After Tehran (23 page)

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Page 6 of “Discrimination against Religious Minorities in Iran,” a report presented by the FIDH (Fédération Internationale des Ligues des Droits de l’Homme) and the Ligue de Défense des Droits de l’Homme en Iran, 63rd Session of the Committee on the Elimination of Racial Discrimination, August 2003 (
www.fidh.org/IMG/pdf/ir0108a.pdf
).

My Rosary

I
n December 2007, when I was leaving home to go to Italy to receive the Human Dignity Prize from the European Parliament, Andre warned me—as he did each time that I went on a trip—to be careful. I couldn’t understand how he had found the courage to let me continue what I had begun. Writing a memoir is one thing; travelling the world and constantly testifying against the Islamic Republic of Iran is another. Had our positions been reversed, I probably would have done everything in my power to stop him. He had married a quiet, shy young woman who just wanted to live a normal life with him and raise a family. This was the person I had been for the first seventeen years of our marriage. I seemed to have forgotten my two years in Evin. But then they resurfaced—and completely redefined me. The real Marina who had been buried somewhere inside me was a stranger to Andre. He had never truly known her, because even though Andre and I had met before my incarceration, the arrest of my friends had already affected me and I had withdrawn from the world. Living with me after
Prisoner of Tehran
was like living with someone who had recovered from extreme amnesia.

Despite all this, Andre stood by me. We did sometimes argue and disagree. He listened to my interviews and criticized me for
being too direct and politically incorrect. He warned me not to use the word
Islamist
. I disagreed. I have nothing against Islam—many of my friends are Muslim. I have great respect for every religion. To me, Islamism is an ideology that has used Islam and twisted it into a dangerous, bloodthirsty, and rigid way of thought that has no respect for life. Today’s Islamists are like the Christians of the Middle Ages who branded those who were different as “witches” and burned them. The Inquisition had nothing to do with Christ, and it caused great damage to Christianity.

Shortly after the spring 2009 unrest in Iran, the School of Continuing Studies at the University of Toronto invited me to present a creative-writing award. Andre accompanied me to the ceremony. I gave a little talk, and at the end, I asked for a moment of silence for all the innocents killed in Iran during the previous weeks. Following the event, as we were walking to the car, Andre told me that I had been wrong to ask for the moment of silence, because the gathering was a non-political event and not everyone in the audience might have agreed with me.

“You must be kidding!” I exploded. “Innocent people have died. This is a fact, okay? I can do nothing about that except ask for one moment—one measly moment—to remember the dead! It’s about human rights … right and wrong! We can’t just shut up!”

Andre didn’t respond. He knew I would never take a step back on such issues. He was probably asking himself who this woman walking next to him was. The Marina he had married twenty-four years earlier would never have reacted this way and would have apologized for stepping out of line.

I RECEIVED
the Human Dignity Prize in Milan at Palazzo delle Stelline, which was built in the sixteenth century and had been an orphanage for many years. In the late 1980s, it was beautifully renovated, restored, and transformed into a centre for conferences
and meetings. Activity buzzed around me as I waited in a room for the event to begin. Reporters came and went. The assistants of one of the vice-presidents of the European parliament, Mr. Mario Mauro, who had nominated me for the award, rushed in and out to make sure everything was in place. I sat at a window and filled my eyes with the surreal view it offered: a cloudless deep-blue sky resting above the terracotta roof and the orange-yellow walls of the Palazzo, which surrounded a courtyard carpeted with a green lawn.

Why did I feel so calm? Why was I so poised? Where was my excitement? I was about to receive the first Human Dignity Prize. Many people had told me that they could only guess how excited I was. Well, I was mildly excited, but I didn’t tell them that. I didn’t want anyone to think I was ungrateful. Actually, I was very grateful. But this gratitude translated into a calm sense of awe, which in turn caused me to feel guilty for not being excited enough. The problem was that I somehow still expected myself to be normal. Yet it was as if I had been in a huge explosion and my body was full of hundreds of pieces of shrapnel. With my own fingers, I had pulled out a few large pieces from my flesh, but many pieces remained. I was still avoiding both sadness and happiness. I couldn’t help it. Numbness protected me. It had become a custom-made organ in my body, a special kidney that filtered feelings and didn’t allow in too much pain if things went wrong. I didn’t trust the world and knew full well that even the happiest moment could disappear in just a blink.

Over the red roof of the Palazzo, the Milanese-style dome of the Church of Santa Maria delle Grazie was directly in my view. Saint Mary of the Graces. I am sure she didn’t quite feel “full of grace” when her son was crucified like a common thief. She must have been devastated. I am a mother; I know. She would have willingly volunteered to be crucified instead of Jesus. But He had to suffer. He had to die a horrible death. And she had to watch it unfold. Full of grace. How did she deal with the pain? Did she ever
succumb to numbness to survive? I wish I could ask her what grace consists of. Is it solely a divine gift, or does it have to be earned, or is it both? I assume it’s both. A gift from God that needs to mature through hardship. Its worst enemies are anger, fear, and hatred; its best friends are love and forgiveness.

“Dear Mary, please ask God to forgive me for everything,” I whispered. The guilt I felt was as heavy as ever. But could she hear me? Would she hear me? And if she did, was I even worth her time?

At the award ceremony, I told an audience of about two hundred and fifty my story. I had not written a speech. I never do. I just told them what had happened and all I had witnessed, and my young translator, Giovanna, translated my words for the crowd. Then Mr. Mauro gave me a silver plaque in a navy velvet box.

After I received the prize, a long line of people appeared in front of me, wanting me to sign their books. I signed one after another until a young man in his late twenties stood before me and smiled. I waited for a book, but none was forthcoming.

“I have something for you,” he said. I extended my hand and held it under his closed fist, and he dropped a blue-beaded rosary into my palm. I gasped. It looked almost identical to the rosary I took with me to Evin, the one I left at Ali’s grave.

“From Medjugorje,”
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he said.

“Thank you,” I mumbled as he disappeared into the crowd.

Was this an answer to my prayers? Did this mean that the Virgin was watching over me?

In the afternoon, Mr. Mauro took me to the Church of Santa Maria delle Grazie to see Leonardo da Vinci’s
The Last Supper
. Mr. Mauro’s wife, daughter, and assistants accompanied us. I had
read online that one could spend only fifteen minutes in the room with the painting. Security was tight, and the guides and church workers were serious about the rules. Only twenty-five people were allowed in the room at a time; at the end of fifteen minutes, visitors were ushered out and a new group would enter.

In order to reach
The Last Supper
, we had to pass through several sealed chambers. The English-speaking guide with us explained that they provided climate control. Da Vinci had used a new, experimental technique to draw
The Last Supper
on the wall of the monastery dining hall, and this new technique had caused the painting to deteriorate significantly since its completion in the late fifteenth century. Measures such as the sealed chambers were put in place to slow the deterioration.

When I saw
The Last Supper
, I gasped. It was huge! Even though I knew it was a fresco, I had somehow expected it to be much smaller. Yet there in front of me were the life-size images of Jesus and his disciples breaking bread and chatting. The colours of the clothing had obviously faded with time, but the blues, reds, yellows, greens, and browns were still breathtaking in the light that poured onto the wall from left and right, while the room itself remained immersed in darkness. Like a small child given the most incredible gift in the world, I marvelled at the sight before me. My heart beat faster and faster. I felt that if I called out Jesus’ name at that moment, He would look straight at me, and even though I wanted this to happen more than anything, I knew I wasn’t ready for it. What would I tell Him I had done with the time given to me? I had to work even harder to set things right, and once I was satisfied with the results, I would return here and speak His name. But would I ever be ready? Would I ever dare assume I was ready?

I noticed that my group had moved away from me. They were gazing at photos placed around the room that told the history of
the church and the fresco. But the photos didn’t interest me. I just wanted to stand in silence and stare at the disciples long enough to understand their hopes and dreams. There was Saint Peter, unaware that he would betray Jesus. He actually believed that he would gladly give his life for his Master. Except, things didn’t work out that way. His love for this world and what it had to offer was greater than his love for Jesus.

Betrayal of the one you love—I had been there. When Ali told me I had to convert to Islam, I didn’t put up a fight. But I had another trial ahead of me. I believed that God expected me to forgive and love Ali. Love thy enemy. Once I opened my heart to Ali and tried to understand him, my resentment of him began to fade. Maybe if he had lived, I would even have come to love him. Maybe. However, I believe that my ultimate betrayal had nothing to do with my conversion or with Ali. It was my betrayal of my friends when I walked away from Evin, knowing that they had to stay and suffer, maybe even face death. How could I have left them behind? I was a young woman who had wanted to go home. Yet at what price? Back then, I didn’t understand that the price I had to pay was far too high. Tears flowed down my face.

After our fifteen minutes expired, to my surprise our group was allowed to stay; Mr. Mauro must have made special arrangements. I stood in a corner and continued to stare at the image of Jesus.

The way I see Jesus has not changed much at all since I was a child, but my imprisonment and all that followed made me love Him even more. His being the Son of God makes sense to me, because I believe God to be loving, just, forgiving, and merciful. I also believe that He respects free will. After all, He has given it to us so that we can choose to love or hate Him, do good or evil. But is it fair for a loving God to sit on His throne in Heaven and let us struggle and suffer on our own? Would any good father
abandon his children this way? It makes perfect sense to me that God decided to come among us, live like us, and die a horribly painful death after being tortured. This is a God I can love with all my heart. A God who sets an example. A God who has bled and whose heart has been broken. This is who Jesus is to me. I don’t pretend that I understand the Holy Trinity. But I understand love and sacrifice. I understand faithfulness.

In prison, to make myself feel better, I sometimes compared my suffering with what Jesus went through. He was lashed and so was I. He had to wear a crown of thorns and carry a heavy cross through the streets; I was raped. He had nails hammered into his body and he died from that; I faced a firing squad, although I didn’t die. I have tried to understand what crucifixion must feel like. I just know that the pain must be beyond what I have ever experienced. I respect, love, and trust the One who endured all this when He didn’t have to. I understand Jesus with my heart, and the rest of the world can think of Him as it will. The historians and writers who argue about whether Jesus was married don’t interest me. If He chose to marry, good for Him. This would only make Him more human, more like me, and I can appreciate that. I am a very unconventional Catholic. I believe that even though Jesus is the way to God, other ways to Him exist. I believe that a good Muslim, Baha’i, Jew, Zoroastrian, Hindu, Buddhist—anyone, for that matter—who follows his or her conscience and tries his or her best to do good will find eternal peace in God. What Jesus did was to make it easier for people to relate to God. My religion has only one rule: Love One Another. Even though this seems simple enough, life has shown me that it isn’t easy to follow. Loving one’s enemy is easier said than done.

After an hour with
The Last Supper
, we left the Church of Santa Maria delle Grazie. As we were about to step out, our guide took
my hands in hers and told me that
Prisoner of Tehran
had affected her deeply. I gazed into her unfamiliar eyes, and I was consoled to know that the memory of those who suffered in Evin lived in her, a complete stranger from a foreign land who didn’t even speak our language.