Captive in Iran (13 page)

“She’s very sick,” I insisted. “She has a bad eye infection and can’t see.”

One of the guards looked at Maryam’s red, pus-filled eyes. “She’s been crying too much. That’s why her eyes are red. Calm down. She’ll be all right.” With that, the guards left.

Exhausted from all the vomiting, Maryam was too weak to climb into her bed. Shirin Alam Hooli and I, and a few others, wrapped Maryam in blankets on the floor and held her. Shirin massaged her head, hoping to relieve some of the pain. A few days later, when Maryam started feeling better on her own, some of our friends and I convinced the guards to take Maryam once more to see Dr. Avesta. After Maryam explained what had happened to her, the doctor said, “It doesn’t matter. The medicine I gave you probably poisoned you. But don’t worry. Your eardrum will heal itself.” With that, Maryam was brought back to the ward. In time, her body did indeed heal itself. By then we had been in prison for almost forty days.

As soon as we felt well enough, we resumed praying for other prisoners. New prisoners, strangers to us, approached us regularly now. “We’ve heard you are Christians and that God answers your prayers. Please pray for us,” they said.

“Of course, we’ll be happy to pray for you,” we always replied, “but we can’t promise you will be released. If God wants you to be free, you will be free. And you can pray for yourself, too. God will hear you.”

MARYAM

Two newcomers were very young girls terrified of being in prison. They asked Marziyeh and me to pray for them and were disappointed when they didn’t get out the next day. They asked us to pray again. Instead, we
started walking with them and talking about how they could call on Jesus themselves to save them. They thought being a Christian had to do with going to church and observing certain rituals.

“No,” I explained, “Christianity isn’t church rituals. It’s a matter of believing in Jesus Christ in your heart. Then your sins are forgiven.” They both promised they would talk to Jesus when they were alone and pray for Him to reveal Himself to them.

Two days later, they excitedly told us they would be released that day. “We really believe in Jesus Christ,” they declared. “He heard us!” They wanted the location of a church. We had no paper, so I wrote the address on the backs of their hands. As I was writing, the girls’ names were called from the loudspeaker, and they were set free.

Friends warned me that the prison staff knew we were praying for people, and that we should be careful. “Praying is not a crime,” I said. “We don’t force anyone to have us pray for them. Many Muslims in here pray as much or more than we do, but people prefer to ask us to pray for them in the name of Jesus. That’s their choice.”

Marziyeh and I had both prayed often for Shahin, the secret Christian who’d been imprisoned for owing her brother money. We had told her she should forgive her brother for bringing charges against her, just as Christ had forgiven her for her sins. She prayed faithfully for Jesus to help her, but it was a struggle. Finally, she decided to call her brother and say she had forgiven him for keeping her in prison. When she called her husband a few hours later, he had incredible news. “Your brother has forgiven you!” he shouted. If her husband promised to pay the debt, her brother would pay Shahin’s bail immediately. Not only that, but her brother also apologized for what he had done, admitting that his wife had pressured him into doing it. What had seemed a hopeless situation was miraculously transformed in a single day.

Usually, prisoners were excited to hear their names on the loudspeaker, because it meant they were being released, or that at least their case was moving forward. At the same time, it could be a sign of something bad, such as a trip to court for sentencing. Six weeks after our arrest, we heard our names on the loudspeaker at Evin Prison. It made us apprehensive and our friends even more so. Our dear friends Silva and Shirin came into our
room at once to ask if we knew why we were being ordered to report to the prison office. We had no idea.

We put on the required
chador
s and went to the office. A woman behind the desk said, “You are being transferred to Ward 209. You will go downstairs and wait for a guard to escort you.”

Just like that—no warning, no explanation. Without ever seeing the charges against us in writing or speaking to a lawyer, we were being sent to the dreaded 209, the section set aside for political prisoners, where Silva had been kept in solitary confinement for eight months and where Shirin had been beaten unconscious and had her teeth knocked out.

We went back to the ward to say a quick good-bye to Silva, Shirin, and the others we had come to love so much. The news of our transfer stirred up memories of their own awful experiences in Ward 209, and they were terrified for us. After giving our sisters’ phone numbers to Silva and Shirin, with instructions to get in touch with them if we didn’t return, we hugged everyone and went downstairs. After half an hour, a rotund, bearded, middle-aged guard appeared and barked, “Wear your
hijab
properly and follow me.” The
hijab
is the Islamic head scarf that must hide every strand of a woman’s hair in public. There was nothing wrong with the way we were wearing ours; he only wanted to show off his authority.

We walked behind him for a hundred yards or so until we came to a small white door in a red brick building. He told us to wait and not to talk to each other; then he disappeared inside.

After a minute, he returned with a blindfold in each hand. “Put these on,” he ordered. We covered our eyes and tied the cloths behind our heads. “Now follow me,” he said gruffly. “Look under the bottom of your blindfold and watch my feet.”

We stumbled inside and heard the door lock behind us.

Marziyeh

We followed the guard down a narrow hallway until he told us to stop and face the wall. “Don’t talk to each other,” he ordered. We waited for more than half an hour. Standing still aggravated my backache, so I began transferring my weight from one foot to the other, trying to get some relief. Finally I whispered to Maryam, “I can’t stand up anymore.”

“Who has permitted you to talk?” the guard demanded. Neither of us said another word. Compared to the noise of Ward 2, this place was eerily quiet. Nobody spoke. Even the footsteps seemed silent; we wondered if the guards wore special shoes.

A different voice said, “Follow me. Look down and watch my shoes. Be careful not to fall.” This man’s voice was not as harsh as the other one’s. We followed him up a long staircase and down another narrow hallway. There wasn’t a sound anywhere. All we could see around us was pairs of shoes. The guard took us into separate little rooms, about six feet square. There was a door open between the rooms, so we could hear each other.

The new voice belonged to Mr. Mosavat—another pseudonym;
mosavat
is the Farsi word for “fairness.” These officials had quite a sense of
humor when picking their professional names. A second man in the room with him was Mr. Sedaghat (Farsi for “Mr. Integrity”), an interrogator in Ward 209 who had the same last name as the warden of the public part of Evin Prison. Mr. Mosavat did most of the talking in a calm, friendly tone. He gave us both a list of questions to answer in writing and went back and forth between our two rooms asking more questions.

He started with me. “Well, Miss Amirizadeh, how are you today?”

“You should know that, the way you seem to know everything else,” I answered. “We’re fine.”

Mr. Mosavat maintained his cool demeanor. “You were in the Vozara Detention Center for fourteen days, and now a month and a half in Evin. Surely this has taken a toll on you.” I remained silent. “In fact, that’s why you’re here today. Whether by our error or sheer bad luck, you were arrested by a rather extremist group. I am with the Ministry of Intelligence and usually handle the cases of Christian prisoners. Unfortunately, this extremist group has had your case file. We have been struggling and reasoning with them to turn your case over to us. We’re here to make sure you will be released and back home as soon as possible.

“By the way, how are you getting along with the conditions at Evin? I hope you haven’t had any problems.”

What a hypocritical weasel!
“I think you know about the conditions and problems at Evin,” I said. “There’s no need for me to remind you.”

“Of course you’re right,” Mr. Mosavat said. “I’m just concerned for a lady like you being in such an unsuitable place. That’s why I’m trying to have you sent here to Ward 209, to conclude your case and have you released.”

“What do you mean ‘unsuitable’?” I asked.

“There are many criminals over in the public side of the prison, and it isn’t appropriate for people like you to mingle with them.”

“Those criminals are also human beings,” I said. “We have no problem mingling with them. In fact, we like being with them.”

“I suppose you’ve been speaking to them about Jesus,” Mr. Mosavat ventured.

“Of course we have. And we don’t even have to approach them. Because the charges against us are so unusual here, their curiosity gets the best of
them. They want to know what we believe in that’s worth going to prison for. We tell them about Christianity and Jesus. So actually, you’re to blame for spreading Christianity, because by keeping us here you make people notice us and become attracted to who we are and what we believe.”

Mr. Mosavat’s cool suddenly evaporated. “No!” he said angrily. “What you’re doing is not right at all! You’re making our young people lose their identity and turn away from Islam!”

“Is this the identity Islam gives the youth of your country?” I fired back. “An identity that leaves women no hope? No choices in life? That makes them property of their husbands no matter how abusive they are? That promotes one-hour marriages? That ruins young girls’ lives, driving them to prostitution and drug addiction? That gives them no legal representation once they’re here?”

“I think you have learned a lot during your stay,” Mr. Mosavat observed.

“I certainly have! Don’t think I’m unhappy about being here. Yes, the conditions are hard. But I’ve learned more about Iran and Islam at Evin Prison than I could have learned in any university. It has transformed my life. I am a different person than I was.”

Mr. Mosavat tried a new angle. “Of course, our argument is not only about your faith. I believe every religion must be respected.” I couldn’t suppress a smile at such a blatant lie. “Our problem is that you are promoting your faith. You do not have the right to speak to our people about Jesus. I have worked on Christian cases for many years and have read the Bible in full. Your Bible says you must follow the laws of the country where you live.”

“I don’t think you’ve read the Bible correctly,” I said. “Jesus tells His followers to spread His gospel message. When the law of men and the law of Christ differ, I follow Christ.”

“But Miss Amirizadeh, you don’t have the right to convert your fellow citizens to another faith. In an Islamic state this is a criminal offense.”

“The government tricked us with lies into coming to the police station. The
basiji
ransacked our apartment and took our belongings without a warrant. These are the illegal acts of a dictatorship.”

“Miss Amirizadeh,” Mr. Mosavat said with an icy tone, “you must understand: I am the law. And no one should dare oppose this.”

“If God showed His face to you today and said you must tell your people the truth, would you follow His order, or the law of Iran?” I asked.

“This is impossible!” Mr. Mosavat declared. “God would never issue an order that would cause strife or chaos among His people. In any case, if you continue your activities here, it will be very hard for you.”

“Do what you wish,” I said. “Unless you cut out my tongue, I will keep feeding the people’s hunger for the truth about Jesus. And if you do cut out my tongue, I will share His gospel with sign language!”

Mr. Mosavat was livid, his voice strained, his fury scarcely under control. “So I suppose you are not looking forward to your release.”

“No one would want to stay in this place,” I replied. “But I respect God’s will above my own, and I think His will has been for me to come into this prison to witness the suffering and injustice here. You are not fighting me. You are fighting the will of God. In the end, His truth will prevail.”

“I have to go away for a week,” Mr. Mosavat said. “I advise you to carefully rethink your position until I return. This is in your own interest.”

“I will think about it,” I said, “and you’d better think about it too. If you’re such an expert in Christianity and know all about the Bible, have you ever read the story of Paul?”

“Who’s Paul?”

“If you don’t know who Paul is, there’s no way you could have read the Bible. Paul arrested and tortured Christians on behalf of his government. One day, the Lord appeared to him as a blinding light on the road to Damascus and challenged his brutal acts of repression. After that, he became Jesus’ most important supporter. Eventually, he sacrificed his life for the gospel. Think about the years you’ve been persecuting Christians the way Paul did, and how you might one day see the light as Paul saw it.”

“I’ll think about it,” Mr. Mosavat said. “And you think about why most Christians get out of prison in a week or two but you’re still here.”

MARYAM

While Marziyeh was being questioned by Mr. Mosavat, I sat alone in my tiny room, listening to their conversation. Blindfolded and facing the wall,
I thought of all the women who had sat in this chair. Had Shirin and Silva been in this spot? It was probably where Shirin had sat blindfolded when she was slapped until she was dizzy.

While I waited, I answered the long list of written questions, beginning with how I had been arrested and who had arrested me. I peeked under the bottom of my blindfold so I could see the pages to write.

Behind me, I heard two people enter the room. One of them took the questions and answers from me.

“Miss Rostampour,” the voice of Mr. Mosavat said reassuringly, “I am here to help you. Unfortunately, the people who arrested you are a fanatical group, and it has taken us this long to get your case and fight them on your behalf. This is an intelligence case, not a security case. We only ask you to cooperate so we can close your file and release you and your friend as soon as possible.

“Miss Rostampour, I have seen these questions already and studied your answers from before. You previously confessed that you owned a large number of Bibles and were active in spreading Christian propaganda.”

“We had only a few New Testaments among our personal belongings,” I answered. “And anyway, are you sure those answers are mine?”

“What do you mean? Didn’t you answer the questions? Christians don’t lie!”

“Mr. Rasti at the police station asked me the questions aloud and wrote down my answers himself,” I explained. “I had to sign the statement without being allowed to read it. Therefore, I refute everything put down in writing, because I don’t know what he wrote.”

Mr. Mosavat and the man who was with him were stunned into momentary silence. Then they spoke angrily to each other about how stupid Mr. Rasti was. Mr. Mosavat’s cool façade slipped for a moment, before he brought it back under control. “If that is true,” he said calmly, “we’ll have to ask the questions all over again, and you must answer in your own handwriting so you cannot deny it this time.”

“I don’t mind.”

There were some new questions this time around. “Why did your sister give an interview to Voice of America? Did she tell the truth? Were you really sick?”

I tried to hide my surprise and excitement. This was the first time Marziyeh or I had any idea that someone on the outside, other than our sisters and friends, knew about our situation. Voice of America is a worldwide news and information network, uncensored by the Iranian government and heard and seen in secret by people all over Iran.

“Yes,” I said. “I still have symptoms of my infection, and my hearing is still damaged. If my sister were in here and I were in her place, a TV interview is the least of what I would do.”

“Do you know that talking to foreign TV reporters is a crime?” Mr. Mosavat demanded sternly. “We could put her in prison for this. But we understand she did it only out of concern for you. We know she is a member of a church and has been baptized. Be sure we would have arrested her already if we intended to do so.”

Suddenly he sounded concerned. “If you still feel ill, you can go to the doctor here in 209.”

“No, thank you. I had all the prison doctoring I want in Ward 2.”

“You sound upset. What did they do to you there? Tell us and we will investigate.”

“You are totally aware of the situation there and at Vozara—the malnutrition and mistreatment. Why pretend to be ignorant? The health and lives of prisoners are worthless to you—”

“They are convicts,” Mr. Mosavat snapped, interrupting me, “and they should be treated as such! You two, on the other hand, are distinguished ladies and shouldn’t be kept with prisoners. If we had known about your detention at Vozara, we would have brought you here sooner.

“I don’t want to know about other prisoners,” he continued. “Have you yourself been mistreated in any way? Is there anything you want to report?”

“First of all,” I said, “those ‘other prisoners’ are human beings. And they’re not all guilty. You seem to have convicted them already in your mind, but most of those people shouldn’t be here at all. This oppressive culture has branded them as criminals for claiming the right to think as they please—the most basic human right. The head of the cultural center shouted at us, saying we weren’t allowed to use the center, that we were apostates and should be executed. My friend and I have been sick repeat
edly and have been refused medical attention. Even when I was poisoned by bad medication, no one would help me.”

“This is impossible!” Mr. Mosavat exclaimed. “How can someone who is poisoned not be taken to the clinic?”

“Eighty prisoners will say they witnessed it.”

“We will definitely look into this.” Mr. Mosavat paused briefly. “However, Jesus Christ teaches you to forgive, so let’s forget the matter.

“I don’t know why your case has taken so long. Far more important people than you—priests and bishops—have been here, but none stayed more than a week. We will transfer you both to Ward 209 next week, though if you’re unhappy in Ward 2, we can have you transferred tonight.”

“Thank you, but I’d rather stay with the ‘criminals’ over there. They are my friends, and I’m more comfortable with them.”

“All right. I’ll be studying your case file. I just received it from the police this morning. We’ve been so busy with your situation that I can’t fall asleep at night for thinking about it.”

I suppressed a laugh and only smiled beneath my blindfold.