen before was assigned to the first floor, and Marziyeh had a chance to meet her the first night she was there. We both saw her the next day at break. She was in her twenties and very thin, a quiet, polite girl who was unusually neat and careful about her dress and manners. She seemed isolated and lonesome. We learned her heartbreaking story from Arezoo.
The girl’s name was Zeynab Nazarzadeh, and she was from a provincial city. She had been in prison for three years on a murder charge. As a young girl, she had been forced into an arranged marriage with her cousin. From the beginning, he had beaten and humiliated her. No one would help her, and a divorce—difficult to get under the best of circumstances in the provinces—was impossible without her husband’s permission. One day when he attacked her, hitting her and swearing, she threw a mallet for crushing ice, hit him in the head, and killed him. Her aunt filed charges against her, demanding retribution by execution for her son’s death.
In Iran, the law is in the hands of the aggrieved parties. They can choose to press charges, agree to some kind of compensation, or forgive the offender. This means there is no consistency or accountability in the law. The legal system in Iran is based on revenge, not justice. The aunt demanded Zeynab’s life in return for the son’s.
We prayed with all our might that the aunt would change her mind or that someone would come to Zeynab’s defense. She had never seen a lawyer during her three years of imprisonment because she couldn’t afford one. In three years, she had never had a single visitor. That night, we noticed other women paying special attention to her and trying to make her happy.
At ten o’clock the next evening, the loudspeaker called Zeynab’s name and she reported to the office. Her friends were frightened. Once an execution is ordered, the prisoner is taken into solitary confinement for her last night. This is typically the first and only indication that an execution is about to be carried out.
Hours later, we heard that Zeynab’s aunt had accepted her apology and forgiven her. Our celebration of joy lasted late into the night. But it was a false hope. The next morning, we awoke to the sound of azan, the call to Islamic morning prayer. That was when we learned that Zeynab had been executed by hanging shortly after midnight; her aunt had claimed the “honor” of pulling the chair out from under her, dropping her to her death. The execution had to be carried out after midnight but before azan. The false news that she was alive had been spread because the prison officials feared an uprising once word got out of what had really happened.
Mrs. Niromand said she had told Zeynab before she was hanged that the reason h
er mother had never come to see her was that she had died of a heart attack on the day Zeynab was jailed. She said that Zeynab welcomed death because it would reunite her with her mother. She had never complained about anything during her three years in prison and didn’t complain at the last—never begged for her life, never asked for mercy. Mrs. Niromand said that even the prison guards were crying.
It was the first execution of someone we knew. There are no words to describe the pain and sorrow we felt. This was an act of injustice and evil beyond the power of expression. She had been a prisoner for years in a marriage that was a nightmare of abuse, forced to remain there by a law that holds a man’s sexual pleasure above the most basic rights of human decency and dignity for women. This is the law of the land. She killed her husband because he attacked her and she feared for her life. There was no investigation, no attempt to collect the facts, no consideration of the horrific circumstances that caused her to commit a crime accidentally and in self-defense.
Her husband wasn’t murdered; she was.
Two days later, the prisoners held an Islamic memorial service for Zeynab, standing around her empty bed praying, the tears flowing freely. Her friends handed out food to the poorest inmates as an act of charity in her memory. Marziyeh and I were there, along with Silva, and the other ladies thanked us time and again for joining them even though we were Christians. Of course we wanted to be a part of the ceremony. Our hearts were broken for the tragic injustice of Zeynab’s death. This sweet girl’s sad and lonely life should never have ended this way.
Zeynab’s barbaric execution brought the whole horror of the radical Islamic regime into focus for us as never before. Her story, so poignant and sobering, is a symbol of the lives that millions of women experience under the oppressive government in Iran. Anyone who says Islam is a religion of peace and equality should spend a week with the prisoners of Evin. Poor, defenseless Zeynab! Married against her will while scarcely in her teens—in the Islamic tradition. Beaten and abused from the beginning by her husband, who acted with impunity—in the Islamic tradition. Denied any fair chance of escaping her abuse by legal means—in the Islamic tradition. Denied a lawyer, her life dependent on the whim of her husband’s angry relatives, who likely helped arrange the marriage in the first place—in the Islamic tradition.
Captive in Iran Page 15