Captive in Iran

by Maryam Rostampour

  We took turns in the shower. How huge and immaculate our bathroom was! No crowd, no time limit, no smell, no toxic-looking walls.

  We looked at our furniture, clothes, pictures on the walls, and stacks of music CDs that the basiji had left behind. We had so much stuff, and it didn’t even feel like ours. Frivolous possessions mocked us from every direction. The two girls who once bought and used all these items were gone, replaced by two people with a different outlook on life. We were restless—pacing through the rooms, sitting on the floor, alternately crying and stunned into silence. We had never once cried for ourselves in prison. Now the tears came in a flood.

  Without understanding why, Maryam and I both had a sudden, overwhelming sense that our things were closing in on us. Our apartment was oppressively cluttered, and we had to throw out whatever wasn’t relevant to our lives anymore, whatever could get our Christian friends into trouble. We dashed to our rooms and started ripping photos and posters off the walls, tearing up papers and lists, cleaning out our closets, tossing everything into the living room. After an hour or more, our sisters helped us put it all in trash bags and throw it away.

  Somehow that made us feel better. Elena and Shirin prepared dinner—fresh, sanitary, and delicious—and ate with us: two kinds of stew, pasta, fresh fruit, and cookies. Every time we slowed down, they said, “Eat! Eat!” The meal gave us stomachaches after so long without regular food. These were the dishes we’d dreamed of for months, yet all we could think of now was our friends back in Ward 2 choking down that horrible slop. When prisoners leave, the other inmates ask for their phone numbers in order to keep in touch. Their first question during the first phone call is always, “What did you eat?” Our meal made us wish somebody would call. The moment would have been so much more enjoyable if we’d had our Evin friends on the line to celebrate with us.

  That night, we couldn’t settle down. This was not what we had expected. We were apprehensive, deeply frightened somehow, after feeling so confident all of our months behind bars, though we didn’t know why we were afraid. We asked our sisters to drive us around town for a while. It was as if we wanted to run away from the home where we were arrested and which we hadn’t seen for nine months. The streets and the crowds looked the same as we remembered. The difference was that now we watched the people and thought of the terrible burden they live under, whether they know it or not—a ruthless dictatorship based on oppressive laws that in the blink of an eye can rob anyone of their freedom, or even their life. Someone might be watching them right now, tracking their movements, listening to their phone conversations, monitoring their e-mails, ready to spring a trap on the flimsiest of pretenses.

  We had tried desperately to give the people of Tehran an alternative. Not to warn them away from Islam or criticize the Muslim way of life if that’s what they preferred, but only to let them know there was a choice and they deserved the right to make it for themselves, without threats or harassment. Was our work in Tehran over? Again, only God knew the answer.

  We returned home and went to bed, each in her own room, with soft pillows and clean sheets. Lying alone in the dark, my mind raced with thoughts of the dear sisters we had left behind. I could see their faces, smell the ward, feel the close, unhealthy atmosphere of the place—and I missed it so much! I cried myself to sleep, only to be tormented by nightmares of the basiji bursting through our front door.

  The morning couldn’t come soon enough. First on our schedule was a visit to the doctor to begin treatment for the long list of health problems prison life had brought us or made worse: Maryam’s damaged ear and ulcer, my aching back, headaches, tooth problems, and kidney troubles. We had complete physicals and received all the medicines we had been denied for so many months.

  Our physical problems could be clearly identified and treated. Our hearts and minds were a different story. Although we had been released, our apostasy case was still pending. We had no doubt that we were being watched and all our phone calls and other communications were monitored. By now, we could spot the intelligence police at a distance whenever we went out. Our release had made news around the world. We were in the spotlight and our old friends were afraid to share it with us. We were worried for their safety in contacting us. Even when we did meet with old friends, who greeted us warmly, it was stressful to talk with them because they had no idea what we had been through and how hard it was to go on as before.

  We spent far more time with our new friends—fellow prisoners who had also been released, and those still awaiting their fate behind the walls of Evin. One of our first visits was to Silva Harotonian, who now lived with her mother. She understood how we felt. She, too, had thrown all her old clothes and possessions away. She, too, was still awaiting trial and being shadowed by the security police. She and her mother were also under house arrest and forbidden from traveling outside the country.

  For two years before our arrest, Maryam and I had hosted two home churches and given away New Testaments. For nine months in Evin Prison, we had spent every day praising Jesus and proclaiming His gospel. Now our evangelism work was stopped dead in its tracks. Iranians wanting to know more about Christianity dared not contact us. People who once attended our home churches wouldn’t come near us. It was like we were in quarantine or had leprosy. We sympathized with their dilemma and spent most of our time at home to avoid raising suspicions of the basiji against our Christian friends. Any contact with us could put them in danger. The good news was that we heard indirectly of many cases where news of our arrest and our defiance had led others to Christ. When people learned we were willing to die rather than deny our faith, they wanted to know what it was that was worth that kind of sacrifice. Some we had spoken to in the past who hadn’t been interested in Christianity now read the Bible eagerly and asked probing questions about it. We praised the Lord for that.

  As our elderly apartment manager explained to me, “After learning about your arrest and your refusal to renounce your faith, I wanted to know what about Christianity could be so powerful that you would sacrifice your lives rather than renounce it. This made me think that if Jesus was not the truth, you would not have been able to resist these harsh conditions. I became very interested in finding and reading a copy of the Bible for myself.”

  Maryam and I had promised Mr. Ramezani we would contact him. We also wanted to ask him about getting the letters that had been sent to us in prison. Not wanting to use our own phones, we called him from a public phone a few weeks after our release. He was delighted to hear from us and admitted he didn’t think that once we were free we would ever call him, since he was a high official in the government. He said that even though, at his suggestion, our judge had ruled we could have our letters, the prison office had overruled him and destroyed them all. Thousands of them.

  To our amazement, he invited us to his house for lunch. He said the mysterious man who had dreamed about us, foretold our freedom, and sent him to Evin to visit us in the first place wanted to meet us. We hesitated to visit the home of a powerful man in the Iranian prison system, particularly since we knew we were being watched constantly. Yet we remembered that our mystery man had seen Jesus in a dream and was instructed by Him to come to our aid. Now he wanted to see us. We were so curious, we simply had to accept Mr. Ramezani’s invitation.

  Our first surprise was how modest his house was. The powerful bureaucrats in Iran live in ostentatious luxury. This house was small and unpretentious. Our host, simply dressed, greeted us at the door and introduced his attractive young wife and their two children. His wife was preparing the meal, and he was helping. Here was a man whose name struck fear in the hearts of all the guards and officials at Evin Prison cooking lunch for us in his own home. Only God could have worked out anything so fantastic. His wife was sweet-natured and calm, with a slim figure and a beautiful smile. After talking with her for a few minutes, we deduced that her husband had helped many other prisoners deal with unfair conditions. How he managed to do that and hold on to his pos
ition was another mystery.

  Soon afterward, our benefactor arrived from his home in a provincial city. He had come to Tehran just to have lunch with us. He asked us about our conversion to Christianity and listened to our testimonies with rapt attention. He then shared some of his own beliefs and said he had spent years in prison for his opposition to Islam. He said he and like-minded people had meetings together, and he invited us to join them. As much as we would have liked to, we decided that for everyone’s safety and for the sake of Mr. Ramezani’s family and position, we would not accept his invitation. Our friend was not at all offended by our decision. Rather, he encouraged us to hold fast to our beliefs.

  As we gave our testimonies, we noticed that Mrs. Ramezani was quietly crying. Our stories made a powerful impression on her. She asked us to pray for her, and we promised to do so. Mr. Ramezani and his guest encouraged us to keep in touch in order to support one another and exchange ideas.

  On the way home, Maryam and I decided we should not maintain contact with Mr. Ramezani or his friend. It was just too risky for them. True, Mr. Ramezani had somehow persevered and survived in spite of the help he had given others. We simply didn’t feel peaceful about accepting his offer to stay in touch. A few weeks later, we heard he had been transferred to a job in the provinces. There was no way to know whether our visit had anything to do with his reassignment.

  Hearing that all our letters had been destroyed made us even more anxious to get our laptops, books, identity papers, and other personal property back. Silva, who had already gone through the process, explained what we had to do. We wrote a letter to the Revolutionary Court and delivered it in person to the clerk. He told us that the court would tell our lawyer where our things were and how to get them back. He recommended we not pursue the matter ourselves, because some court officials were very angry that we were out of prison. We were world figures in the news now. Our story, and the inability of the regime to control it, infuriated them.

  Eventually, the court told Mr. Aghasi that our property was at the police station. We went to the station with Mr. Aghasi and were sent downstairs to speak to a bureaucratic drone named Mr. Yazdi, who was in charge of the storage section. When our lawyer showed him the letter from the court, Mr. Yazdi exploded in anger.

  “Who told you to bring a lawyer down here? We don’t deal with lawyers! There’s no reason for you ladies to bring one with you!”

  More likely, he was concerned that Mr. Aghasi knew the law and wouldn’t allow him to take advantage of us as he usually did with ex-prisoners trying to get their property back. He finally calmed down, and we convinced him we weren’t there to make trouble, but that the court had instructed us to come to him for our property. He asked for a list of items, and we gave it to him.

  “I’ll look for them and call you when they’re available,” he said brusquely. “Next time come by yourselves. Do not bring your lawyer to this place again.”

  A few days later, we got a call that our property was ready for pickup. This time, Mr. Yazdi acted like a different man, extremely friendly and polite. He had everything except our identity papers, which we had to come back for in another week. During our wait, we happened to see the officer who had taken us into custody the day we were arrested.

  “Have you been in prison all this time for believing in Jesus Christ?” he asked.

  “Yes, we have,” I said. “You should know this, since it’s your job to frame innocent citizens of this country.”

  “How did you get released?” he asked with genuine interest. We explained that our case had attracted international publicity and this put pressure on the regime to set us free. The whole matter was in the Lord’s hands; these were the tools He used to carry out His will.

  “You have no idea what goes on around here,” the officer said. “They lock people up for having a couple of CDs or a bottle of whiskey. They must have kept you in prison on phony charges, too. I can’t wait to leave this job. I’m only doing my conscription service. You must be famous now after all that has happened to you.”

  “Yes,” Maryam said, “Mr. Rasti has a unique talent for framing his fellow citizens. But in so doing, he helped us spread the message of Jesus among the neediest people—the prisoners of Evin—and gave us worldwide publicity we never could have gotten on our own.”

  The young officer could only shake his head as he walked away. I like to imagine he has thought about that conversation since then. We certainly have.

  CHAPTER 26

  THE DAY WILL COME

  MARYAM

  As we waited for a ruling from the court, several of our friends got news about their own charges. Some were better than expected, others worse. Either way, at least for them the waiting was over.

  Setare was sentenced to five years, along with her brother. When she called to confirm the news, she sounded almost lighthearted, laughing and hopeful for the future. She was a strong girl who could stand up to prison life as long as she knew the end was in sight. Arefeh, who had been arrested at a post-election demonstration where her cousin was beaten, was sentenced to four years. She was devastated when she called to give us the news. She couldn’t believe she would be locked up for four years for one day of protesting. The judge said it was for her intention to act further against the regime. She was convinced he was punishing her for being from a mujahideen family, even though she herself was not a member. Her lawyer had already appealed her sentence, and Marziyeh and I tried to cheer her up with the hope that the appeal would be granted. Unfortunately, at best it would reduce her sentence by only a year, and three years was still terribly unjust.

  One of the best stories was from our friend Fereshteh, who had suffered with multiple sclerosis in Ward 209 and was under the threat of life imprisonment or death. Her sentence was set at two years because of her medical problems. Her husband had never given up trying to persuade the judge to consider her illness, and finally his work brought this wonderful news. Furthermore, since she had already been in prison for a year, she had only one more year to go.

  Mahtab, Sousan, and Rozita had all been freed, though their cases were still pending. Learning of their freedom was the best news we’d heard since our own release. We visited them all, which reinforced our belief that no one understood us as well as people who had shared our experience. Mahtab told us about going every week with her father-in-law to visit her fiancé, who was still in prison in another city. She and her fiancé remained very much in love; her support for him was incredible.

  Sousan lived with her two daughters. She was battling depression, but remained as dedicated as ever to fighting the regime any way she could. We encouraged her to concentrate on her children and make sure they got a good education.

  Rozita could not have been more joyful at being reunited with her three sons, and they were so happy to have their mother back. It was a joy to see the family content—though a shadow remained over them because her case was still awaiting a verdict.

  Our friends still in Evin were in our thoughts every day. They called to give us the latest news, and we tried to keep their spirits up. The smallest gift or expression of kindness is vastly more meaningful inside prison than on the outside. We remembered how wonderful it had been to receive new clothes, and so we decided to send some to our friends to celebrate Nowruz, the Iranian New Year.

  A couple of months after our release, as the New Year’s holiday approached, Marziyeh and I went to the market and bought a whole armload of clothes and gave them to relatives of the prisoners to deliver for us. In return, we got a series of phone calls from friends to thank us for the gifts and for not forgetting them. The coming of Nowruz marked a full year since we had been arrested; we had observed the holiday at Evin just after we arrived.

  As time went on, our biggest concern was our friend Shirin Alam Hooli. She called to say she’d been interrogated in Ward 209 yet again. Two people questioned her this time. They said if she would give them a list of her friends, maybe they could cancel her
execution decree. When she refused, they told her that she was under their control and had two choices: cooperate or die. They ordered her to make a video interview to be broadcast on television. She refused to do that, too. Then they said, “This is the last time we will see you. We will have nothing more to do with you.” That statement confused and frightened her.

  The stress of her interrogation had aggravated her physical problems. Headaches and nosebleeds were more frequent, and her eyesight began to fail more rapidly; she couldn’t see well enough to knit anymore. When we told her she should go to the doctor, she said she had told the authorities she needed new glasses, but they had ignored her.

  Shirin called later to say that her brother, Esa, had learned that her sentence would be life in prison. “But I can’t stand it,” she declared, sounding uncharacteristically forlorn. “I would rather be executed. All the political prisoners have been moved together in Room 6; they argue politics constantly. I have no patience for these discussions anymore. They’re useless and I’m tired of them.” She was reaching the end of her endurance.

  A letter she wrote to her judge and the interrogators somehow found its way onto the Internet. Her powerful words sparked protests around the world, which lifted her hopes a little. We tried to encourage her by saying we thought her decree would be changed.

  “I think I will be freed soon,” she said. “When I told the other girls that, they laughed. But I won’t stay in here forever.”

  The commutation of her sentence to life in prison, plus the worldwide response to her letter, made us hopeful that in time her prison term might be reduced even more. Then we got a call from Esa that was like a knife to the heart.

  He called my cell phone, so agitated and distraught he could scarcely speak. “Please help me! Please help me!” he begged over and over. “I have nobody else! I’m devastated! For God’s sake help me!”