A Sliver of Light

by Shane Bauer

  The female prisoners on our hall are mostly in their twenties and thirties, and they are probably all activists. I don’t think of them as fantasy objects like I do with the attractive guard. I feel solidarity with them. Torture seems allotted to them disproportionately. Half of the new female prisoners walk with a limp; one groans with each step. I’m hoping my new female hallmates will fill the void left by Hamid’s departure. I’m not ready to accept my world shrinking to just Shane and Sarah again. Sarah says many Iranian women speak English. Maybe these new prisoners will have news we can’t get from the tightly censored state TV.

  I peek quickly into their cells on my way to hava khori. I see a woman alone pacing vigorously back and forth, counting something on her fingers. In another cell, I see a woman crouched in the corner, sobbing helplessly. It reminds me of my hellish first days of captivity. I want to reach out to them somehow, but the female guards patrol more vigilantly than the men. There’s no time for more than a rushed “Salaam.”

  I tell Shane about the prisoners I see, but he’s wary of my peeking into their cells. Guards often do that, and, in solitary confinement, peeking felt like a violation to me. Now, for us, it’s a trifle. Shane reminds me what it was like in solitary and suggests that female prisoners are probably scared of being raped. If they see a man looking in, they may freak out. They may think I’m a guard.

  I appreciate Shane’s perspective, and I stop peeking. Indeed, I’m coming to appreciate him in many new ways the longer we cell together. We complement each other well. I teach him tai chi moves and he teaches me salsa steps. I love mulling over the cardboard pieces stuck in our radiator that serves as our chessboard and analyzing every possibility. Then Shane teaches me the obscure rules and the strategies he remembers from his grade-school chess club. If his lunch tray has more than mine, he gives me some of his food, and he expects the same from me. I love that he loves my sense of humor. I’ve never seen him cry before this, but often when letters from home arrive, he weeps, and I go over to his side of the room, hug him, and tell him that it’ll all be okay. He does the same for me, and I know that he knows my pain. Our friendship feels deep, and it’s getting deeper. I feel like I can tell him almost anything.

  For our first several weeks rooming together, I continue to keep the Sabbath. We’d drink cherry juice and say some prayers over our dinner on Friday nights. For twenty-four hours I’d honor the day of rest: I wouldn’t wash the dishes, exercise, or clean the floor. I realize that I’ve asserted my Judaism as a way to be the opposite of my jailers, but it’s exactly this kind of binary thinking that created the political mess. Jews and Muslims aren’t opposites. I don’t want to think like that. We are both “People of the Book,” as my guards often remind me. Sunch binary thinking leads to calling any American a spy, to suspecting all Muslims of being terrorists, and to ignoring complex identities, such as my own as an Arab Jewish American.

  In these first months after Shane celled with me, I slowly let go of my religiosity. It’s not that he challenges my practices overtly. His presence alone makes me question religion and puts me in touch with myself. Why am I pretending the Sabbath is ordained by God when I really don’t believe that? I don’t need to act Jewish as a reaction to their suspicion. With Shane in the cell, I don’t need religion anymore. I don’t need the Sabbath, nor do I need to drop to my knees during the call to prayer.

  At hava khori I have to hide from Sarah the depth of my relationship with Shane. Sarah has said that she felt left out around Shane and me on the hike, and now the prison has institutionalized that arrangement. Shane and I try to avoid talking about funny moments in our cell or even the fact that the interrogators have let us have a plastic chair. Sarah asked us not to say we, but we don’t always succeed, and she invariably shudders when we slip. I try to be sensitive to her, and I remind her that one day it will all be set straight: “When we’re released, you and Shane will be together all the time. I’ll be on my own.”

  Sarah and I very consciously build our friendship so our triad’s dynamic doesn’t all hinge on Shane. Shane encourages us in this. Sarah tells me about her youth as a punk and about her relationship with her mother. She suggests friends of hers whom I should date in San Francisco. I tell stories of my cross-country bicycle trip and about Jenny, the friend I’ve wanted to marry since we dated in middle school, how I received long letters from her in September, and how I finally feel ready for her.

  Sarah truly opens up to me—in both her love and her anger. I’ve watched her rage and kick the walls. I’ve run in circles chasing her. I’ve tried to snap her out of her anger and was pushed away. We have cried together and hugged in moments of spontaneous joy. It’s all very raw in hava khori. I feel so close to her, and I’ve taken to calling her my sister.

  But even though we sometimes share such intensity, I sense her holding back with me at hava khori. Sometimes when things are hard for her, she just wants Shane to hold her. In these moments, she curls into a ball in Shane’s arms. Other times when things are difficult for her or when she and Shane are arguing, Sarah wants me there for support.

  None of this is articulated and I have a hard time guessing what’s best for her. My offer to leave them alone in hava khori is the purest gift I’ve ever given. The hardest part is talking about it. Sarah seems to feel guilty for wanting privacy. I want what’s best for them, even if it requires stepping back from the only two relationships I have.

  One way we avoid the awkwardness of talking about it is by scheduling two weekly hava khori sessions in which they can be alone. On Saturday mornings and Wednesday nights, I go to hava khori kucheek, small hava khori, a room smaller than my cell but with a glass roof that allows me to see the sky.

  During this time, I manage to fill my social needs. I sneak conversations with people taking showers in the room next door. I realize how desperate I am to talk to other people. I bring chocolate and a handmade deck of cards to give away. I develop friendships and look forward to meeting new people.

  I meet a student who shows me his scars from being electrocuted, a Christian prosecuted for being a Muslim apostate, and a political science professor visiting from England for his mother’s funeral. Hava khori kucheek is exactly what I need—exactly when I needed it.

  42. Shane

  The censors neglected to remove a staple from our letters. I pull it out with my long fingernails and bend the end to make a little hook. I stick the hook delicately under the hem of my pink towel and pull the thread out, one stitch at a time. When I finish that, I do the same with my underwear, pulling out two long, white threads.

  I tie the ends of these little threads to the zipper handle on my mattress. Like my sisters and I did as kids, I take the three threads and weave them together, tying little knots over and over again. The knots form into tiny little spirals.

  When we were all in solitary, I read books like Pride and Prejudice and Tess of the D’Urbervilles and paced my cell. I would only read a few pages at a time before I would put the book down, pace, and think. What have I been doing all these years? I’d ask myself. Why haven’t I proposed to Sarah yet? Are we going to just roll along together year by year, without ever deciding that it will be forever?

  I turned over these questions for months. I’ve never really believed in marriage, so part of me wondered whether I was being seduced into it by my isolation and those nineteenth-century novels. Why trap yourself in an institution that is so feeble, that so often crumbles and wrecks lives? Why participate in the state’s incentivization of one particular type of relationship: one man and one woman. I don’t believe that it is somehow divinely ordained that humankind is meant to be monogamous, forever. It’s so religious, marriage. And I don’t really care for religion.

  But I love her so much. I do want to be with her forever. I want to know that flame in her eyes will always ignite me and that the softness of her touch will always soothe me. I want to make a pact, build a foundation. I want to make something with her that is the oppo
site of this hell. I want to plan together. Though I see her every day now, she is still ripped away from me over and over again. The wound it leaves behind makes me double over with pain, a sharp, real pain in my stomach that lingers for hours. It leaves a dull, growing ache in my back. I want to be Sarah’s sanctuary and I want her to be mine. There is nothing more important than this. I want to commit.

  I would rather propose to her in freedom. I’d rather wait until it could be a true celebration. But the other day Sarah came out to hava khori with news. A ticker on the TV read “American Hikers to Be Tried Individually.” Josh and I are sure this news means that Sarah will be tried and released before us. Releasing one of us might cool down international pressure on Iran and it makes sense that she would be the one to go. She is a woman. They would never release a man when they could release a woman. And Sarah doesn’t fit readily into a spy mold. She is neither a journalist nor a Jew.

  She doesn’t think it will be her. She believes Josh will be the one. I think she’s in denial. She might disappear from us any day now. I need to make sure she knows, before it’s too late, that I want to be with her for the rest of my life.

  I tie off the thread spirals and leave enough loose string at the ends to make sure I can tie them onto our fingers. It’s date night, which means that Josh is going to stay in the cell while Sarah and I go out alone. I have the two little rings in my hand, white with a little strip of red in the middle, like a stone.

  Josh has no idea what I’m about to do. I don’t tell him because I’m afraid I might chicken out. I’m so nervous. What if she says no?

  I get to hava khori before Sarah. It is dark and the late-winter air is a little cold. I lay a blanket down for us to sit on, under the camera so the guards won’t be able to watch. Occasionally when we do this they come out and tell us to move into view of the camera. Usually though, they leave us alone.

  When she comes out, I ask her if she wants to walk. I can tell she doesn’t really, but I convince her to anyway. I want to loosen that constricted feeling that comes when I’m nervous. We do a few rounds, my heart pounding as I try to make small talk. Then I stop and sit us down on the blanket.

  I take her hands in mine. We’re both kneeling, sitting back against our feet. The single light, high up on the opposite wall, drowns out any view of the stars, but it casts a soft yellow glow on her face. Her hair is long now, drawn back in a ponytail, but I can’t see much of it under her purple hijab. Her lips are slightly redder than usual, probably from the strawberry jelly she uses sometimes for lipstick. She is beautiful.

  It’s quiet out. No one is around. It’s just she and I. I am aware that this is one of those moments on which life pivots. I can see in her eyes that she doesn’t know what I’m going to say. I’m shivering slightly even though it isn’t cold out.

  “Baby, I didn’t want to do this here. I wanted to be somewhere beautiful, but—” She looks confused and a little worried. “Will you marry me?”

  Her body jolts with surprise. She squeezes my fingers. Her smile—my favorite part of her body—beams from somewhere deep. She sits upright. For a few moments, she says nothing. I hold my breath. Then she says yes.

  I tie the rings onto each of our fingers and we hold each other, looking into each other’s eyes, smiling.

  43. Sarah

  The next day, Leila brings me to hava khori and gently closes the door behind me. Stepping into the evening light, I close my eyes and take in a slow, deep breath. The cold air has a faint warmth behind it—a sweetness I can almost taste. My ears even detect the whisper of a breeze coming from somewhere behind these high walls.

  There must be flowers out there, I think. After all, it’s almost spring. I open my eyes when I hear the click of the steel door opening behind me. Shane and Josh are taking off their blindfolds. I smile when I see they are with our favorite guard.

  “Ehsan,” I say as I approach them, “did you hear that Shane and I are getting married?”

  “Yes, I know, I am very happy for you.” He smiles, leaning on the door frame of hava khori with his arms crossed. Ehsan is an officer, a step above the other guards. He’s clearly uncomfortable with our imprisonment, and from day one he’s tried to help us. When we were all still in solitary, Ehsan would come to our cells one by one and offer to rotate our reading materials. Again and again he’s complained to the warden about my solitary confinement, trying to come up with alternatives to keeping me alone.

  “I wish you could come to our wedding,” I say. “It’s going to be so beautiful.”

  “Inshallah,” he replies, “it will be very soon. How much time do you need together today?”

  “As long as possible,” I say. “Maybe two hours?”

  “Yes, I will see if I can do it.”

  “Also,” Shane asks, “can you get us more yogurt and cheese? The other guards have been refusing to give us extra.”

  “Yes, of course,” he says. “I will go to the kitchen. Is there anything else you need?”

  My heart quickens at the prospect of spending two hours together—I haven’t had that much time with other human beings since interrogation. That much time with Shane and Josh will raise my spirits for days. My anxiety level will go down, making it easier to read, study, and focus during my time alone.

  I make a point to hug Josh first, holding on to him long enough to feel our bodies relax into each other. The guards always tease Josh and me for hugging, carefully explaining to us that men and women don’t hug in Iran unless they’re married or family. But we are family.

  “They let us shave yesterday,” Josh says, sitting down on our gray wool blanket and tucking his legs to one side underneath him. “When I saw my face in the mirror, I was startled. I look harder than I used to, more like a prisoner. If I didn’t know me, I’d say I looked guilty.”

  In some ways Josh reminds me of Ehsan. Just like Ehsan will never don the callous shell of a prison guard, Josh will never take on the persona of a prisoner. Even after six months in here, he refuses to wear his blindfold properly.

  “No, Josh,” I say adamantly, taking his hand, “I wish you could see what I see. Your face could never look hard.” You can dress Josh up in a prison uniform, blindfold him, leach out all of the color from his skin, and swell up his biceps from incessant exercise, but you can never take away Josh’s beautiful, electric smile, or change the sweet essence of the man he is.

  It seems to me the longer that Shane and Josh are kept here in these shadows, the brighter and more beautiful they become. In many ways this place brings out the best in us. Shane and I pass a slightly softer blanket back and forth every day, taking turns immersing ourselves in each other’s smells by cuddling with it every night. Josh gives me his favorite tank top because my shirt is full of holes. “You will not obtain righteousness until you give from what you love,” we remind each other, quoting the Quran.

  I ask Shane and Josh if they’d like to hear a new song I’ve written. They both lie on their backs, folding their hands behind their heads and closing their eyes—the optimal position, they agree, for listening to songs.

  “The promise of freedom,” I sing, “and the sound of your voice.”

  I let my voice trail off and listen to its echo from the high walls. When I sing to Shane and Josh, I’m also thinking about all the other prisoners sitting in their cells; I hope they can hear me. My new song is about my mother’s voice—which is beautiful, deep, and strong. It was my mom who taught me how to sing. Growing up, I always wrote songs, but I had never taken them seriously till now—I’d never really needed them. In prison, singing has brought me back from the edge hundreds of times.

  “I learned an amazing word,” I tell them when I’m finished. “Egress.”

  “That sounds familiar. What does it mean?” Shane asks.

  “It means freedom to leave whenever you want,” I say.

  “The promise of egress,” Josh says, “like your song. That’s exactly what we need. Egress.”

  �
�I’ve been thinking a lot about our conversation last week. About what real freedom is. Yes, what we need now is egress. But, when we get out of here, will we truly be free? Will we be able to live every moment to its fullest, to speak truth to power, to love unconditionally? How can we ever live up to our new standards of freedom?”

  “Exactly,” Shane replies. “It’s not going to be easy. It’s not very free out in the free world.”

  “At least we can try, always try to live up to it,” Josh says. “Even if we never get there, we’ll never stop trying.”

  “I feel closer to freedom right now than I have for months, sitting here with you guys, just thinking about it.”

  The door opens and Ehsan comes out, carrying a box filled with dozens of small packages of butter, yogurt, cheese, cucumbers, and fresh tomatoes. I can see that it makes him happy to see us together and at ease. I ask him if he’s heard anything from our interrogators, any news about us from the outside. He hasn’t.

  “I will call them,” he says. “They should come soon. Now, enjoy your time together, I will be back in an hour.” Another hour! It feels like he’s giving us eternity.

  “Will you ask them why they won’t give Sarah a cellmate?” Josh adds.

  “Yes,” he answers, “they know it’s wrong, but they still won’t give me an answer . . .”

  “Whose decision is it?” I ask. “The warden’s?” We’ve been trying to get to the bottom of this question for months.

  “No,” he says, “not the warden’s. Your interrogators’.”