Captive in Iran

by Maryam Rostampour

  We used to read the Hayat-e No and Etemad-e Melli newspapers every day, but now they were banned. The only hint we had at the time of the scope of the protest, other than the prison filled to bursting, was through the censored stories on state TV. It was such big news that even they had to show some of it. For a while, we also got news from phone calls: friends on the outside told of hundreds of protestors, especially young people, being murdered by the regime. Then all the prison telephones were disconnected; our last source of information was cut off.

  Many prisoners accused of fraud and other nonviolent crimes had expected to be released under the newly elected administration. They had started packing their bags and waited for the prison doors to be opened wide. Instead, the investigation of all charges ground to a halt. No one was getting out; no cases were being moved through the courts.

  Our friends Tahereh and Kamila were experts at ferreting out bits and pieces of news. They were the first ones to learn that the Ashraf camp in Iraq, where so many mujahideen prisoners had friends and family, had been attacked by Iraqi soldiers, killing or injuring many of the refugees there. Tahereh, a kind, elderly woman with serious eye problems, had no word about her children. She felt sure that the Iraqi and Iranian government officials had worked to distract the attention of the world from the internal political demonstrations by slaughtering innocent people in this Iraqi camp.

  After a while, Tahereh learned that her children were safe, but the Iraqi government was now demanding that the refugees leave the country or be sent back to Iran by force. Some refugees, including Tahereh’s sister, started a hunger strike, hoping to get the attention of the United Nations or some other international body that could help them. The Iranian government was now claiming that the mujahideen themselves were behind the protests all along. It was all part of the regime’s plan to arrest mujahideen and their supporters without any evidence and send them away to be tortured.

  As the crisis in Ashraf played out, the authorities told Tahereh she was being transferred to another prison with a reputation even worse than Evin’s. She had appealed her five-year sentence, and though the appeal had not yet been heard, she was being transferred anyway. The doctors had warned that she needed eye surgery right away or she might go blind. Moving was a hardship for her, and there was no reason for it. Maryam and I joined a large number of Tahereh’s friends who complained to Mrs. Rezaei about the order. Even enormous Mrs. Soraya waddled down to the office to show her support. She liked Tahereh, and she would never miss an opportunity to complain to Mrs. Rezaei. The women’s warden made a call, but the person in charge at the other prison was at lunch. She spoke with our head warden, Mr. Sedaghat, who he said he knew nothing of any orders to transfer Tahereh. We helped her pack, then hugged her and cried at the thought that we might never see her again. That afternoon, officers from the other prison arrived with a written order and took her away. We lost a kind and faithful friend, and the children down the hall lost a substitute grandmother who loved them very much. The little ones missed her as much as we did.

  To balance out this sad departure, there was some rare good news for a couple of our friends. The first was Tahmasebi, who had served thirteen years of a life sentence and thought I was crazy for predicting she would be free in six months. Now she was free! When word of her pardon came, no one could believe it, especially her. She ran into our room sobbing. Everyone on the ward remembered my dream and the prediction that Tahmasebi would have her freedom.

  “Now you can rest assured that God does love you,” I said.

  One of the other women asked, “Why is it that the Christians’ prayers and dreams lead prisoners to freedom?”

  “It isn’t us,” Maryam explained. “This is a victory for the Lord. He is only using us to do His work.” God was showing Tahmasebi a miracle in her own life. She was convinced that her freedom was impossible, but for God, nothing is impossible.

  Once a prisoner knows she will be released, the final few days seem as long and agonizing as all the years before. The paperwork for Tahmasebi had to come from another city; in the meantime, her mother had gone into the hospital with a serious illness. Tahmasebi was desperate to see her mother before she died. After several more days of delay, the prison agreed to let her go with a prison escort to visit her mother in the hospital for a day. The trip made her very happy, and after that she seemed more able to bear the wait.

  A few days later, her mother died. Now she hoped to be out in time to attend the burial, but that didn’t happen either. Maryam and I decided to hold a memorial service for Tahmasebi’s mother in our room. Many of the women were surprised that two Christians would organize a memorial service for a Muslim and conduct it so sincerely.

  With her mother’s passing, Tahmasebi wondered what she would do once she was free. She had no skills, no money, and a criminal record. She expected her brothers and sisters to sell their mother’s belongings and divide the money between them without giving her a share. She had an Islamic temporary marriage with a man who had promised to help her when she was released, but now he said he couldn’t because of financial problems. He also had another wife and children who knew nothing about his relationship with her.

  She applied for a loan of two million tomans ($1,000) to help her start a business, but her request was denied. We prayed for her, and many of us gave her what little money we could to help her begin her new life. For her years of work in the warehouse, she had earned eight thousand tomans ($4) per month.

  As the day of her release approached, the women on the ward threw a party for her, with singing and dancing. Marjan made a cake, and we all signed a card and gave Tahmasebi little presents to remember us by. At last, the great day arrived. Her name was announced to report to the office to be released. We made a double line for her to walk through, showering her with candy and other little treats, singing and dancing with happiness. Maryam and I had also given her a cross some time back. Now she said, “I will keep this cross forever!” We walked her to the door with one last prayer for her safety and success. “I don’t know what awaits me,” she admitted. Then with a last smile, she turned and was gone through the doors of Evin Prison to the blue skies and fresh air of freedom.

  Only a short time later, our dear friend Silva was the fortunate one. Because she had served only one year of a three-year sentence, she was not optimistic that she would be out anytime soon. Then one day she whispered to Shirin Alam Hooli, Maryam, and me that she was going to be released after all. A few hours later, her name was called from the loudspeaker. The regime had set her free!

  We all shouted and cried with joy. It was a bittersweet time, because as much as we wanted her to go, we would miss her so much. She and Shirin had been cellmates for a year, so parting was especially hard for them. We all sang a song to her, and Soraya honored our tradition of breaking a plate, which symbolized the farewell message of the lyrics: “Go, go, and never come back!”

  After Silva left, Maryam and I spent more time than ever with Shirin to help her get over the loss of her closest friend. Shirin, too, heard her name over the loudspeaker from time to time, but it was never good news. All of her close friends hated to hear her name called because we were always afraid it meant more hard questioning. Sometimes she was taken to Ward 209 for a day of interrogation, as we had been, though she was often beaten as the authorities constantly pressured her to turn over names of other members of PJAK.

  Even though Shirin had been through some of the most severe torture we’d heard about—hung by her heels, whipped on the soles of her feet, kicked in the stomach until she vomited blood, beaten unconscious for days—she had the will of an ox, and her pride in her Kurdish heritage and loyalty to the PJAK political movement were unshakable.

  Shirin’s attitude got her in trouble with the guards over the smallest matters. One time, the pipes in the toilet became blocked. It took three days for the plumbers to make repairs. After the repairs were finished, the guards told us we had to take some pills to
make sure we didn’t get sick from the backed-up pipes. Because our medical care was so incompetent, a lot of us didn’t want to take the pills, because we didn’t know what they were. Everyone pretended to swallow them, but hid them in our hands and threw them away later. Everyone, that is, except Shirin. She openly refused to swallow the mysterious pills. The guard reported her to the warden, and Mrs. Rezaei summoned her to the office.

  Shirin already had a long history of defying prison rules. That, plus the charge against her as an enemy of God—punishable by death—added weight to the smallest incident. But Shirin didn’t care. She was a radical, stubborn girl who believed the struggle against Kurdish injustice should be fought in the open. She never considered any other approach. Her tough attitude was a stark contrast to her sensitive personality and big heart.

  When a top judge was murdered in Kurdistan, the regime interrogated all the Kurdish prisoners associated with PJAK, including Shirin. They also asked her again if she was ready to repent of her opposition and cooperate with them. Instead of answering their questions, she grilled them about the torture she had endured and demanded they answer for it. Nothing could stop brave Shirin. With her eyes weakening and her hair falling out because of malnutrition, she looked ineffective and helpless. But inside she had the heart of a lion.

  We talked with her sometimes about the similarities and differences between her standing up for Kurdish rights and our standing up for Christ. The key difference was that Shirin’s fight was personal, while ours was God’s will. We didn’t oppose her fighting, because her battle was important, but we did oppose her tactics. It was painful to see a young woman so kind and full of life make such a hard sacrifice in pursuing her goals of freedom for the Kurdish people and especially Kurdish women. We encouraged her to stand for the dignity and freedom of her people but not get caught up in politics.

  MARYAM

  Every so often, we had groups of official visitors at Evin Prison. Beforehand, the guards would nervously shout at us to clean our rooms, take down our clotheslines, put on our veils, and not eat anything to avoid dropping food on the floor. We had to sit silently on the floor while a herd of strangers walked through, looking at us like we were a museum exhibit or animals at the zoo. Sometimes they were government officials; other times they were foreign visitors or celebrities. They were always taken to the newest, cleanest parts of Evin, which meant that most of them didn’t come into Ward 2. Typically, they saw only the cultural center and Ward 3. Still, we had to sit on the floor wearing our veils for hours before a guard would come through shouting, “Finished! The veil is finished!” and that would be the end of it.

  New prisoners kept pouring in, even after we thought our cells couldn’t possibly hold another body. One new arrival was Zari, a former professional basketball player at least six feet tall, who had been arrested for fraud. Of course, we immediately nicknamed her “Little Zari.” Despite her size, she was a simple, sensitive, frightened lady. She had been married only two months and was afraid her husband would divorce her now that she had been arrested; his parents didn’t know about her situation, and she was worried what would happen when they found out.

  Another new inmate was Shahla, who soon became friends with Shirin, Marziyeh, and me. Shahla was an amazingly happy person, always saying funny, nonsensical things and making jokes. She did hilarious imitations of the different guards, of soldiers marching, and of other people in the prison. She was even entertaining when she cried. She shed so many tears that she had to wipe her face with towels because tissues were soaked in no time.

  We also welcomed Mrs. Yadolahi, who said she was a well-known news anchor on one of the satellite TV networks. She actually lived outside the country and had been arrested when she came to Iran to visit. She loved to dance and took it very seriously, closing her eyes and moving in wide, sweeping motions, running across the break area and assuming artistic poses with her hands reaching up to the sky or wrapped around her body.

  So many women and girls came and went during our stay in Evin. For every one we’ve mentioned, there are many more whose stories should also be shared with the world. But it would take another whole book just to tell of their lives, courage, and sacrifice. We hope one day we will have the opportunity to write it in their honor.

  From the earliest days of our imprisonment, we both had serious health problems. Marziyeh had a backache, sore throat, kidney problems, and infected teeth; I had headaches, a terrible earache, and stomach trouble. We were severely undernourished and had almost no exercise and not enough sunlight. At its best, the clinic was no help; sometimes it even made us sicker, and visiting the doctor was always a major ordeal because it required so much bureaucracy and waiting. We felt sick or in pain every day of our imprisonment. At one point, Marziyeh was in bed so much that the ladies teased her with the nickname Sick Saint. Though we tried not to let our infirmities bother us, there were times when we hurt so bad that we had to go to the clinic again in hopes of getting some relief.

  For me, one of those times came during the holy month of Ramadan, when devout Muslims must fast from sunup to sundown every day. The morning call to prayer, which had been at 5:00 a.m., was moved to 3:30 a.m., when it was still pitch black. Few prisoners observed the fast, but for the entire month, the meals were served only before dawn or after dark. We continued to avoid the smelly, chemical-laced prison food and bought canned food, jam, and cheese (which we could save for breakfast the next morning) from the shop. The canned food was always some horrible brand sold only in prisons.

  Lesbian activity continued at a high level. The government secretly encouraged these relationships to help maintain control and to give the guards leverage: a threat to separate two lovers carried a lot of influence. Some guards themselves had lesbian encounters with the prisoners. This also seemed to be unofficially approved, because their behavior was visible to the security cameras. Relationships and tensions caused fights almost every day. Some altercations were so violent that the guards were afraid to enter the cells to stop them. When a lesbian mother got into a screaming, punching, hair-pulling fight, her children were terrified. Some of us would always try to move the children to a safer place until the fight was over.

  I had never recovered from the terrible stomachache I’d had in 209 or from my burst eardrum. Stomach pains interrupted my sleep nearly every night. I made an appointment with Dr. Kashani, a slim, bad-tempered woman, to ask if my sister could bring me some vitamin tablets. When I arrived for my appointment, the doctor paid more attention to the papers on the desk in front of her than she did to me.

  “So what’s wrong?” the doctor asked curtly. When I started to explain my problems, the doctor interrupted. “Make it short!”

  I told her that the warden had said we could have vitamins in the prison with a doctor’s approval.

  Dr. Kashani looked up. “What are the charges against you? Which other doctor has seen you?”

  “I am in prison because of my belief in Christianity. Dr. Avesta and a few other doctors in Ward 209 have seen me.”

  “Are you here for your belief in Christianity or for your conversion from Islam?”

  “I converted to Christianity eleven years ago.”

  Dr. Kashani looked back down at her desktop. She never examined me or even touched me. “About your ruptured eardrum, it will get better,” she said. “We can’t do anything for your stomach here because we don’t have any equipment. The issue of bringing vitamins into prison has nothing to do with Mrs. Rezaei. The clinic will decide on such matters. Your condition is not so serious as to need vitamins.” Then she yelled to the clerk through the doorway, “Next!”

  Our health crisis took an even more dangerous turn when a prisoner came in with a case of swine flu. The crowded cells, poor air circulation, and terrible sanitation gave the virus perfect conditions for spreading. Before long, half the ward had the flu, including Marziyeh. She became so weak she couldn’t sit up in bed. The sound of coughing rang out up and down the h
alls day and night. None of the sick prisoners received any medicine or treatment. I was one of the few who were well enough to try to help the others. I bought milk and asked a friend who worked in the kitchen to warm it, then passed it among the flu victims. I also made tea and honey. That was all some of the women could eat; even those who usually ate the prison food couldn’t stomach it when they were this ill. Eventually, the epidemic passed. As far as we know, by the grace of God no one died.

  One week melted into another as we waited in vain for some news of our case. Our lawyer, Mr. Soltani, who had seemed so capable and dedicated to defending our rights, was still in prison. We didn’t know when or if we would have a trial. No one seemed to know anything, and no one seemed accountable to anyone. We kept hearing conflicting reports—some questioning whether we’d even broken a law, and others suggesting we would be condemned as apostates and executed.

  Iran’s civil law specified that religion was a personal decision and that everyone was officially allowed to observe their religion openly. However, it was an offense punishable by death to convert from Islam or to induce someone to convert. To further confuse matters, the part of the national penal code calling for execution of apostates was currently in draft form and not officially approved by the Guardian Council, the Islamic elders who ran the country. Judges were directed to use their personal knowledge of Sharia law to decide matters that weren’t specifically covered in the penal code. So if a judge personally thought we were apostates, he could condemn us to death, whether the law was officially approved or not. Or he could keep delaying action on our case until the law was passed and execute us then.