by Shane Bauer
44. Sarah
I have a purple headscarf that Leila delivered to my cell a few weeks ago along with some letters and books. It’s the most colorful thing I’ve been allowed to have, embroidered with beautiful yellow, turquoise, and silver threads, with a fluffy fringe at each end. The colors lift up my imagination like a magic carpet. When I fly on its back, I can see the beautiful Iran that the guards love to boast about, the Zagros Mountains and the Caspian Sea, the Iran I wish I knew instead of this place.
“It’s snowing,” a guard named Maryam says, standing at the threshold of my cell door. “No hava khori today . . . You’ll get sick.”
“Maryam,” I say in my broken, hard-earned Farsi, “I am not a child. I am a thirty-one-year-old woman. I want to go to hava khori and see Shane and Josh. Now!”
Suddenly, she reaches out and slaps my face. Without pausing to think, I reach out and slap her back.
“Man bache niistam!” I yell. I’m not a child! “Man ensanam,” I continue, pointing to my heart. I’m a person.
We stare at each other for a second. Neither of us slapped hard enough to hurt—just hard enough to make a point. Both of us are small women in our early thirties. Maryam has three children and an annoying propensity to treat me like one of them. The slap was the furthest I’ve ever pushed any of the guards, but she slapped me first, which we both know she’s not supposed to do. Instead of slamming my door and walking away like she should, Maryam pauses. A glimmer of sympathy, even respect, softens her face. She tells me to get ready for hava khori.
Seconds later, tiny flakes are falling on our upturned faces. Shane, Josh, and I are standing hand in hand, feeling the soft, cool snow melt and trickle down our cheeks.
“Look at that one!” Josh says, pointing to a flake on my shoulder that immediately disappears. The three of us snuggle up under a wool blanket. I tell them about slapping Maryam, and Josh recounts the first time he slapped a guard’s hand off his shoulder. Soon after that, the guard stopped pushing him down the hall. Shane recounts how he made a guard open the small window in their cell door by putting his foot in the door and staring him down.
“It reminds me of what Douglass wrote,” Josh says, “about standing up to his slave master.” A few weeks ago, we received the first stack of books we’ve been allowed from our families, including Frederick Douglass’s autobiography, which the three of us have been passing back and forth ever since. There couldn’t be a better role model than Douglass for standing up to power. After he stood up to his brutal master and fought back, Douglass was never beaten again, even though he remained a slave for several more years.
“The guards can sense it,” Shane adds, “when we stop being afraid.”
Over time, we’ve come to challenge and break every rule we can possibly get away with. A deep, long-standing contempt for illegitimate authority is one thing Josh, Shane, and I have in common. It’s formed how we’ve responded to our captivity, collectively and as individuals, since the day we were captured. Now, after almost six months, we’re faced with having to develop a strategy for long-term incarceration.
Everything we do, no matter how small, we try to do disruptively. I cover the peephole on my cell door with blue shampoo so the guards can’t see me, stuff my extra clothes into the light fixtures for a few moments of darkness, sleep naked, refuse breakfast when they bring it and demand it later when I finally manage to drag myself out of bed. I shout, I laugh, I yell, I live as loudly as possible! This behavior leads to plenty of drama and petty confrontations with the guards, but it also keeps me feisty. Anything is better than going limp. I’m determined never to let prison break me.
The guards and interrogators counter this by creating an arbitrary, even irrational climate designed to sap our energy and make it impossible to develop an effective strategy of resistance. Some dole out tons of extra food while others refuse to give an extra minute or two in the shower. One month twenty-five letters might arrive from my mother—the next, only four. Any objections are answered with lies (“That’s all your mother sent this month”) and more false promises (“I promise to bring more next week if she sends any”).
Despite our vigilance, at times we grow weary of these games. About a week ago, Nargess opened my door to hand me my lunch. Suddenly, another guard called her from down the hall and she left in a hurry. Standing with my food in my hand, I noticed a narrow, open crack in the door’s seam, which usually let in no light. She’d left my door open. What difference does it make, I thought to myself, standing frozen with my eyes fixed on the crack, if my stupid door is open? In the hallway outside my cell, there is a video camera mounted on the wall. This hallway leads to another, wider hallway with another camera mounted on its wall. With no help from the outside, there’s no possibility of escape.
Still, how can I close the door of my own cell? In Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison, Michel Foucault wrote that modern prisons are modeled after the panopticon, an architectural design that stations the guards in a dark room in the center of the pod, with rows of cells arranged around them. That way, a prisoner never knows when or if she’s being watched. Over time, she stops wondering. Once the omnipresent eye is internalized, the prisoner becomes her own jailer.
For months I’d had dreams of that damn door being left open—of magically walking out to freedom. Now that it actually was, I couldn’t deal with it. Fuck it, I thought, I’ll just close it myself. No one will ever know. So I did.
In this environment, sanity means balancing on a tightrope between acceptance and resistance. If you fight every battle, you’ll exhaust yourself. If you stop fighting, you’ll slowly lose your own self-respect. The important thing is that over the last few months I’ve managed to take back my own story. I’m no longer that madwoman sobbing and beating at the walls—I do things my own way. The one, real freedom I have is in choosing how to react.
The next morning I wake up early and sing “Gracias a La Vida” by Mercedes Sosa at the top of my lungs. When Nargess barges in and tells me to shut up, I sing even louder. The prisoners down the hall whistle and clap in approval. This place can’t take away my gratitude for life. It can’t stop me from being me.
Spring 2010
45. Sarah
“How have you been, Sarah?” It’s him, Father Guy.
“How do you think I’ve been?” I snap back.
I stand next to Shane and Josh in the interrogation room for three seconds of interminable silence. Being blindfolded has become second nature by now, so we stand with our heads down, not bothering to look at each other.
“How dare you?” I yell. “How dare you just waltz in here and casually ask me how I’ve been? How dare you ask me that?”
Shane grabs my hand and squeezes it gently. I have to stop talking because I feel like I’m choking. I can’t get enough air in my lungs. I hate him. I fucking hate this man.
And I love Shane and Josh. I feel so proud standing with them as one unified, loving force. We outnumber him, I think, and we’re clearly the ones standing on higher ground.
“Where have you been?” I ask angrily. “Why did you leave?”
Since Father Guy stopped coming here three months ago, my whole attitude toward prison has changed. I have vowed never to let anyone in here have as much power over me as he had.
“Sarah, they have put me mostly on another case, so I am not asked to come here anymore,” Father Guy says. It makes me cringe to hear the self-pity in his voice. “I am sorry that you are not well,” he adds.
His voice no longer sounds honey sweet and fatherly to me; all I can hear is the fake formality he uses to try to cover up his weakness and guilt. Whatever kind of sick friendship I had with this man has been over for a long time, and I won’t stand here now and let him fuck with us.
“You should be ashamed,” I spit at him. “Why do you pretend to care?”
He doesn’t respond. His silence feels good. Being angry feels good. I’m not looking for comfort anymore—I just want
revenge. Even if it’s only a fraction of the emotional pain he made me feel, I want to do everything I can to make him suffer.
Josh breaks the silence. “So, why are you here? What do you have for us? Any news?”
“Well, they’ve captured Abdolmalek Rigi, the leader of Jundullah, a terrorist organization, and he’s confessed to taking money from the United States.”
“Yes,” Josh replies, “we saw that on TV. What does it mean for us?”
“Hopefully it means that they will let you go now that they have the real thing.”
We all fall silent as that new, dangerously hopeful thought sinks in. I feel the seconds pounding in my brain. Soon, Father Guy will be gone.
“I have come here today because the judge has made a decision.”
“The judge?” At the mention of that word, Shane, Josh, and I jerk our heads and lean forward like hungry dogs straining on short leashes. For a second it seems possible that his next words might set us free.
“The judge has decided to let you call your parents today.”
“What? Why didn’t you tell us before? Oh my God,” Shane says.
“Oh thank God,” I whisper as I bend my head toward my knees and try to focus on what’s happening. All these months, I would have given up all my privileges, my bed, my TV, DVD, extra food and books, just for the chance to tell my mom that I love her. We’re told that each of us will be allowed one call, five minutes in length, and that we are only allowed to talk about our health, treatment, and conditions. I repeat her phone number under my breath three times, relieved that I can still remember it. I had lost hope that this would ever happen.
The phone is bolted to the wall at the end of the corridor. Father Guy picks up the receiver, dials in some numbers off a phone card, and hands it to me. I want to sound brave, I think, listening to the phone ring. I’ll tell her about our conditions matter-of-factly, but I won’t let myself break down. I’ll tell her how proud I am of her for fighting for me, what an incredible mother she has been . . . everything I’ve been dying to tell her for so long!
The ring is the most distant sound I’ve ever heard; I imagine it stretching out like blue vapor across two continents, thousands and thousands of miles. The sound of my mother’s voice on the answering machine hits me like a wall. I take in a huge breath . . . waiting for the beep.
“Mom, it’s me,” the words run rapidly from my lips. “They’re giving me the chance and I’m calling you from prison. I’m okay and I’m coping. I’m still in solitary confinement and that’s really hard. I see Shane and Josh for an hour once a day, and they’re together . . . I have books, good food, and some letters. Everything you’re doing means so much to me. We know that we don’t know the details, but we know a lot—it gets through to us. Mom, I never knew my own strength until now. I’m as strong as I have to be. You’re an incredible person and I know you’re doing everything you can. You don’t have the power to make this decision, Mom, no one does. No one knows how we’re going to get out of here. We’re learning a lot, trying to make the best of this time. You’re gonna be amazed at how good my math and vocabulary are. Tell everyone I love them, our family and all—” The phone cuts off.
“Argh!” I yell. “You have to let me call her again. I know she’ll pick up this time. Please.”
“Okay, Sarah, but you have already used two of your five minutes. Go ahead.”
I pick up the receiver, dial her number, and listen to it ring and ring. The phone picks up and I hear my mom’s voice, urgent and trembling. “Sarah?” I begin to cry.
46. Shane
As I wait to go to the phone to call my mom, I realize that I can’t remember her number. I strain my brain to pull it up, trying to ignore the interrogators’ banter. Then it comes.
I stand at the phone, blindfolded, and dial with Father Guy standing over my shoulder. The phone rings.
“Yeeello.” It’s a man’s voice. It must be my stepdad.
“Jim?”
“No, this is Al.”
“Dad?”
“Shane!” It wasn’t Mom’s number that I remembered. It was Dad’s. He is laughing with relief. “How are you?” It’s so great to hear his voice. He always sounds so happy.
“I’m good, Dad. Josh and I are in a cell together now, but Sarah is still alone. We keep telling them they need to give Sarah a cellmate. Make sure you tell everyone that.” They told me I have five minutes to talk. The pressure of this precious time seeping away is killing me. It’s freezing my brain. Why wasn’t I prepared for this? “What’s going on out there, Dad? What can you tell me?”
“Well, we’re doing everything we can. We keep pushin’.”
“Do you think the U.S. will do a prisoner exchange?”
“No, they say they ain’t gonna go for that. Our main hope right now is court. Your lawyer says if they take you to court, he is sure he can prove you are innocent and they’ll have to let you guys go. So we’re pushin’ for that right now.” Oh no. That can’t be all he knows. They’ve told us in their letters they’ve been taking all these trips to DC. They have to know more. There has to be more than hope for court. Maybe he is harboring a secret that he doesn’t want to divulge on the phone. No, that’s not it. I can hear it in his voice. That is really his biggest hope. Shit. Maybe Dad doesn’t know everything. I need to call Mom. They have to let me call Mom.
“I’m going to try to call your mom on the other phone right now,” he says. “Maybe that way you can talk.”
He is dialing her number. The phone is ringing. So much time is passing.
“Okay, here she is.”
I talk. “Mom? Can you hear me?” I hear nothing. The seconds are rushing by!
“Dad, can you give me Mom’s number? I’ll try to call her before my time is up.”
He does. After he says the first digit, I remember the rest.
“I love you, Dad. Don’t worry about me, okay? I’m fine. Tell Nicole and Shannon that I love them and that I think about them all the time. I’ll see you soon, Dad.”
“We’re okay too, Shane. Don’t worry about us. Hang in there. I love you.”
I hang up. “Can I call my mom?” I ask Father Guy.
“You only get one phone call,” he says.
“But I didn’t use up my five minutes!”
“I will ask my boss.” He takes me back to the interrogation room where Sarah is sitting and brings Josh to the phone to make his call.
When I enter, Sarah is arguing gently with Josh’s interrogator. He rarely speaks, this guy. Josh says he was stone cold through most of his interrogation. Now, he is talking. “We want to give you a cellmate, Sarah, but the prison won’t allow it. It’s against prison rules to put foreigners with Iranians. If there is another American in the future, we will put you with her. No problem.”
“That’s not true!” Sarah says. She sounds really angry. “You guys keep telling me that, but it’s not true. Ehsan, the officer, says the prison has no problem with giving me a cellmate, but they can’t do it until you approve it. Why are you forcing me to stay in solitary like this?”
“Sarah,” he says calmly and deliberately, “it is against prison rules. And anyway, you are not in solitary confinement. You see Shane and Josh every day. And you have a TV.”
“Will you just talk to Ehsan?” she implores. “He is right out there in the hallway.”
“No, Sarah. Be quiet.”
“Can I go to the bathroom?” I know what she is doing and I’m nervous about it. This doesn’t feel like a good time to piss them off, while we are trying to call our families. He lets her go and I hear her out in the hallway talking to Ehsan.
“Will you come and talk to him?” I hear her plead.
The interrogator goes out and brings her back into the room. He sits her down and puts a piece of paper in front of her. “Write what you just did and why you did it,” he says in an authoritative voice. “Make sure you write the name of the person you talked to out in the hallway.” I can hear Josh d
own the hall, shouting into the phone as if he were yelling across the ocean. He sounds happy. I think he’s speaking to his dad.
“Write why you broke the rules and spoke to someone when I ordered you not to.”
“Just say you were going to the bathroom,” I say to her. We’re sitting next to each other, but I can see only her hands from under the blindfold. “That’s what you were doing. Say prison officials told you you could have a cellmate.”
“Shane, go to your cell,” he snaps. He’s pissed.
“But I haven’t called my mom yet,” I say.
“You can’t call your mom. You broke the rules. Go to your cell.”
Father Guy, the good cop, walks in. He asks Josh’s interrogator to let me make the call, but he refuses.
“Shane, go back to your cell,” Father Guy says in a softer voice. “We were going to let you call your mother, but because of your behavior, my colleague says you can’t.” Sarah beseeches them to let me call. A guard comes and takes her away. Josh isn’t here. They must have brought him back to our cell after his phone call. Now, it’s just me and the interrogators.
“I’m not going until you let me call her,” I insist. “Just give me two minutes. I just want her to hear my voice, to know I am okay.”
Father Guy asks the other interrogator again in Farsi.
“He says no,” Father Guy says. “You must go. Get up.”
I refuse. Outwardly, it’s an act of defiance, but I know that actually, my refusal is what they want. They have me. It’s just me and them, and they know they will win what they are really after: my humiliation. For so long now, I’ve tried to maintain a tough exterior with them, to convince them they can’t break me. But now this hard-ass has me in the palm of his hand. He has presented me with a choice and he has me checkmated. Either way, he wins. If I leave and go back to my cell, or even if they drag me away screaming, I will regret it. He will have the victory of refusing me the phone call and I will have nothing except my pride. And I will spend days or weeks punishing myself for letting my pride win over the chance to speak to my mom.