Captive in Iran (10 page)

MARYAM

Sepideh, one of the
mujahideen
women who had been so nice to us when we first arrived, soon became one of our close confidantes. She was an educated woman, a publisher and political commentator whose family was known to the regime as activists. Her husband was living at the Ashraf
mujahideen
camp in Iraq. Her brother was a prisoner at Evin and had survived intensive interrogations in Ward 209. Sepideh had been in 209, too, and shared a cell there with Silva, the kind Christian woman who had introduced herself to us on New Year’s Day. Another prisoner in Ward 209 with them was Shirin Alam Hooli, a member of the Kurdish opposition group known as PJAK.

“Shirin is the strongest girl I have ever met,” Sepideh said. The more she talked about Shirin, the more we wanted to meet her. Silva and Shirin lived in Room 2, next door to us.

At first, Marziyeh and I had beds in different parts of Room 1, so we couldn’t talk after lights out. However, my bed was next to Sepideh’s, allowing us to talk far into the night during the holidays, when the guards relaxed the rules about silence at bedtime. Sepideh was very interested in Christianity and why I believed in Jesus. I told her about Christ coming into my heart, changing me from the inside out, and about His love and sacrifice for humankind. Tears welled up in Sepideh’s eyes as she whispered, “I never thought I could be so moved by the story of Christianity. I look at your life and the path you’ve chosen with more respect than ever. I would like to have the same thing happen to me. I would like to meet Jesus Christ. Could that be possible?”

“Yes, indeed,” I assured her. She and I talked late every night until an empty bed opened up next to Marziyeh and I moved over there.

After about a week at Evin, I saw Shirin Alam Hooli, a slim young woman with shoulder-length hair, alone in the courtyard. We both wanted to speak to each other, but neither wanted to go first. After a moment, when she and I happened to look at each other at the same time, we both smiled and introduced ourselves. Shirin had heard about “the Christian girls” in Room 1 and had many questions about faith, which I answered as best I could.

“I don’t believe in any faith,” Shirin declared, “but I respect those who do. Each person must be free to choose her own faith. Nobody has the right to tell us what to believe.”

When Shirin asked me if I promoted Christianity, there was something about her openness and self-assurance that prompted me to trust her. “Yes,” I said, “I did promote and advocate Christianity, especially among young people.”

As we walked in the courtyard, Shirin told me the story of how she had become involved with the Kurdish nationalist group known as PJAK
(Partiya Jiyana Azad a Kurdistanê), or Free Life Party of Kurdistan, which seeks to establish political rights for Kurds in Iran and create an autonomous Kurdish state.

She was from Deym Gheshlagh, a village near Maku in the West Azerbaijan province of Iran. She was introduced to PJAK through a friend and went to their training camps in Turkey and Iraq. In 2008, she was arrested by the Sepah Corps in the Shahrak-e Gharb district of western Tehran on charges of carrying explosives and being a member of PJAK. The Sepah Corps are the most ruthless soldiers in the Revolutionary Guard, cruel murderers assigned to protect the Islamic system of Iran from internal enemies. (And if there were any doubt about their intent or tactics, their symbol is an upraised arm holding a machine gun.)

They took Shirin to Ward 240, where political prisoners arrested by the Guard go for special interrogation. They interrogated her for a month, though she didn’t understand their questions very well because they spoke Farsi and she only knew Kurdish at the time. She had since learned Farsi in prison. The language problem was actually a help, because it was an excuse for her not to answer their questions.

For twenty days, she wouldn’t tell them anything, not even her name. It made them furious. They kicked her in the stomach until she vomited blood, slapped her, and hit her in the face. They whipped the soles of her feet with leather belts. They suspended her upside down from the ceiling. They banged her head against the wall over and over. They screamed in her ears so loudly that she thought her eardrums had burst. They held a gun to her head and threatened to shoot her.

One of the guards who tortured her washed his hands as ablution before prayers and said that what he was about to do to her was a holy act for the sake of God. He would look up to heaven and say, “My God, please accept this sacrifice from me.” Then he would beat Shirin for hours until it was time for the next Muslim prayer. At the prescribed time, he stopped beating her and knelt in prayer. When he was finished, he resumed the beating.

One time, after an especially severe beating, Shirin was unconscious for three days. During that time, she was transferred to Ward 209. When she woke up, the interrogations continued, but they weren’t as severe.

I took Shirin’s hand and we continued to talk as we walked in slow
circles around the courtyard. She spoke of the terrible poverty and restrictions imposed on Kurdish girls and said that her greatest wish was to be able to help them somehow. Though she was only twenty-eight, I could see a lifetime of pain and sadness in her face and sense the heroic struggle in her eyes. Her hair was thinning, her face and skin were dry, and her eyes were failing because of malnutrition.

Later, I introduced Shirin to Marziyeh and we all became close, trusting friends. After hearing Shirin’s story, Marziyeh said to me, “We must learn from Shirin how to struggle for justice. If she is prepared to suffer so much to defend her nationalist and political beliefs, shouldn’t we be able to do the same when our beliefs come from our faith in God?”

Shirin’s story was an inspiration. Though she had suffered terrible brutality, she was never mean to others and never talked behind their backs. She was a tower of courage and resolve. She bravely kept her thoughts to herself, though there were times when I heard her crying quietly under her blanket at night. She especially loved the children from Room 4. Whenever one of us picked up a little one, Shirin would playfully shout, “Give me that baby before you kill it! I know everything about bringing up children. I raised all my brothers and sisters.” It was almost impossible to watch her play with such tenderness and compassion and know she had been tortured for days on end for the crime of
moharebeh
, fighting against God.

Some days, during break, Marziyeh, Shirin, and I would go together to the courtyard and talk to the girls who lived downstairs. Shirin listened closely to what we said. One day, when she was alone with me, she asked, “Do you think what you say to these people will have any effect on them? Do you think they will ever change?”

“Possibly,” I said. “We have to do our part. The rest is up to God.”

Shirin laughed. “Sure enough, they had a reason to arrest you! You really were proselytizing!” She gave me a good-natured poke. I poked her back. We giggled and poked at each other until we dissolved into laughter.

As Marziyeh and I befriended more women, Mommy grew extremely jealous of our time and attention. If she saw us speaking to someone else,
especially if we were comforting or hugging someone, Mommy pouted and called us to come sit beside her.

We had started helping her go to the toilet, doing little chores for her, and helping her go into the hall when the clinic worker came to give her an insulin shot—even though the guard yelled at us for being there when we didn’t need treatment. We had started serving her food out of compassion and courtesy; now she expected it. These tasks changed from favors into assistance that she thought she deserved. We were becoming her servants. Though we didn’t want to insult her or make her cross, especially since we had to live in the same crowded room with her, we were going to have to change our relationship. We started finding ways to be busy elsewhere at mealtimes.

The food in Evin Prison was awful. One regular meal was a stew consisting mostly of water and fat with a few unpeeled carrots and potatoes. The vegetables hadn’t been washed, so the water was always full of dirt. It was more like eating mud than stew. Another dish on the weekly menu was dried, tasteless rice with no cooking oil or spices, plus a few potatoes and some tomato puree that often tasted spoiled. We also had
gheimeh
, a pea soup with a little fat and potatoes. Once a week we had sausage, which was horrible and gave many of the prisoners diarrhea every time they ate it. Marziyeh and I ate only the bread and cheese at breakfast, except for the one day each week when they served potatoes and boiled eggs. For me, that was the only meal worth eating. The food was also laced with formaldehyde, which was supposed to suppress the inmates’ sex drive. This made the food smell and taste even worse, ran the risk of poisoning us, and is a hazard to a woman’s reproductive system.

Twice a week, the prison cooks baked what looked like whole wheat bread. At first, we were excited to see a fresh alternative to the bland white bread stuffed with fillers that we usually got. That was before we discovered that the prison bread routinely contained flies, hair, pieces of plastic, and an occasional tooth.

Though we were hungry from eating only one meal six days a week, we avoided most of the sickness that the prison food caused so frequently. Unfortunately, that wasn’t enough to keep us healthy. And we soon learned that the medical care in Evin Prison was every bit as bad as the cooking.

MARYAM

By the time we transferred to Evin, we had already spent two weeks in detention at Vozara without a decent meal or a bath. Within a few days of our arrival at the prison, Marziyeh got sick after showering in the icy cold water. What started as a sore throat quickly became a serious infection. She had chills, a high fever, and aches all over her body, and she couldn’t keep her balance. When I told Mrs. Mahjoob, the prisoner in charge of Ward 2, that Marziyeh needed to see a doctor, she said he was on vacation for Nowruz and wouldn’t be back until after the holidays. Mrs. Mahjoob brought Marziyeh some antibiotics that were past their expiration date and said it was the best she could do. Marziyeh stayed in bed for nearly a week, miserable, shivering, and exhausted, relieved only by the tea or fruit juice other prisoners brought her once in a while and a few bootleg painkillers. All I could do was pray.

Marziyeh’s sickness aggravated her back pain. The springs on all the beds were completely shot, so most prisoners used two of their three blankets as a
mattress pad and the third to sleep under. Marziyeh thought it might help her back to sleep on her blankets on the floor. But if she gave up her bed, another prisoner would immediately claim it and it could be weeks before she had a bed again. Because the bed was the only private space she had in the room, she didn’t want to lose it. I pressed the prison office for medical care, as did some other prisoners who were sick, but the answer was always the same: “The doctor is gone for the holidays. There’s nothing we can do.”

Between the crowded conditions, lesbian drama, constant petty squabbling, and Mrs. Imani screaming about the telephone, Ward 2 was a noisy place, making it even harder for sick patients to rest. The political prisoners were always the quietest, calmest, most polite members of the ward. Many spent the day knitting—the one productive pastime inmates were allowed. Some of the ladies had become very good at it and made beautiful shawls and other clothing to sell for spending money. Our new friend Shirin Alam Hooli was an expert, and she taught me how to knit while Marziyeh was in bed with her fever. As the weeks crept slowly by, she and I passed many hours knitting and talking together.

The courts were still closed for New Year’s, which meant that few prisoners entered or left Evin. We’d had no new arrivals for a week, when a group of about ten women came who were members of the One Million Signatures Campaign, an organization formed to promote human rights—and especially women’s rights—in Iran. One of the leaders was Mrs. Mahdieh, a very slim woman with dark curly hair. She had been in prison several times and considered it helpful to her research into the treatment of women by the regime and also as a way to meet other activists. A friend of ours, a kind woman in her sixties named Mrs. Azam, connected quickly with Mrs. Mahdieh and her associates. Mrs. Azam had been in prison for nearly three years on charges of acting against national security by joining a rally in support of women’s rights.

Mrs. Mahdieh was very interested in how women were treated at Evin. She struck up a conversation with me to learn about our experience. I explained about our arrest, detention at Vozara, and transfer to Evin. When
Mrs. Mahdieh found out we were Christians, she asked me why I had chosen Jesus. After a short conversation, it was clear that Mrs. Mahdieh had a badly distorted view of Christianity that came from falsehoods she’d been told and from reading the Barnabas Bible, the corrupted version sold in Iran that falsified the life of Jesus to suit Islamic ideas. Even educated people in Iran have no idea what the Bible really says, because they’ve never read it.

“Then where is the true Bible?” Mrs. Mahdieh wondered. “Where can I find one?”

I wrote down the address of a church. “When you get out, go here,” I said. “They will give you a true Bible and answer your questions about it.” Mrs. Mahdieh said she wanted to know more about Christianity and would study it.

After she told her mother during a phone call that she had met some Christians, her mother asked Marziyeh and me to pray for her because she had been sick in the hospital. It was interesting that this woman thought our prayers had power, even though we’d never spoken to her.

Since our arrival at Evin, Marziyeh and I had not been allowed to use the telephone. Now, after two weeks, we would have a chance to talk to our sisters, Shirin and Elena. A prisoner named Emma was in charge of scheduling telephone slots. When we asked for telephone time, we learned that other prisoners had been using our time and didn’t want to turn it over to us. The call time allotment was something the prisoners worked out on their own; the prison didn’t officially hand out telephone minutes. The long-term inmates had come up with this system to give them control of the phones and ensure themselves the time they wanted.

Though we were now wary of Mommy’s behavior and her motives, we still considered her an expert source of information on rules and relationships. We asked her about the telephone rules. We had scarcely finished our question when she brushed past us, walked into Room 2, and whispered something to a heavyset woman who was knitting a scarf. The woman jumped up and started screaming hysterically, swearing at Marziyeh and me.

“You stupid political prisoners!” she hollered. “Idiots! Greedy animals! One day you say you don’t need any telephone time, and now you complain that you don’t have enough! Who are you to accuse me of deceiving you and abusing your rights?”

We tried to interrupt her to find out what Mommy had said, but it was no use. She was too enraged to listen. We gave up and went back to our room while her ranting continued. When Mommy came back, we told her not to get involved in every little problem we had, but to let us handle things. We had worked hard to get along with the other prisoners, even when it meant giving up little privileges such as a good place in line at the shop window or a bigger serving of potatoes and eggs, the one meal a week we would eat. We were afraid Mommy’s lack of tact had compromised our reputation for getting along.

Our friend Silva told us that the angry woman’s name was Shamsi. She had been in prison for eight years on fraud charges and would not be released until she repaid her creditors. Her debt was so large that she could never repay it from prison, which meant she would likely be locked up for the rest of her life. She was notorious for her prickly attitude, especially toward newcomers, in order to show them she was in charge. Later, Shamsi apologized for her outburst, explaining she thought we were accusing her of stealing our belongings. This conversation marked the beginning of another wonderful friendship.

Marziyeh

Since our good friends Silva and Shirin lived in Room 2, we spent a lot of time there getting to know others who lived with them. Marjan was a cheerful girl who was always cracking jokes and trying to make everyone around her happy. When she met us, the first thing she said, with mock seriousness, was, “Oh my God, more Christians in this ward? First Silva and now you! I can’t stand this!” Marjan said she’d been in prison for two years because a former friend stole a pre-signed check from her office, made it out to herself for a large amount, and cashed it. When the check bounced, the friend sued Marjan and had her sent to prison.

“I’m not sure I like you as much as you like me,” Marjan insisted. “Please don’t try to make me like you, because it won’t work!” From that moment on, she was one of our best friends.

Naseem, also in Room 2, was the person who had frisked me so rudely
when we transferred to Evin. Though she was accused of murdering her mother-in-law, as we got to know her we found she was a kind and gentle woman.

“My dear Naseem,” I asked, “why did you frisk me so roughly when I arrived? Why did you make me squat and stand six times? Did you think I could lay eggs like a chicken?” That question drew a laugh from everyone who heard it.

“It was nothing personal,” Naseem said, apologetically. “I had to obey orders.”

One of the best times to meet newcomers or women from downstairs was during break periods when we were all allowed to walk in the courtyard. One day, a beautiful, young, pregnant girl named Pouneh introduced herself to Maryam. She had been in prison for eight months on murder charges, even though her husband had committed the crime. After he had broken into a rich old woman’s house to steal her money, the woman walked in on him, they struggled, and he killed her. In a panic, he had called his wife to the scene. A few minutes later, the police arrived and arrested them both. If Pouneh’s husband were convicted alone, he would be executed. If they were convicted together, they would get life in prison. She shared the blame in order to save his life.

“I learned I was pregnant in prison,” she said. “My husband doesn’t know. My baby is due in a few weeks.” Her chin trembled, the tears welled up in her eyes, and she started to cry. “Please, for God’s sake, in the name of Jesus Christ and Holy Mary, pray for me! I have no one to care for me. I am completely alone. I can’t even hire a lawyer to defend my rights. How on earth can I spend the rest of my life in prison with my child?” She left in tears, headed back inside with the rest of the “murderers.” When the baby was born, Pouneh would be transferred upstairs with the other mothers. Then we would get to see more of each other.

Another prisoner, Mana, was only twenty-three, but it was hard to tell because she wore so much makeup that she looked like a clown. Though wearing makeup was against prison rules, Mana and some other prisoners wore it at night after dinner when the guards seldom came around. Despite being a naive girl, she thought deeply about many things. We teased her good-naturedly about her heavy makeup, saying we could understand how
the old women would want to paint themselves, but she didn’t need to do that. She listened to us patiently and wore her silly makeup just the same.

Mana was one of the inmates who scheduled telephone time for Ward 2. Unfortunately, the other inmates took advantage of her naiveté and cheated on their calls. When she figured out she had been deceived, she would throw the phone logbook on the floor and say she wouldn’t do the job anymore and the office would have to get someone else. Then, after a while, she would calm down and resume her work.

One day at break, Mana said she wanted to know more about Christianity. She had wanted to ask for a while, but her telephone duties kept her too busy.

“I’m not a spiritual person,” she began, “but I’m very interested in Jesus and Christianity and want to know more about it.

“For many years, I’ve had no faith in God. Years ago, I actually tore up a copy of the Koran and set it on fire.” (This is a terrible sin under Islamic law. The faithful are not to deface the Koran in any way. They’re supposed to wash their hands before even touching it.) “I think God doesn’t love me anymore because of what I did. I’m being punished for my lack of faith.

“I was born into a rich family. My father was a self-made man who was also involved in politics without the rest of his family knowing about it. He was killed under very suspicious circumstances. The authorities gave us his body without explaining how he died. I was young at the time, and his death was a terrible blow. We lost our fortune and our standing in the community. That’s when I lost my faith and burned the Koran.”

“I’m very sorry to hear about your father,” I said. “But you must know that God has not abandoned you. He still loves you as much as ever. You may have lost your earthly father, but the real Father of us all is our Lord, and He would never leave you. You assume God has abandoned you for burning the Koran, when in fact it is you who are cursing yourself and abandoning Him.”

Mana explained that she and her husband had been in prison for three years for stealing money from the government. Their plan was to get out on parole, retrieve the money from its hiding place, and flee the country for a life of leisure abroad. She saw it as a way to avenge her father’s death.

“How can you and your husband build a happy future together based
on this logic?” I asked. “I don’t believe this is a path to prosperity. I don’t mean to meddle in your personal life, but I beg you to start repairing your damaged relationship with the Lord by talking to Him tonight. Pray for yourself and your husband to survive these hard times by seeking the truth. He will certainly answer your prayers.”