A Sliver of Light

by Shane Bauer

  This is the conversation I’d been preparing for. “If you’re convinced that we’re innocent, then you have to help us,” I say. “There is no religion, no moral framework, whether it be Christianity or Islam, that would condone taking revenge on the innocent for the crimes of their government. Helping us is your moral duty. You have no choice.”

  After almost two months in solitary, questions about morality and the nature of existence are constantly cycling through my mind. Even though I wasn’t raised to follow any particular religion, a part of me has always sought a higher power. Most of the guards are devout Muslims—some even walk through the halls muttering passages from the Quran under their breath. Recently I’ve begun praying every time the call to prayer is broadcast over the loudspeakers. I’ve become consumed by a need for a belief system that can focus and guide my energy toward something much bigger and more important than myself. I need to see beyond my own pain.

  “Sarah, you are right. When I think about your case, I feel guilty, ashamed. I want to help you. It is my duty to help you, but what can I do?”

  “Have you spoken to your boss? Have you told him what you just told me?” I ask.

  “Yes, well, it is difficult. I will speak to him, Sarah. I will do this.”

  “The thing I just don’t understand is—why would God punish me? I’ve always tried to be a good person,” I say. “Why am I here?”

  “Sarah, I cannot know the mind of God, but I know you are a good person. I know that you help your students and you’re brave to stand up to your government.” He pauses. “Perhaps you are being tested.”

  “Thank you,” I blurt out, then bow my head submissively. “Sir, forgive me, but—”

  “What is it, Sarah? You can trust me.”

  “Well, I don’t understand how you can work here, be a part of this. You’re such a good man.”

  “I’m trying to do the right thing, Sarah.”

  “Well, perhaps it’s not me that God’s testing. Perhaps he’s testing you.”

  27. Josh

  I find a pen full of ink hidden in my vent and my world changes instantly. With writing, my mind’s floodgates open up. I can write letters. I can record my dreams. I keep a journal and plot my future. I write notes to Shane and Sarah. Don’t people do their best writing in prison? Stories form out of thin air and I write them carefully, on tissues.

  The written word has become my closest friend. Since recently receiving some new books, I enjoy allowing hours—sometimes whole afternoons—to disappear in fiction or poetry. My own writing on the tissues gaze at me, the blank space listens to me, and the words give me advice when I’m confused. The different voices of my mind can argue on paper instead of creating agony in my head. It makes me feel calmer, more collected, and less impulsive. I can think successive thoughts and remember where I started. I even feel my glimmerings of gratitude toward life.

  I write questions to mull over. Would I kill a guard to get free? Would I kill two of them? What does being Jewish mean to me? How can I align my life with God? Can I love my enemy?

  Since his informal interrogation of me at hava khori, Friend has become my enemy. Everything he does is a power game. It seems he’s been setting me up since he offered me food the day I met him. He is nice for a bit, draws me in, then he burns me. This time, Friend stole my books, and books are my lifeline. I’ve been too friendly and too trusting with him. The written word is my only friend in here.

  I play the scene over and over again in my mind, fuming: Minutes ago, he opened my door with books in his hand. But instead of giving them to me, he took both my books—Animal Farm and an ESL abridged version of Pride and Prejudice. He had asked to “see” my books, and I handed them to him—naively. He promised not to take them, but once they were in his hands, he closed the door and walked off.

  I want to spit in his face. He once told me that he wanted to go to New York City. That is where I’ll attack him. I’ll push him into an alleyway, get him on the ground, and kick him and watch him bleed amidst garbage and rats. Bystanders will try to stop my rage. Then I’ll explain to them that this guy took my books when I was in prison, and they’ll cheer me on as I continue kicking him. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt this violent before.

  I ring the bell to call Friend. I don’t know what I’ll do when he comes. I need to get these books back even though I’ve read them multiple times already. I don’t have enough words to fill my days and he takes what little I have. Every day, I tell myself that things are slowly improving—slowly but steadily—but losing two hundred pages is a huge step backward.

  I ring the bell again. Anger is like a fire. It’s burning me, but I want to burn him. I try to console myself: Maybe he will bring books tomorrow. Bullshit! No one responds to the bell I’ve rung. I am going to explode.

  My anger proves his power over me. I need to find a way to calm down. I need to feel less impulsive. I hate myself for trusting him again.

  Yet, I’ve believed that there is something good even in guards, that compassion can live even in prison, that I’m not surrounded by pure evil. I’m angry thinking that I’ve been wrong. I can see myself losing it and it’s hard to calm down. I take a few breaths.

  I take a few more breaths. I muster my compassion. I try to remember who I am and what I believe in. I need to touch Friend’s heart. I’ll try to understand him, work on our relationship instead of worrying about books. My only relationships are now with guards. I’ll try to share my honest feelings and request the books—not even demand them.

  Someone is coming. My heart races immediately. It is him. “What do you want, Josh?”

  I look him in the eye for a full breath before I respond. “Friend, I’m confused. I’m confused, and I’m needing some clarity.” I take a moment to let it sink in, a moment to let us connect. Then I continue. “When you said you wouldn’t take my books, but then you walked off with them, I became angry. What was going on for you? Why did you take my books?”

  Our eyes meet in silence; then he walks away, leaving me locked in my cell. Heartfelt communication doesn’t work here. Nothing works here. The bars between us are too dehumanizing. Prison wins again. How am I going to survive emotionally with fewer books, one less guard to talk to, and a load of anger?

  Twenty minutes later, my anger has burned down to sadness, and Friend returns. Before saying a word, he hands me a book between the bars of the little window in the door. Then he says, “Take this book. Josh, look, it has been a very difficult day for me. I’m sorry. My boss has been mean to me today, and I took it out on you. I’m truly sorry for this.” He looks at me contritely and disappears down the hallway. I can hardly believe it. The book in my hand feels trivial compared to this triumph of love.

  Autumn 2009

  28. Sarah

  “Sarah,” Father Guy says, clearing his throat, “I am not supposed to be here. My workday is over—I should be on my way home to my family, but I couldn’t stay away.

  “I am sorry,” he continues, “but what I’m about to say is not easy. I was wrong all these weeks when I told you your case would be treated fairly. Unfortunately, this is no longer true.”

  “Why?” I ask, not really believing him. “Has something happened?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. I gave my report to the judge. I told him that there is no evidence of espionage; that you crossed our border accidentally. They have decided to put your case on hold. I came here to tell you that I might not see you again.”

  “What?” I’m trying to find enough air in my body to project each word. “What does that mean? When are we going to court?”

  “I don’t know, Sarah. It may not be for a long time and when you do go, it may not be good.”

  “But, you said . . .”

  “I know what I said, but I’m here to tell you I was wrong. Your case has become political. Everything depends on your government now.”

  “What do they want, a prisoner exchange?” I feel my skin getting hot. No court means they
don’t give a damn about legality; they’re holding us because they want something. “That means we’re hostages.” Uttered aloud for the first time, the word feels like a stone slowly sinking to the bottom of a deep well.

  “Listen, Sarah, President Ahmadinejad is going to New York tomorrow, to the UN General Assembly. This may be a good sign. Something good may happen while he’s there that will help you.”

  “Is he going to talk about us in New York?”

  “Most likely, yes.”

  “Will you come back and tell me what happens?”

  “Sarah, I may not be able to come back. Your case is closed. I’m not supposed to be here even now.”

  I can feel all the positive feelings I’ve been harboring for this man draining out of me as my body clenches. The last month has been a lie, a joke. The two of us have been playing at being friends, talking about God, reciting poetry, but now he’s just going to walk away to safety and basically leave me here to die.

  “Sarah, you know I’ve always tried to help you. I’ve done everything I can.”

  The worst thing about it is he’s probably right. I was wrong to imbue him with so much influence and power—this is the guy who takes orders. He may hate this place, even hate himself for working here, but if he oversteps, he’ll lose his job, and not even that will help me. There’s nothing more he can do short of helping me escape.

  “So, that’s it? You leave me here to go crazy? That’s the end?”

  Tonight, he’ll go home to his cozy family—I’ll sleep in a cage. Even if they were leading me to the gallows, I’m now certain he’d do nothing. It’s a good thing I’m blindfolded, I think, because I doubt he could bear to look me in the eyes. Still, I realize, the joke’s on me. I actually care about him and I know I’ll miss him.

  “Sarah, I wish I could do more,” he says. “It’s wrong that you’re here, but please remember that you are never alone. God is always with you.”

  29. Josh

  According to the tally marks I make on the wall, it is September 29—almost two months since our capture. With each new mark I feel closer to being totally forgotten. It’s late afternoon, my least favorite time of day.

  To my surprise, the big-footed, oafish interrogator says we’re meeting the Swiss ambassador. The Swiss represent the United States, which doesn’t have an embassy in Iran. The interrogator escorts me outside the building along with Sarah and Shane.

  The parking area feels like freedom. Without the high walls of hava khori to contain it, the sky seems vast. There’s more than I can take in at once, and my eyes adjust to seeing distances. A majestic snowcapped mountain towers beyond the prison compound. Gorgeous foliage adorns the trees scattered around the building and up the mountainside. I’m shocked to see how hard September has worn on my friends, whom I haven’t seen in a month.

  Shane’s eyes are set deep in his skull and Sarah’s skin is way too pale. We walk around the prison compound and fill one another in on our interrogations—that they know about my family history and Shane’s grant. Sarah mentions being disappointed that her interrogator is not here. I tell Shane that I’ll pass my pen to him by hiding it in the garbage can at hava khori. We can all then pass notes to one another in the same trash can.

  On a tall tripod, a video camera records us as we settle into a conference room. Sarah demands tea, and I’m amazed to see a guard hasten to boil water. The door swings open. Upon seeing us, the ambassador gives an audible sigh of relief. We stand up as she rushes forth for an embrace—her sky-blue hijab matches her radiant eyes and only partially covers her bright blond hair. The rest of the room fades to the background. I can only see her beaming presence. With her arms around me, she exclaims, “It is so good to see you! It is so good to see you!” She darts over to Shane and Sarah. We aren’t yet seated when the ambassador introduces herself as Livia Leu Agosti and asks, “How are you? Are you okay?”

  “Please remember,” the oafish interrogator cuts in, “you have thirty minutes to talk. You are here—according to the UN statutes—to talk about health, nutrition, and safety.” I look over to him, surprised to hear him use the word please. Looking at the oafish guy is the first time I actually see one of the guys from my interrogation. He’s tall, oafish, and distracted. He has a thick black unibrow above jet-black eyes. I had thought all the interrogators were authority figures, but this oafish one is barely older than I am. A guard places three cups of tea on the coffee table. The video camera stays trained on us.

  We sit and take turns answering Livia’s questions. When she shares her perspective, I hang on every word. “You know, it is not exactly ideal timing to be here as an American . . .” In the summer, the largest social movement since 1979 shook the foundations of the regime. They were contesting the elections and the repercussions are still unfolding. I’m worried we may be perfectly framed as the generic foreign agitators. They could say we tried to enter Iran to foment unrest. I wonder to what extent this complicates our case. The ambassador continues diplomatically. “Also, well, your government doesn’t exactly make things easy sometimes . . .” She trails off without being specific and transitions to lighter topics. “Josh, many people like your rap video. It was aired on CNN.”

  “No way! They aired that!” I cry out embarrassed over Shane’s and Sarah’s laughter. “They better have shown our other music video with Shane and Sarah dancing!” I join them to laugh like I haven’t laughed for months. I was so playful two months ago, rapping and dancing in the towns of Iraqi Kurdistan. I like the idea of the world knowing I’m playful, but if it is taken out of context, I worry that people won’t take my plight seriously.

  We tell the ambassador we’ve not been interrogated for a while and that we think they’re done questioning us. Shane complains to the ambassador that his interrogator promised that he and I would room together when the interrogation ended. I turn to look at him, surprised. This is the first I’ve heard of that possibility. My interrogator wouldn’t utter anything besides the questions he had for me.

  The ambassador takes it all in and her assistant avidly takes notes. She gives us her business card and hands us letters from home, a few books, and some Swiss chocolate. She offers to relay messages to our families. My family loves Bob Dylan, so in my message I include the quote, “Any day now, any day now, I shall be released.”

  As soon as we leave, Dumb Guy takes the business card, the books, the chocolate, and the letters. The following week, Shane’s interrogator hands me a package and says, “When you read these letters, you should try not to get emotional.”

  In the cell alone, I grip the letters tightly as I read them, passionately holding on to every word. Tears flow from my eyes—tears of laughter and sadness and joy. Blurry-eyed, I read the letters out loud and wave them at the broken sky through my barred window. My brother writes of playing basketball together. Mom and Dad write with pure love. My friends quote Dylan and Rumi and tell me that if anyone they knew would stay strong in prison in Iran, it would be me. They had a vigil for us at UC Berkeley. I forgot how much they loved me. I read long, sweet letters from my friend Jenny. I’d been hoping she was thinking of me. I have been thinking of her—wishing I’d gone back to America to date her instead of visiting Shane and Sarah. I’d been meaning to date her for years—since we broke up in seventh grade. What have I been waiting for all these years? For the first time in almost two months, I realize I haven’t been forgotten at all. For days, this knowledge consoles me and keeps me going through the agony of solitary confinement.

  30. Shane

  To write about solitary confinement is to provide the texture of experience, but how do I provide the texture of an experience whose essential quality is its texturelessness? Solitary confinement is not a head banging against the wall in terror or rage. Sometimes it is, but mostly it’s just the slow erasure of who you thought you were. You think you are still you, but you have no real way of knowing. How can you know if you have no one to reflect you back to yourself?

&nbs
p; Would I know if I was going crazy? It all must happen imperceptibly in here, like a frog being boiled to death, unaware of the rising water temperature as he is cooked. The longer I am alone, the more my mind slows. I’m losing my capacity to think. I’m becoming an animal, just looking and feeling.

  It’s been almost two weeks since we saw the Swiss. I haven’t seen Sarah or Josh since. The excitement of my family’s letters has worn off—I practically have them memorized by now. All I want to do this autumn morning is to forget about everything and experience the slow daily birth from sleep to wakefulness, to sip my tea and eat my bread and jam. But I can’t do it. I am unable to prevent my mind from being sharply focused on one task: forcing myself not to look at the wall behind me. I know that eventually, a tiny sliver of sunlight will spill in through the grated window and place a quarter-sized dot on the wall. It’s ridiculous that I’m thinking about it this early. I’ve been awake only ten minutes and I should know it will be hours before it appears.

  Sarah wrote a song in the first prison and she used to sing it to me. “You with your burnt green eyes, haven’t you said to me, all they can take from us, is a piece of time?” I did say that to her, trying to say something that was both comforting and defiant. But I was wrong. They take everything from us—breezes, eye contact, human touch, the feeling of warm wet hands from washing a sink-load of dishes, the miracle of transforming thoughts onto paper with ink. They leave only the pause—those moments of waiting at bus stops, of cigarette breaks—they take those empty moments that we usually cherish amidst the fullness of our daily lives, and they shove them down our throats. They make time the object of our hatred.