A Sliver of Light

by Shane Bauer

  Changing the subject, she gives us two bags full of books, letters, and postcards from all over the world. Throughout all of our time together, a part of my brain never stops preparing for our return to the cell, thinking about what we can do to make our lives a little better once this whirlwind has passed. I know the authorities won’t let us keep the letters, so I stuff as many of them down my pants as I can fit. My mom digs through her purse and gives me whatever I want. I take a pen, some herbal tea satchels, and a small Farsi-English phrase book. I go to the bathroom and arrange everything so it is evenly covering my thighs. My jeans are so stuffed, it is hard to walk.

  Mom tells me about my sisters, and though she tries to hide it, I can see they are in bad shape. My imprisonment is chiseling away at them. She talks about my friends as if they were hers. Shon, who was with us in Kurdistan, is moving in with her. Dad is raising money through hog roasts in rural Minnesota and by raffling off Bobcat skid loaders. She and Sarah’s mom have been living together for many months. My mom, who normally gets up and has coffee on the deck looking over her dogs and horses, now drinks it in front of a computer. She, who was angry when they paved the road in front of her house in the woods because it would bring traffic, has flown to New York and DC at least six times each. Now, she rarely goes hiking because she can’t get cell reception. She closed her business as a canine massage therapist and now works on our campaign full-time. It’s what she wants, she says. Don’t feel guilty. I know that she will never stop and I know that she is the best person to do this—I have never known anyone as strong as her. As the minutes roll by, I answer every question about our conditions that has kept her awake at night.

  My mom tells us that since they arrived, they’ve been kept in a nearby room. Yesterday, their minders took them on a “tour” of the market. There, a woman approached them and apologized for what her government has done to us as agents swirled around them. After the tour, they sat them down and played videos about how Iran’s internal enemies were supported by the United States.

  Josh is sitting with his mom looking out a window on the other side of the room. She wants him to get as much fresh air as he can. She looks nervous and excited at the same time and asks him about our lives in extreme detail. He answers every question calmly, and holds her hands in his. They alternate between hushed conversation and robust laughter.

  Sarah and I, also in our own separate worlds with our moms, signal each other with our eyes and come together. We kneel down on the floor in front of them and hold their hands, forming a little four-person circle. They look expectant. I think that somehow they already know. “Shane and I are getting married,” Sarah says, perking up and smiling sweetly. “Congratulations,” they both say, somewhat nervously. I try hard to read their thoughts. Are they worried that we’re being rash, planning out our futures in such an extreme situation? Are they, both divorcées, trying to hold back their own fears of marriage? Sarah shows them her ring of thread, and they soften, cooing about how romantic we are.

  Then, after a pause, Sarah’s mom, Nora, asks, “Can we tell the media?”

  Sarah

  I can’t get over how strong my mom looks. The hysterical woman who visits my nightmares has nothing in common with the fierce, articulate person sitting in front of me. All these months I’ve been imagining her defeated and broken, but I was wrong. I don’t have to protect her from what’s happening to me. Even if I want to, I can’t.

  “I feel crazy sometimes, Mom. I cry for days on end. Then, I’m consumed by anger, I can’t concentrate . . . can’t control my thoughts. I need a cellmate.”

  I stare into my mom’s warm, beautiful eyes. She reassures me that if we aren’t released in the next few days, the families are really going to amp up the pressure. There’s no one in the world that I can count on like this woman. I have no idea how she’s found the strength to fight this battle, but she has. I see it in her eyes, in her set jaw and determined voice. No matter how hard it is—she’s going to make sure I get out of here.

  I tell my mom to follow me into the bathroom. We walk past the secret police hand in hand and lock the door behind us. “Mom,” I whisper, “about four months ago I found a lump in my left breast. It’s big and sore, and wasn’t there before. They took me to the prison doctor but didn’t allow me to ask her any questions. A few weeks later, they took me out of the prison to a real hospital in Tehran for a mammogram, but I haven’t seen the results. They say I’m fine, but I’m not sure I believe them.”

  I lift up my shirt and guide my mom’s hand to the spot that’s been tormenting me. Her skilled fingers gently prod the area—after a few seconds she looks up at me and shakes her head.

  “It’s not cancer, sweetie. It’s just a totally normal lump. You don’t need to worry anymore.”

  My mom has been a nurse for over thirty years—I know she wouldn’t lie to me about this. “Sarah,” my mom whispers, looking intensely into my eyes, “I want you to keep complaining about this.” We hear a knock at the door and Dumb Guy tells us to come out of the bathroom. “You’re fine,” she continues. “Know that—but don’t stop demanding medical care. This is really important, okay?”

  “Okay,” I agree, opening the door. We walk back to where Shane and Josh are sitting on the couch, snuggled close to their moms. I marvel at what these women have been able to do for us, what they will continue to do. All three of them have been in the forefront of the media, advocating for us with unshakable resolve. Right now, we are all our mothers’ children, seeking comfort and protection, but this will be over soon.

  “Mom,” I ask, “do people know who we are? Do they know our politics?”

  I can see the doubt in her eyes. “Tell me what you want them to know, Sarah,” she says. “I’ll be your voice.”

  “I want them to know who we are, why we came to the Middle East . . .”

  “Of course. Sarah, I don’t think you can begin to understand how hard people are fighting for you guys. No one’s going to give up, Sarah.”

  Shane

  The suits bring us menus and encourage us to order. I ask for shrimp and a chicken sandwich and fries and Coke and coffee. I eat it all, as well as some of the fruit heaped up on the table in front of us. Josh sips a nonalcoholic beer. He and Sarah barely pick at their food. Every minute is starting to feel schizophrenic. Sarah sings songs she has written in prison. We don’t know when this is going to end. It is starting to feel like someone telling us to have fun at gunpoint.

  Two hours after we eat, the Iranians tell us it’s time to go. We hug and kiss our moms and say every last thought we can think of as they usher us slowly down the hall. We wait in front of an elevator. When it opens, a man invites our moms to enter. They do, and we stare at each other, them on one side of the threshold and us on the other, a microcosm of the past ten months. Just as my heart starts to break, something inside me turns off. It’s prison time again. I know that I never want to remember the look of defeat, loss, and deep fatigue on my mom’s face. I’m going numb. As the doors close and tears well in their eyes, I know that this is the worst moment of their lives.

  52. Josh

  On the way back from the hotel, I can feel prison approaching. Next to Sarah and Shane, I sit in the back of the van. I dig voraciously through the oversized zebra-striped bag full of letters and books and photos and clothes that my mother just handed me.

  A childhood photo rests on my left thigh. In it Alex and I sit cross-legged under autumn foliage as toddlers; a giant football is on my lap. I wish Alex had come! He had written in a letter that he applied for a visa as the “male escort for the three moms.” On my other thigh rests a photo of my friends smiling like sunflowers around a redwood tree. Jammed between my legs are letters from my friend Farah and my uncle Fred. I’m thinking of how my mother talked of Jenny—how she sends her love and buys my mother flowers. Since my first batch of letters last September, it’s the only time I’ve heard anything from people besides my immediate family. As I sift throug
h these piles, I realize I don’t know what I’m looking for; I’m just bathing in love.

  I’ve always loved my mother, but I’ve never before felt this warm and glowing with her. All our past squabbles and arguments, all my little judgments became irrelevant during our visit. All my fears about how she might be upset with me just disappeared. She’s fought for me nonstop for almost ten months. Normally, we barely hug or kiss. It’s just not how she raised me. But we didn’t let go of each other for more than a few moments all day. It felt amazing to express my love to her. It’s too bad it takes imprisonment for me to fully appreciate who she is.

  The van turns sharply to the left, and all the letters and photos spew to the floor. The vehicle comes to a stop. I step out with my zebra-striped bag in hand to an unfamiliar scene. A dozen guards stand ready around a volleyball net in a parking lot next to the entrance of Section 209. Even more guards cheer from the sidelines. I recognize all of them. I’ve been wondering for months what type of ball game I hear from my cell.

  The guards stop playing, put the volleyball down, and start chattering and pointing at us. Shane and Sarah are a few feet ahead, approaching the building. The guards are pointing at me. One guard jogs over to me.

  For a moment I think he is going to invite me to play. This guard likes me. Many of them do. Sometimes, in the hallways, I play-wrestle with a guard we named Miscellany. Other times, I hold hands with a guard named Jon when we walk down the halls. No guards normally hold prisoners’ hands, but I know male physical contact is normal in the Middle East. The janitor and I exchange smiles and a “Salaam” every time we see each other. I joke with a guard we named Peugeot about his favorite TV series, Prison Break. Sometimes this rapport allows me leeway, but the guard who runs to me from their volleyball court wants me blindfolded and inside the prison’s walls. He pushes me toward my friends and the prison building.

  When the other guards see what is happening, the rest of the volleyball court erupts in commotion—everyone arguing. I have no idea what they are talking about, but the debate is heated. Suddenly AK, the Ass Kicker guard, runs toward me. He carries the ball in his hands. He grasps my forearm, pulls me onto their makeshift court, and hands me the volleyball.

  I gain immediate satisfaction from his actions. I maintain the conceit that I am slowly winning over the stoic and cruel AK with my charms. When he recently gave me a shoulder massage as I walked down the hall to hava khori, I felt as though I’d started making progress. I like to think that by being friendly and respectful with AK, I’m lowering his defenses, and he’ll eventually treat me like a human being. But I never imagined playing volleyball with him.

  I love seeing the guards divided over how to deal with me. It is so characteristic of this upside-down place that a guard who often jokes with me acts tough in front of his peers and pushes me toward the prison. Meanwhile AK, who earns his reputation by beating prisoners, invites me to play. I feel oddly honored to be singled out. I can hardly believe I was with my mother a half-hour ago, and now I’m playing volleyball with the guards. I brush these thoughts aside, grab the ball, and stride to the server’s line as confidently as I can.

  I bounce the ball a couple times and look around at my teammates. They are ready. I take a long look at my opponents on the other side of the net. Their knees are bent, their hands raised. They are waiting on me. The ball is in my hands. A package of ballpoint pens that my mother gave me rests precariously on my crotch. Clouds drift above us. The snowcapped mountains loom majestically beyond the prison, and I savor this moment of power.

  My serve descends deep on the left side. They bump the ball out of bounds—our point. If we were playing by the rules, I’d keep serving. But I am content walking off the court to sounds of approval.

  Inside the prison, they immediately take Sarah upstairs and Shane and me to a changing room to dress into our uniforms. Before we enter, a guard empties our pockets and waistline full of letters, pictures, and talismans that our mothers gave us. I want to carry the feeling of being in my mother’s arms with me into my cell. I want to cherish all that she gave me and to remember the warmth that exists in the world. But no. They take everything except the four pens balancing on my crotch.

  Summer 2010

  53. Josh and Shane

  Josh

  It’s now June, one month since our mothers were allowed to visit. Since then, Sarah’s been miserable at hava khori. She has fallen into a deep depression. Nothing Shane or I do lifts her spirit. The morale of our triad is sinking steadily. To add fuel to the fire, the United States initiated more UN sanctions on Iran, and our hopes for freedom are crashing.

  Since including me in his volleyball game, AK has been pissing me off. Once, on a whim, he made me leave hava khori earlier than Shane and Sarah. Then, the last time I saw him, he locked the window in our cell door for no apparent reason.

  We are walking back from hava khori when Shane grabs an extra dinner tray from the meal cart, which we routinely do after they distribute meals. Immediately, I hear AK barking from down the hallway. He strides toward me, until he’s just inches from my face.

  In awkward Farsi, I try to tell him I’m angry with him for slamming my window a few days ago. I want an apology. But he doesn’t acknowledge it. So I say it again, louder.

  He inches even closer to my face, breathing on my forehead. I stand, wearing my blindfold and still waiting for him to apologize.

  A female guard whisks Sarah away. I hear her ask in a concerned voice, “Is everything okay?”

  “It’s fine, Sarah, don’t worry.”

  I turn back to AK. I’d been thinking about him closing the window for the past few days and I’m excited to finally be confronting him.

  Instead of apologizing, he shoves me. I stagger back in my sandals and steady myself. He doesn’t give me a moment to gather myself; he shoves me harder. Again, as I straighten up, he’s waiting for me. I cling to the nearest door. A guard we’ve named Tall Racing Stripe watches gleefully nearby. Something about the scuffle amuses him. AK pushes me again and I find a railing. Wherever he’s taking me, I don’t want to go. He looms above me, pushing me down the steps. In the stairwell, one of the nurses stands aside, wearing his usual, self-satisfied smirk as I stagger past him.

  Shane

  Josh is gone. I struggle to run after him, but I can hardly move. My shoulder is against the wall, and there is a guard in front of me and another behind me. I push and push. I lift my blindfold and keep struggling as hard as I can, pushing and pulling in sharp, frenzied jerks. Sarah is gone. Every instance of AK beating people is swirling in my mind.

  I realize that one of the two guards trying to restrain me is the tall one we call Paper. I don’t know the other guy. Paper has a kind of compassionate look in his eye. He’s not angry. He is way stronger than I am and he is trying to calm me down. His softness almost sinks in, but I force it away and keep struggling. They pin me into a corner. There is no way out.

  Suddenly, AK comes back up the stairs, reaches through the two guards, and grabs me with one hand. He tosses me to the floor like a kitten. Next thing I know, I am in a headlock. My whole body feels like it is shouting—in my mind I am shouting—but I’m not sure whether I am making noise or not. Suddenly, he is marching me down the hall with my head pressed against his side.

  My feet are trying to keep up with him, but I keep slipping, which makes me fall into the iron noose of his arm and choke. His bicep must be as big as my thigh. As he drags me, his breathing is deep and labored. Halfway down the main hall, he stops, reaches under the guards’ desk, and pulls out a billy club.

  He drags me down the rest of the main hall, his stride long and heavy, then turns down our hall and flings me into our cell. In one motion, he steps into the middle of the cell and smacks the billy club against our little fridge with all his might. In the next instant it is above his head, ready to come down on me.

  I cower instinctively. For the first time since this started, everything pauses. Sweat is
beading on his forehead. His eyes are bloodshot and wild. He could break bones. I am terrified. I put my hands up in submission and he storms out of the cell.

  My body falls down onto the bed in a huff of physical relief. I put my face in my hands and I exhale. Then I remember Josh. I know what I must do.

  I leap up to the door and shout. “Josh kujaast?! Josh kujaast?!”

  AK storms back to the cell like a bull chasing down a Spaniard. He flings open the door, charges into my cell, and raises his fist.

  I tap my finger against my jaw.

  “Hit me,” I say in English. He winds his arm back threateningly.

  “Hit me!” I shout. I feel crazed, but lucid. I know that I am taking away all of his power. If he can’t frighten me, all he can do is hit me, and if he does that, he will be hurting himself. We are hostages, and hostages are currency, and currency is not to be damaged. Making him beat me is my only way to fight back. And it’s my only way of keeping him off Josh.

  He is getting worked up, but he is confused.

  “Where is Josh?!” I say over and over again. I won’t stop.

  He raises his leg up as if to kick me in the chest. I slap my hands against my ribs like a man possessed. “Do it! Come on!” He has almost reached the tipping point.

  Paper is standing at the doorway, watching. He looks unsure what to do, as though cognizant this shouldn’t be happening but uncertain how to stop it.

  “Where is Josh? Josh kujaast?!”

  He pushes me and I fall to the floor. He is above me. It is going to start now. My body lets go, gives in to what I expect to come. I just tell myself, over and over again, I know this. Why is prison so much like high school, where power was stark and beatings happened regularly? I know this. I know it happens quickly and it hurts but not that badly. Unlike it was when I was a kid, this time I’m not going to lose because I’m not going to fight back. And I’m not going to fear him. I know that I have already won, and I think he does too, which only fuels his rage. I know that Josh will come back.