A Sliver of Light

by Shane Bauer

  The judge holds his hands out and smoothes them over an invisible globe as he says, “Basically, you are at the forefront of an American-Israeli conspiracy against Iran. Please respond.”

  A: I have nothing to do with the American or Israeli governments. I carry a camera because I am a photojournalist. We never “established” ourselves in Kurdistan. We were only there for three days. I haven’t been a student in years.

  Q: How many times have you been to Iraq and how did you get a visa?

  A: I have been to Iraq twice. The first time I got a visa from Baghdad and the second time I got a visa from the Kurdish authorities on the border.

  The prosecutor jumps up again. “See! Now Mr. Bauer is changing his story! Now he says he has been to Baghdad.”

  “What?! I have always said I have been to Baghdad,” I say. My heart is starting to race. “In the last hearing, I talked extensively about my trip to Baghdad. I answered several of your questions about it and spoke about it in front of the camera. I will repeat what I said then: I went to Baghdad as a journalist five months before we were captured—”

  “Noooow you say you were in Baghdad,” he retorts. “Now you admit it!”

  “Of course I admit it!” I say. Now Josh tells me to stay calm. “I have nothing to hide. I was in Baghdad writing articles about my own government’s actions. I exposed U.S. military corruption and their support of militias.” It’s the same old mantra.

  Our lawyer jumps in. “Your Honor,” he says in a conciliatory tone, “like you and I, my clients are critical of their government’s policies toward the Middle East. The whole world knows they are not spies and they should be released on compassionate—”

  “What are you basing that on?” the judge snaps.

  “If you watch TV, you can see people speaking about them all the time. Even famous Muslims like Muhammad Ali have said these two are not spies. Noam Chomsky has said the same thing.”

  “Do you believe what the Western media says?” the judge counters. “And what does it matter what these people say? We don’t know who they are.” Apparently he doesn’t watch Iran’s state TV, where a Muhammad Ali documentary and video clips from Noam Chomsky air frequently. “We judge people by their actions,” the judge says, looking pointedly at Shafii, “not by words.”

  “Are you saying that because I am defending my clients, I am going to be marked as a spy too?” Shafii says. “This court isn’t proceeding fairly. You think of me so badly that when I came into the courtroom you had a special security guard search my underwear and even the strap of my glasses.” I can’t believe how bold this man is. Lawyers get locked up all the time here. Is he asking to go to prison?

  “We will tell you later why we searched you,” the judge says menacingly.

  But Shafii doesn’t back down. “This is not supposed to be a public hearing,” he says, looking toward the gallery. “So who are these fifteen people sitting here watching?”

  “Those people are from the Ministry of Intelligence,” the judge says.

  “If Intelligence can come, why can’t the Swiss ambassador?”

  The judge orders him to sit down.

  “Just one more thing,” Shafii says, and pulls out a piece of paper. “This is a photocopy of the passport of Shon Meckfessel, the person that was with the three in Kurdistan. The visa in this passport explicitly states that it is only valid for Kurdistan, not other parts of Iraq. They could not have traveled to Baghdad with this visa. Shane’s and Josh’s visas are the same as this. You have not let me see their passports—you have them—so I have to present this.”

  The judge takes the paper and says, “Sit down. You have wasted enough of the court’s time. We don’t need to hear any more from you.”

  I am given a piece of paper to write about my previous trip to Baghdad. I answer it briefly, then attempt to describe how it would have been impossible for us to travel from the Turkish border to Baghdad and then back to Kurdistan and to the Iranian border in two and a half days. I look up and see the judge leaning back in his chair and smirking. When I finish, he turns to Shafii. “You say you are anti-American, but you don’t have personal sanctions against you. America put sanctions on me. I am not allowed to travel and they are taking my assets.” He wears his sanctions like a badge of honor. (I later learn that the sanctions actually came from the European Union, not the United States.)

  The judge tells us to write our closing statements. As the translator reads mine, I look directly at the judge. He stares ahead blankly. “‘I am not a spy,’” the translator reads. “‘In fact, I wish this hostility between my country and Iran would end. I am opposed to sanctions on Iran because they harm regular people. But I have no control over what my government does, just as I have no power to stop the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Even so, I apologize for these actions. I am sorry for these hostilities, including the sanctions against your country, including the sanctions against you, Your Honor. I wish people like you and I weren’t caught in the middle.’” My statement has no visible effect on the judge.

  He tells us he will issue his verdict within a week. Our guards usher us out. As we go, Shafii approaches. Josh and I look at each other, communicating with our eyes that it is too risky to pass the note. Shafii extends his hand to each of us, smiles, and utters four familiar words from a Dylan song: “‘the ship comes in.’”

  That’s the song that we used to sing when we imagined freedom. Shafii knows. He thinks we are going home soon.

  102. Shane

  Twenty days have passed since our last hearing. We are back at the courthouse, but this time we are taken into an office, not the courtroom. I sit down and Josh goes off to the bathroom with a guard to move our secret note from his underwear to his pocket. Shortly after he leaves, I am brought into another office with shelves full of legal books where the judge is sitting behind a court bench that is awkwardly tall for this small room. He doesn’t look at me as I enter.

  There are four men in the room besides the judge and the two guards with me. Our lawyer isn’t here.

  Josh comes back and sits next to me. “No lawyer,” I tell him. “They say he’s not coming. They say he will be informed of our sentence within twenty-four hours.”

  Suddenly, the judge starts speaking and our interpreter, the same man from our two hearings, starts writing. The judge is citing the legal code. We stare at the interpreter’s notebook as he writes a bunch of Farsi.

  The judge has his cell phone to his ear. He goes back and forth between issuing bits and pieces of our sentence in a loud, official voice and muttering asides into his phone. It is as if his issuing of our sentence is just some task he needs to finish up. No one in the room seems to be taking any of this too seriously. One of the men in the chairs along the bookcases is picking his nails. A turbaned man sitting up front is rolling his prayer beads through his fingers and looking out the window distractedly. Another man keeps yawning and staring at the ceiling. Their lack of concern is actually reassuring, as though everyone is going out of his way to acknowledge that this is merely a formality we need to go through, that it isn’t serious.

  The judge announces more words. The interpreter jots, then reads aloud: “You are each to serve a three-year term in prison for illegal entry. You each are to serve a five-year term in prison for espionage. That is eight years for each of you. Not both. Each. Eight years each.”

  “I would like to say something to the judge,” I say to the interpreter. He tries to get the judge’s attention, but he is still on his cell phone. The interpreter keeps raising his hand shyly, then taking it down. Eventually, the judge gets off the phone.

  “Your Honor,” I say, “I have been diagnosed with a serious health problem. I have an ulcer that is bleeding and it has made me anemic. I have not been able to receive the care I need in prison. This is serious and I need outside medical attention—”

  “We’ll make sure you get what you need,” he says abruptly and with a distinctly unconcerned tone.

&n
bsp; “No, you don’t understand. The doctor has specified certain requirements for me, like a regular diet of lamb, which the prison has not been able to meet. I would like to request that you release Josh and me on humanitarian grounds like you did with Sarah so that I can get the medical attention I need.”

  “You want me to release both of you for your health problem?” he says, suddenly angry. “Listen to me right now. What happened with Sarah will never happen with you. Sarah Shourd broke the law by not returning for court. And I guarantee you that one day, she will sit right where you are and receive her sentence.” I’m not really sure why he is saying this—he can’t actually believe it. Is he putting on a show for his colleagues? Is he frustrated with his powerlessness in our case, knowing that ultimately, our fate is in the hands of politicians? “Twenty days from today, your lawyer has the right to appeal,” he says. “This is our judicial process. Beyond that, you have nothing. Now go.”

  As we walk out, he shouts for us to stop. “What does he have there?” he says to the guards, pointing at a piece of fabric sticking out of Josh’s shirt pocket.

  Josh grabs the fabric between his thumb and forefinger and dangles it in front of the judge. “This is my blindfold,” he says, half smirking. “We have to wear these in your prison.”

  “Okay, get out,” the judge snaps.

  When we walk out into the hall, there is a bounce in our steps. After two years, we finally got our sentence. Freedom must be around the corner. I feel almost giddy, but I try to hide it from the guards.

  “Eight years,” I say soberly to them as we go down the elevator. “What do you think?”

  One of them brushes his hand through the air. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “After twenty days, you will appeal. Then they’ll let you go. This is normal. Don’t worry about it.”

  103. Sarah

  The verdict is all over the news. “The two Americans, Josh Fattal and Shane Bauer, have been found guilty on all charges and sentenced to eight years—three years for illegal entry and five for espionage.”

  Immediately, the families and I jump on a conference call with our lawyer. In terms of Iranian law, Masoud tells us, the verdict makes no sense. Punishment for illegal entry should be a fine with no prison time at all, unless it’s a second offense, which holds a sentence of two years, not three. Five years is absurdly low for espionage, which should be punishable by death. Iranian American Roxana Saberi got eight years for espionage; then she was released after an appeal. Five years, we all agree, is the minimum the courts could get away with without openly admitting Shane and Josh aren’t spies. Our lawyer tells us he will immediately file an appeal. We have to act outraged, he advises, but there is no denying this is a very good sign.

  “This is awesome,” Josh’s dad, Jacob, says in his typically candid style. “It’s finished.”

  Most of our thousands of supporters, lacking insights like the ones Masoud offers, can’t help but take everything they read in the news at face value. I turn on my computer and watch as hundreds upon hundreds of e-mails and Facebook messages flood in from around the world. “I’m so angry,” one woman types on Facebook. “These people are sick. How can they hold Shane and Josh for six more years?” I can’t exactly tell people they are wrong—the sentence is an outrage—but they don’t know what we know.

  A few weeks ago, Salem told me he had a fatwa from the Supreme Leader, a written document ordering their release. When Ayatollah Khamenei makes a decision on a legal matter, it’s considered binding under Islamic law. For this reason, he doesn’t often put things in writing. This time, the Supreme Leader sent a letter to Sultan Qaboos bin Said, which Salem will have in hand when he flies to Tehran. Now that the legal proceedings have taken their course and the hard-liners have given the conviction they wanted, there’s nothing to stop a compassionate release. I hold this knowledge close to my chest and smile at the sky. Josh and Shane will soon be free.

  104. Josh

  Judge Salavati handed us our sentence a few days ago. We’re now waiting the requisite twenty days to appeal. Whatever whirlwind is going on out there, life in cell 111 is unchanged. We still lie on our beds and read all day, and we’re still preoccupied with the letters that Dumb Guy doesn’t bring. So once again, we decide to hunger-strike.

  During our previous hunger strike, I ate, and I justified eating by remembering how the guards and interrogators often lied to me. But trying to deceive them affected how I related to them and, more importantly, how I related to myself. I know Gandhi would’ve judged me as a coward for secretly eating during my hunger strike. He believed Truth is Love is God. Since the fake hunger strike last April, a still small voice nagged at me.

  This time Shane and I solemnly gather all our fruit, vegetables, and packaged food into several grocery bags. We place them in the hallway to prove to the guards that we won’t eat. This time, I feel guilt-free and righteous—almost excited to be hungry.

  The next day, Shane and I sit near each other on the floor. We take a “lunch break” even though we don’t actually eat.

  Suddenly, dress shoes clomp down the hallway and Dumb Guy arrives at the door. He tells us that there are no new letters for us, that our family hasn’t sent anything recently, and that we should end our hunger strike. We refuse to eat without new letters, reasoning that he’s probably lying again. Normally though, he takes at least three or four days to show up. This time he has responded in less than twenty-four hours. His appearance is a good sign.

  A half-hour later, an administrator arrives at the door. Last year, this guy supported and sympathized with me after AK pushed me down the stairs. He now insists that Shane and I end our hunger strike. He promises that there are no new letters from the Foreign Ministry and he urges us to trust him. In less than one day, our interrogator made an appearance, and now an administrator has too. Something has changed. Their attention makes me more hopeful about our upcoming appeal.

  Something has changed inside me as well. I let go of our ideology of resistance. Shane and I carry the plastic bags full of food in from the hallway to end our hunger strike. Even though we didn’t win any letters, the process feels better to me. I no longer fixate on the narrow goal of defeating Dumb Guy. I am just trying to stay true to myself.

  A few days later, Dumb Guy shows up unexpectedly with packages of letters. Our letters prove him right. Our families mention that they haven’t written as regularly as they used to. In part this is because they’re so busy with their efforts to free us.

  105. Josh

  It’s September 13, one day before the anniversary of Sarah’s release. A guard I despise comes to the door. I once heard him tell Dumb Guy that we eat during our hunger strikes, but then he acts chummy with us when the interrogators aren’t around. He glances suspiciously around the cell. “Che tori?” he asks. Why is he asking how I’m doing? I’m fine. “Khordi?” he asks. Why is he asking if I ate? Of course I ate. Since when has he decided to be so friendly? “Television?” He points to the TV. No. We aren’t watching TV. We don’t turn it on until the English news later at night. I wish he’d leave us alone.

  He again points to the television and yaps away in Farsi. I’m losing patience with him, but then I hear the words azadi, freedom, and shoma, you. Then he points to the TV and says, “Ahmadinejad goft,” Ahmadinejad said.

  When he sees that we understand him, the guard dons a rare grin. I flip on the TV, and Shane grills him. When exactly will we be freed? Which channel is it on? This is not something to joke about! He promises he’s not joking and points to the TV. “Emshap,” tonight, he says, then leaves.

  Shane and I watch the English news ticker on IRINN: “Iranians Make Scientific Advances Despite Sanctions. World Powers Face Collapse Due to Their Hypocrisy. IAEA Says They Respect Nation’s Right to a Peaceful Nuclear Energy Program.” It’s the same old blah-blah-blah. Nothing about us. I change the channel and flip through the Farsi news. Nothing about us. The fifteen minutes of English news is on early tonight at
7:30 p.m. Nothing.

  After an hour, I unglue myself, clean up dinner, and resume reading about the Napoleonic Wars. Shane attentively flips between four potential stations, making sure not to miss any short news segments. We ask other guards to ask that guard to return, but he never comes.

  “Could he have been messing with us?” Shane asks me.

  “No way. Even he wouldn’t make that up,” I say with as much confidence as I can muster.

  Every twenty or thirty minutes, Shane checks again. Clinging to my belief that the guard wasn’t lying, I continue reading while Shane stares at the TV. Every hour or two, I scan the channels with Shane. There is still nothing about us.

  Though it’s past midnight, we’re still watching the English news. Still nothing.

  The news ends and Shane goes into the bathroom. I watch one more cycle of the ticker before trying to sleep. It is a rare moment when I’m watching the headlines and Shane is not.

  “Hey, Shane,” I say matter-of-factly, “Ahmadinejad says that we live in ‘hotel-like conditions.’”

  Shane lets out a small chuckle from behind the bathroom door. ”Hey, Shane.” I read him the next headline in the same even voice: “‘Ahmadinejad Says U.S. Nationals to Be Released in Days.’”

  He reappears. “You weren’t kidding!”

  We watch the headlines flow past, and when Shane finally reads the ticker, we give each other a huge hug, laughing in each other’s arms. Tears come to my eyes.

  106. Shane

  A week later, Ehsan comes to the door. Is it time? Are we going? I’ve always imagined Ehsan escorting us out of the prison for the last time. I’ve pictured Josh and me standing at the door of Section 209, smiling at Ehsan while he beams his huge smile back at us and shakes our hands. I would thank him for everything he has done for us and he would shake our hands and congratulate us, heartily, for our freedom. Then, after we are free, he might even contact us. Maybe we’d become friends.