“Then I’m happy I am not a Muslim. I believe in Jesus Christ, and one of His most important commands is to spread His message. The message of Christianity isn’t what causes distress and chaos in Iran. It’s your restrictions and bans. It’s your bad laws. If everyone had the freedom to study and believe and share whatever faith their hearts called them to believe, Iran would not be in the mess it’s in and I would not be sitting here being grilled by you.”
Mr. Mosavat put on a big, brave, plastic smile. “Miss Rostampour, I agree with you to some extent. Worshiping God is not compulsory. But we live in a country that at this moment in time has these particular laws. Even I may not agree with all of them, but I have to follow them or I’ll end up where you are. Why don’t you let the churches in this country do the preaching and teaching about Christianity? Anyone who’s interested can study them in depth there.”
“What churches?” I fired back. I could feel my face growing warm. “The Assemblies of God have been closed to new people. Only one or two Farsi-speaking churches remain in all of Tehran, and they’re under constant surveillance by your security forces. You threaten them and order them not to allow any Muslims or newcomers through the doors—yet you’re telling me I should let these churches take the gospel to the city? Even church members are harassed trying to get in, never mind prospective visitors.”
“Where were you baptized?” Mr. Mosavat interjected.
“Central Church, about five years ago.”
Marziyeh
Two long, intense interrogations so close together made me feel depressed. I was physically drained, and I hoped that Maryam was able to bear up under the load as well. The isolation of the tiny, windowless cells, the nearly silent ward, wearing blindfolds everywhere, and being surrounded by other prisoners I could never see were hard conditions to endure. I knew the Lord was with me, but I desperately needed reminders of His love and care. In my weakness, I sometimes felt that He was far away. From the interrogators, I learned that a friend of ours on the outside who had become a Christian was questioned about us and denied knowing us. This woman and her daughter attended our home church regularly and eagerly learned Christian hymns and prayers. Of course, the interrogators could have been lying, but they wouldn’t have known certain details about this person unless they’d talked to her. She had a heart condition, and her husband resented her for converting. I didn’t fault her for lying to save herself; even so, it added to my dark feelings.
On the positive side, when Mahtab was asked if “the two Christians” had ever caused her any trouble, she replied, “Not only have they not caused me any trouble, they’ve constantly helped me and made me hopeful. They’re far better than you Muslims who claim to be truthful and kind. I’d rather stay with them than with Muslims.” The prison officials had hoped that Mahtab could convince me that Christianity was a mistake and that I should embrace the true faith of Islam. Instead, in a turn of events that only the Lord could have arranged, Mahtab was the one converted: eventually, she became a Christian.
The fact that we never left our cells without blindfolds compounded the oppressive atmosphere and sense of isolation in Ward 209. Another hard thing to endure was hearing the disembodied voices of other prisoners we had never seen, crying out in agony.
One night, I heard the voice of a young boy crying, begging for help, and screaming, “I can’t stand it in here anymore! Please! Please!” He had reached the breaking point. He started pounding on the metal walls of his cell.
After a few minutes, I heard several guards go down the hall and open the door to the boy’s cell. I heard the sound of blows from a club and the boy screaming in agony. Sometimes, the club would miss its target and boom against the wall like a cannon shot. They hit him again and again and again until his cries died down to pitiful, heartbreaking moans. Then silence. I never knew who he was or whether he stayed or left, lived or died.
Another woman in a nearby cell moaned and cried so much that I thought she must have been put near us just to keep us awake at night. She, unlike the boy, seemed to be completely ignored by the guards. This was strange, considering the rules demanding silence at all times in 209.
“I’m so afraid! I’m so afraid! Please help me!” she moaned day after day. She begged for sleeping pills, which they gave her; but as soon as she woke up, she started moaning and begging again. I put my hands on the wall nearest her cell and prayed for her peace of mind. Sometimes she would get quiet for a while, but then the yelling would resume.
One night, I dreamed that the guards let this woman out of her cell. She had the face of a ghost and went running up and down the corridor. In the dream, she came into my cell and put her head in my lap. When I started praying for her, all her sorrows and problems were transferred to my shoulders, so heavy and unbearable that they made me collapse. But the woman found peace. Then she cried and said that she wished she had known there were Christians next to her in prison.
I woke up shaking and told Mahtab and Munis about my dream. I saw it as a sign that the woman would be released. A couple of hours later, the guards came to the woman’s cell and we heard her say, “Thank you! Oh thank you!” From the conversation, it was clear she was getting her freedom.
“Behave yourself if you want to stay out of prison,” one of the guards said.
“Yes, yes, thank you!” the woman said over and over. It was wonderful to see how my prayers had been answered even for someone I’d never seen.
A few days after our interrogations, Maryam and I were taken again to Security Bureau 2 of the Revolutionary Court. We were handcuffed together, warned not to talk, and driven through Tehran in a black, unmarked car. We hadn’t seen the city since arriving at Evin two months before. The sight of so many people, so many shops, so much light and space was astonishing. I had the impulse to shout, “Hey, all you people! Look at us! Look at how your corrupt government has locked us up on phony charges! Look at how the regime imprisons young mothers and tortures teenage girls in order to stay in power!”
At the same time, there was something genuine about the pain and suffering and the fight for truth inside Evin that was entirely absent from the scene on the street. The outside world seemed so superficial and lifeless by comparison. We passed the street that led to our apartment. That life and that world seemed like twenty years ago.
We arrived at the court and went into Mr. Sobhani’s office. He was reading and barely looked up when we entered. After a moment, he sat straight in his chair. “You have been making a lot of noise,” he began. “The satellite channels are talking about you around the clock. You are receiving hundreds of letters and postcards every day. Everyone’s accusing us of interrogating you about your beliefs. What do they mean, ‘interrogating you about your beliefs’?” He got more agitated as he spoke, his voice rising. “We have nothing to do with people’s beliefs!”
This statement by Judge Sobhani of the Revolutionary Court of Iran is our nominee for Lie of the Century.
Mr. Sobhani glared at us across his desk. “You thought all this publicity would stop us from doing our jobs and carrying out our religious duty. They can broadcast all they want. I don’t care. You are criminals, and I will perform my religious duty.”
“Then why don’t you allow our case to be broadcast on Iranian TV, so people will understand that doing what we do is a crime?” I asked.
Mr. Sobhani changed the subject. “Do you have any complaints about prison conditions?”
“We object to our conditions, and also to being kept in a state of suspense about the charges against us,” Maryam said. “We object to the fact that we’ve never seen an official complaint against us in writing.”
“You are accused of apostasy and insulting sacred beliefs of Islam. Do you accept these charges?”
“No.”
“You are regarded as apostates and your sentence is death. Do you still have a complaint to make?”
“Do you really believe what you’re saying?” I interjected.
“Then do us a favor and execute us as soon as you can.” I might be in prison, but I would not be intimidated. Far from frightening me, Mr. Sobhani’s threats inspired and energized my resistance.
“Of course I will.”
Judge Sobhani angrily ordered us to write down our final defense statements. We still had no legal assistance. We had answered the charges against us so many times, both orally and in writing, that we had lost count.
“I have not changed my religion, because I did not have a religion before,” Maryam said. “I found my path in Jesus Christ and will share my experience about Him with anyone who asks about it.”
I ended my written statement with a prediction: “If the court and the judge ignore the principles of justice and truth and deliver an unjust sentence, they will face the wrath of God, which will one day engulf them in its flames.”
Another man came in while we were talking to Mr. Sobhani. He was younger than the judge, and well dressed. His name was Mr. Heydarifar, and he had been assigned to our case by the regime because the publicity was starting to worry them. Too many eyes were watching our case now for us to simply disappear or be the victims of a “tragic accident.” We were not recanting our statements. The regime was faced with justifying its charges against us to the world, and they were beginning to realize that it was an impossible task.
MARYAM
Throughout our time in prison, the presence of the Holy Spirit had been our rock, the one assurance we always had that the Lord loved us, would never forsake us, and was using us for some great purpose. There were times, though, when I was so weary and exhausted that I allowed that assurance to slip.
For several days during that period, I couldn’t feel the Lord’s presence. The loneliness that crept into my heart was frightening. I reached a point where I couldn’t eat and felt an emptiness I’d never known before as a Christian. I prayed, walking around my tiny cell, asking the Lord to make Himself known in a special way. When Fereshteh woke up, I started singing hymns, and my voice filled the entire corridor. Fereshteh was afraid the sound would attract the guards. I expected the guards, too, but kept singing. I sang nonstop for hours. No more silence! No more following oppressive, inhuman rules! I sang at the top of my lungs until it was nearly dark.
Finally, exhausted, I lay down in the middle of the floor and closed my eyes. And there it was. The Spirit of God flowing over me, embracing me, reassuring me. I knew that He had never left my side. I was now free from sadness and pressure, completely happy.
“I’m amazed no guards came all day!” Fereshteh said. “You know your voice had to reach the men’s corridor, and the guards there would complain to the guards in the women’s section.” She could feel the presence of God too.
At dinnertime, the guard we called the Ghost came with our food and said, “You did whatever you wanted today, and your voice carried all the way to the other side of the building.”
“But I didn’t do anything,” I said. “I just sang.” Though the Ghost was never very expressive, I thought she looked sad.
“What’s happened?” I asked. “Why are you upset?”
“I’m tired of working here,” the Ghost admitted. “I don’t think I’m cut out for it. Would you pray for me?”
“I will be happy to.” And so I prayed for my captor, secure in the presence of the Lord that washed over me in waves, in the deepest recesses of the most feared ward of the most notorious prison in one of the most oppressed nations of the world. Surely I had never felt more blessed.
CHAPTER 15
A LESSON IN FAITH
Marziyeh
Maryam and I heard more news of the growing interest in our case during the next fifteen-minute visit with our sisters. They said that our story was becoming bigger every day on satellite TV and the Internet. Churches, Christians, and members of organizations around the world were praying for us. We were lifted up as part of a spiritual family that circled the globe. Some of the stories also highlighted other religions, such as Baha’i, whose believers are also severely persecuted in Iran. We had met a Baha’i woman in prison, a kind, gentle, open-minded person who very quickly became a friend.
Our sisters also talked about the upcoming presidential elections. The media were full of background stories and predictions. The incumbent, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, was very unpopular with the people. Many citizens thought he would lose the election to Mehdi Karroubi, Mohsen Reza’i, or especially Mir-Hossein Mousavi. Our sisters had written letters to Mr. Mousavi and Mr. Karroubi, petitioning on our behalf. Mr. Mousavi, a reform-minded leader who had been Iran’s last prime minister before the office was abolished in 1989, seemed the clear favorite, according to media reports. If he won, we had high hopes we would be released.
A few days later, we had another long round of interrogations. Though we went on separate days, we again had similar experiences. Mr. Mosavat explained that our defiant attitude toward Mr. Sobhani during our last court appearance had made the judge angry and complicated the resolution of our case. Also present at these sessions was a university lecturer in Islamic theology who had come to coach us on how to express ourselves in order to have our case resolved. The court seemed less worried now about what we believed than about how we described it. The regime was evidently desperate for some face-saving way to turn us loose.
The theology professor asked all the familiar questions about when I had become a Christian, why I would “abandon” Islam, details about my activities, friends, travels, and so forth.
I described for him the experience that had brought me to Christ. “One day, as I was praying for wisdom and clarity in my faith,” I said, “the Holy Spirit came to me, and I began to pray in words I didn’t know, but I could still understand what I was saying to God. I had a vision of Jesus so close I could touch Him. The middle of my forehead burned as if someone had stamped it with a branding iron. I prayed until four in the morning. I had met with God through the Lord Jesus Christ. I will never deny Him, because by doing that I would deny my very existence.”
Tears welled up in Mr. Mosavat’s eyes as I spoke. As soon as he noticed them, he quickly wiped them away.
The professor spoke for an hour about the evils perpetrated by Christians during the Crusades. “What kind of Christianity is this that would commit such atrocities?”
“Professor,” I replied, “I can’t match your knowledge of history. But there’s no need to dig into history books to find as many examples of Islamic atrocities as you care to hear about. They’re here, right now, in this prison. In my cell at this moment is a teenage girl, named Mahtab, who has been here for three months for the ‘crime’ of being born among the mujahideen. I have come across countless girls who have been tortured and beaten by your collaborators. What can you call these except atrocities?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the professor replied. “I have come here only to deal with you, and I know nothing about the other prisoners in 209.”
“All it takes is a look around.”
“In any case, I’ve come here to tell you that your insistence on your faith is going to cause you a lot of problems. Those whose friends and loved ones have martyred themselves for the glory of Islam will not allow you to misguide our young people. If we allowed everybody to promote their own personal beliefs and opinions, we would face anarchy and a collapse of the system.
“I think you had better go and think about this again. We’ve done our best to assist you and close your case, but your defiance in court has created more problems. If you keep this up, there’s nothing we can do to help you.”
“All the others we’ve arrested,” Mr. Mosavat chimed in, “have eventually cooperated, and by changing their opinions and their language, they bought their freedom. Stop being so stubborn. We want to let you go, but you’re making it difficult for us to do so.”
MARYAM
When my turn came to be interrogated, the professor tried to suggest that m
aybe I didn’t fully understand Christianity. Because I had converted at a young age, he suggested, I might not have understood what I was doing.
“Research and study will only give you information,” I replied. “To learn about the Lord, you need more than that. I experienced Jesus Christ. I lived with Him. Touched Him. If I deny Him, I would be denying myself. This is what you don’t understand. And you’ll never get it from your research.”
“We have books that help us interpret the Koran,” the professor said. “A wise person can recognize that he should not abandon a complete religion.”
“And what particular quality of Islam highlights this completeness?” I asked. “Wars? Power mongering? One-hour marriages?”
“All these were necessary,” the professor interrupted. “God sent them in line with the needs of mankind at the time to prevent chaos and corruption. What is it about Christianity that is more complete and forces you to leave Islam?”
“First of all,” I replied, “Christ said, ‘I am the first and the last.’6 There is no one before Him, no one after Him. Christ’s completeness is evident in His love. Even the most sinful people on earth can feel God’s love through Jesus. He was the perfect man, who sacrificed His life on the cross for our sins. By paying the price we could never pay, He gave us the priceless, holy gift of freedom—freedom from sin and freedom from religious laws we could never perfectly follow as imperfect mortals.
“Religious law brings condemnation and death, not forgiveness and freedom. I know a precious young woman named Zeynab who was executed in retribution for defending her life against a brutal husband she was forced by religious law to marry and prevented by religious law from escaping. Compare that with the story of Jesus hearing about a woman accused of adultery and condemned to death by stoning. He said, ‘Whoever is without sin may throw the first stone.’ Not a single stone was thrown. I prefer to follow Jesus.
Captive in Iran Page 18