Captive in Iran (19 page)

These diversions helped pass the endless hours. The television was a help as well, though we had no satellite channels, only government-controlled stations that spewed propaganda and regime-approved Islamic programming. Of course, we didn’t have access to any of the coverage of our case that our sisters and the professor had spoken about. We would have liked to see what the TV was reporting.

Because the only people we saw regularly were the guards, their attitude toward us had a big effect on how we felt. Some of the guards were friendly. They confided in us that they didn’t like what they had to do but were desperate for a job to support their families. Some asked about Christianity and asked us to pray for them, which we were always happy to do. Others, though, were mean. There were times when the rudeness and petty cruelty wore us down and made us angry in spite of ourselves.

One afternoon, the guard we’d nicknamed Grumpy said she was taking us to make phone calls. After we put on our blindfolds and followed her to the telephone, she handed Maryam a number and said it was the only one she was allowed to call. The number was for my sister, Elena. When Maryam tried to explain the mix-up, the guard shouted at her, though eventually she let her call the right number.

When my turn came, the guard played the same game, handing me the number from our apartment and saying it was the only number I could call. “That’s our apartment,” I said. “There’s nobody there.”

“You’re lying to me!” the guard scolded.

“I’m not a liar,” I answered back. “I’m in prison for telling the truth.”

The argument escalated into a shouting match, though finally the guard realized her mistake and let me call my sister. But the argument triggered a physical reaction in me and I started to feel very uncomfortable. After speaking to Elena for only a moment, I had to cut short the call and go back to the cell. There, I tried to rest, but my head was pounding, my back was on fire, and I started shaking and gasping for breath. Maryam and
Fereshteh called for the guard, who was suddenly afraid she would get in trouble for causing this attack. They took me to the clinic, where the doctor gave me a shot and put me on oxygen. The shot stopped my shaking, but the oxygen was only partly effective because the flow was restricted in order to conserve the oxygen supply.

A few days later, just before lunch, Maryam went to the toilet room to wash her hands. Usually, the windows in the corridor were closed, but this time one was open and it protruded into the hallway. Blindfolded, Maryam slammed into the window full tilt, the corner of the frame striking less than half an inch from her eye. The force knocked her flat on the ground. Her guard, the woman we had nicknamed Ghost, rushed over to see what was wrong. “You should be more careful in the corridor!” she snapped. “You should have looked through a gap in the blindfold.”

That remark infuriated me. “That’s ridiculous!” I said. “The corridor is so narrow that two people can barely pass with the windows closed. Then you open the windows and blindfold us!”

The Ghost was so upset and distracted that she didn’t realize that Fereshteh and I had come running at the sound and were in the corridor for the first time ever without our blindfolds.

The three of us helped Maryam back to our cell. Her eye and lip were already swelling and discolored. In a few minutes, the side of her face and head were one massive bruise. When the Ghost offered to take her to the clinic, she declined. The Ghost was one of the better guards, and Maryam didn’t want to get her in trouble. Besides, based on past experience, the clinic wasn’t likely to do her much good. Fereshteh and I put ice on the injury instead.

We wrote to the head of the prison, asking to be returned to Ward 2 in the public section. We said there was no reason to keep us in 209 if our interrogations were finished. We complained about Grumpy and about Iron Woman, who was also hateful.

The prison warden soon had bigger concerns than our letters. On June 12, 2009, the Iranian presidential election took place, with Mr. Mousavi
favored by many to win. Yet as the day went on, Iranian TV reported that Mr. Ahmadinejad had taken the lead and held it, reminding viewers all the while that the regime was dedicated to truth and accuracy in the election. Hours later, the ministry of the interior announced that Mr. Ahmadinejad had been reelected. Even the filtered and distorted news we were allowed to see made it clear that the people would challenge the results and there would be protests. Both Mr. Mousavi and Mr. Karroubi denounced the election process, accused the Ahmadinejad government of massive election fraud, and vowed to contest the results. Angry citizens flooded the streets and their peaceful protests soon turned into fiery demonstrations.

A couple of days later, we were told we were leaving Ward 209. Whether the immediate reason was our letters, outside pressure, or something else, we never knew. It was probably due to the fact that, within hours, hundreds of people arrested in the election protests overran the cells of Ward 209. We knew that the Lord was ordering events according to His will.

We weren’t sure whether we were being released or simply going back to our old cell in Ward 2. Fereshteh was happy for us that we were leaving, but sorry to lose our company, as we were sad to lose hers.

When the time came, a guard walked us across the yard to the public section and back into Ward 2. It was the first time in two months we’d walked outside without blindfolds. As we were being processed back into the ward, an elderly guard asked if we were political prisoners.

“We came from 209, but we’re not political prisoners,” Maryam told her. “We’re accused of being Christians.”

“Really? I didn’t know that was a crime.”

“We converted.”

The guard’s face puckered in disapproval, like she’d just bitten a lemon. “Shame on you! Couldn’t you commit a better crime?”

We went through the security search and changed back into our own clothes, leaving behind the baggy men’s prison uniforms that looked so hilarious. Then we ran up the stairs to Ward 2, eager to see the many dear friends who had been absent from our lives but held fast in our hearts and prayers. The thirty-eight days we’d been gone seemed like two lifetimes.

Marziyeh

It was a joyful homecoming. As soon as Maryam and I walked through the barred door into Ward 2, we met Vida in the corridor. She hugged us excitedly and announced our arrival to the rest of the ward. Our friends surged forward to welcome us: Shirin, Silva, Sepideh, Tahereh, and others crowded around with hugs and greetings. After the isolation of 209, returning to the public area of Evin Prison felt almost like being free. The noise and commotion were wonderful.

“How pale you look,” someone said. “How tired.”

“Your faces seem swollen,” said another. “Did they beat you?”

“No,” we assured them, “no one beat us. They only asked lots of questions.”

There had been changes in the ward during the five and a half weeks we’d been away. Mrs. Pari had been paroled. Our friend Arezoo had been freed. She told Rozita that her freedom was the answer to my prayers for her. Dear, mixed-up Mercedeh had been released as well. The plaintiff against her, who had seemed so unmovable, had come to the prison one day and waived her complaint. Mercedeh danced and screamed with joy at the
news, and then ran around telling everybody it was a miracle that happened because of our prayers to Jesus. Her friend Setare and her former lover, Nazanin, were also free. We worried about them, wondering where they were and what they were doing, how they were coping with the wounds on their bodies and the even more painful scars on their hearts. Our comfort was in knowing that God was looking after them.

Mercedeh had been desperate to get out of prison. Some days she had screamed at God, demanding, “Why can’t I get out of this hellhole? Why can I see only a little square of sky in the courtyard? Will I ever see the whole thing again?” It is the universal lament of prisoners everywhere: seeing only a little square of sky reminds them of their isolation from the world and makes them long for more.

We had always told Mercedeh that getting out from behind the prison walls wasn’t enough. She also had to escape the inner prison of her meth addiction. Now that God had delivered her from the first prison, we kept praying she would also be released from the second one.

The leader in Ward 2, Mrs. Mahjoob, who had welcomed us on our first day at Evin, had been transferred to Ward 3, where the psychological prisoners lived. Her replacement was Mrs. Ghaderi, a quiet, capable woman whom most of our friends considered an improvement. Mrs. Imani, always arguing about the telephone, was in a different room. The guards had agreed to move her once a month because she was so disruptive. Our friend Rozita was now the telephone monitor, and she spent most of her day in a chair beside the phones, trying to keep other prisoners from arguing and fighting over who could talk and for how long.

We had our old bunks in Room 1. As we settled in, we learned about prisoners who’d arrived while we were away. Some had been arrested for associating with the opposition during the election—the aftermath was still stirring up lots of controversy. This “association” could be nothing more than receiving an e-mail from a person or organization who had supported Mousavi, the candidate many Iranians thought had rightfully won. Some prisoners took Ahmadinejad’s reelection very hard, because they had hoped a new leader would mean their freedom.

One of our new neighbors was Sousan, a quiet, older
mujahideen
woman with white hair and a dry sense of humor. Her offense was being
a member of the
mujahideen
and proudly announcing that fact to anyone who would listen to her. “I talk about the
mujahideen
everywhere I go, and I’m not afraid of anyone!” she proudly told us. “They have no right to stop me.” The regime had falsely accused her of being a computer expert exchanging illegal information on the Internet. After forcing a false confession from her, they sentenced this mild-mannered, elderly lady to eight years in prison. She had been in solitary confinement for fifty days before coming to Ward 2.

Another recent arrival was a young, thin girl with a badly bruised face. She and her fourteen-year-old brother had been at a political rally after the elections. When security forces waded into the crowd and started beating her brother, she had tried to defend him. They turned on her, kicking and punching her, and arrested them both. When their father complained to the police, the court dismissed his complaint and ordered the two children to apologize to the soldiers for filing charges against them. They had refused, and the judge sentenced the girl to prison.

“My father told the judge that on the day I’m released, he will personally take me to church and convert me to Christianity,” she said. “He told them, ‘We detest this Islam of yours, which is just an excuse for injustice and repression. There’s no point in allowing my daughter to remain Muslim for even one more day of her life.’”

The court ordered her to be held in custody until she apologized. This is a common demand; otherwise it would be clear that the government had been wrong to arrest her.

It reminded me of my discussions with Fereshteh in 209. When she insisted that the regime’s actions had nothing to do with genuine Islam, I had disagreed: “This regime’s Islam
is
the true Islam, written in the Koran. But most people never read it for themselves because the text is in Arabic and because they’re afraid of being fined or punished if they drop it accidentally or handle it with impure hands or question anything it says. Islam does its best to keep people away from God and a personal relationship with Him because that direct connection threatens the power and control of the religious leaders. They want to keep people in the dark, trusting in religion, so they will continue to depend on them. The criminals who run Iran are running it in accordance with Islamic statutes.”

MARYAM

During our weeks of isolation, we had often thought about the children, and now we were anxious to see them. I asked Rozita about Pouneh’s son, Alfi, who had been born not long after we arrived at Evin, and a few minutes later she brought him in to see us. His features had changed so much in so short a time! We hugged him happily, and then went down the hall to the room where all the mothers and their young children lived. They were delighted to see us, eager to know where we’d been and what had happened, piling on their questions one after another. We quickly noticed that Aboubakr and his mother were missing. When Aboubakr turned three, the authorities took him away and sent his mother downstairs to live with the other drug addicts. Her heartache must have been almost unbearable—worse even than being in prison. Would she ever see her child again? There was no way to know. Now that he was in the hands of the authorities, they could do whatever they wanted to either one of them without being accountable to anyone.

We always enjoyed visiting the children, especially when we were worn out from thinking and talking about the hardship all around us. Their room seemed peaceful, a separate world from the tense, oppressive atmosphere of the rest of the ward. The little ones were too young to know they were being cruelly punished for crimes they hadn’t committed. Nobody asked them, Why were you arrested? Do you have bail? When will you go to court? How long is your sentence? Their only crime was being the children of women on the wrong side of Sharia law. They lived with few toys or little luxuries of any kind, bad food, poor medical care, scant sunshine, no fresh air, no trees or birds or flowers to spark their curiosity, no grass to run through barefoot, no sense of family, surrounded by adult prisoners who were as likely to despise them as pay them any attention.

Later, when we went to visit Alfi again, he was lying on his mother’s bed, and she was on the floor in front of him, crying. I sat next to Pouneh and asked what had happened.

“When I phoned my mother today, I learned that the court might sentence me to life in prison as an accomplice to the murder my husband
committed. I was angry and terrified and wasn’t myself. I put Alfi down for a nap and left the room. When I came back, he’d fallen out of bed. In my anger at the court, I forgot that my son is too young to look after himself. Instead of picking him up and cuddling him, I beat him for falling out of bed. I’m so sorry!”

“You should have asked me to watch him,” I said angrily. “I’ve told you before that whenever you’re tired, give Alfi to me and get rid of your anger another way.” Alfi seemed fine now, smiling at me and waving his chubby little arms in the air.

When I returned to my room and my own bed, I dissolved in tears at the thought of that poor baby’s suffering. I felt helpless at such a sad, frustrating situation. I often walked Alfi to sleep at night after dinner, singing hymns to him and praying for him. Pouneh was happy to turn him over to me because she had started romantic relationships with several women downstairs and would rather spend her time with them.

Pouneh seemed truly sorry for losing her temper, but that didn’t keep her from lashing out again. One night, after we were in bed, we heard Alfi crying. A little later, Rozita brought him into our room with a very concerned expression. Pouneh had slapped him so hard we could still see her red fingerprints on his face. I calmed him and got him to sleep. The next morning, I confronted Pouneh about what had happened.

“Maryam, I’m so stressed out that I don’t know what I’m doing,” Pouneh insisted. “God isn’t helping me at all. I don’t have anybody on the outside to follow up on my case. I’m so tired! And what am I doing with this child in prison anyway?”

“Dear Pouneh,” I said sternly, “I understand your situation. I have prayed with you about it, and you promised to leave your difficulties to God. In practice, though, your attitude hasn’t changed. There has to be change in your heart in order to see God’s presence in your life. If you’re forgiven, God will help you, and your problems will be solved. Being frustrated with God won’t help you. Besides, the way you treat Alfi makes God angry. You have to be more careful with your son.”

We prayed together again. All I could do was hope for the best and keep praying that God would work in Pouneh’s heart.

Marziyeh

Inmates typically arrived at Ward 2 with few possessions, often little more than their clothes and a handful of grooming items. Tahmasebi was a different story. She moved into our ward from downstairs with so much stuff that the guards gave her three beds to store it all. She must have had connections in high places to get that much space when others were sleeping on the floor.

Tahmasebi was only thirty, but had already served thirteen years of a life sentence for smuggling drugs. She was a muscular, masculine-looking woman with the calloused hands of a manual laborer. She was from Tabriz, famous around the world for its handmade carpets, and had a strong Azeri accent. Tahmasebi worked as the stockroom clerk at Evin and had taken samples of everything that passed through her work area over the years, including a collection of dolls that attracted lots of attention. She lined them up on one of her beds and carefully covered them with a satin sheet. Though at first other prisoners resented her for taking so much room, the dolls, hangings, and other decorations she put up made the place more attractive for everybody. Tahmasebi had a miniature forest of potted plants and flowers that transformed part of the room into a pleasant little garden.

She was a hard woman to get to know at first. She got up very early and was away at her job all day. She returned at night, made a cup of tea, watched television, and talked only with Rozita and Mrs. Ghaderi. Longtime inmates like Tahmasebi claimed special privileges and tended to mix only with other long-timers. After a few nights, Rozita introduced us to her as the “faith prisoners.”

“You’re lucky to have God on your side,” she said.

“God is on your side too,” I replied.

“I don’t think so, my dear. God doesn’t like me at all.”

“Tahmasebi, God loves you and has not forgotten about you.”

Tahmasebi practiced the daily Islamic prayer ritual of
namaz
, kneeling on her white mat and wearing a long, white
chador
. Yet for all her display of piety, it seemed routine, without any feeling or love of God.