Captive in Iran (28 page)

Marziyeh

A few days later, our new lawyer, Mr. Aghasi, came to visit us in prison again. He said our court date would be coming up soon, and at last we would have a chance to defend ourselves. He asked if we’d thought any more about changing our position, whether we might be willing to soften our stance on our Christian beliefs. We said, as we’d said so many times before, that there was nothing to think about. We would never turn from Christ, never water down our story, never deny our Savior. We asked him to prepare our defense with that in mind.

We also asked him if he could bring us some vitamins and proper medicine. He said it was not possible for a lawyer to do that. We had to ask the clinic or the welfare office. If our worldly hope for legal relief was vested in Mr. Aghasi, our hope for better health rested in the hands of the strange Mr. Ramezani.

Within a week, Maryam and I were summoned to the office and told to prepare for court the next day. Our friends assured us that this time around we would finally have our bail set and be released. Others said because of all the publicity surrounding our case we would be released unconditionally.

The next morning, we were up early, waited hours for the minibus to the court, and sat handcuffed together for the ride across town. As our bus
pulled into the street, we saw Elena and Shirin and some of their friends waiting for us. They waved and shouted encouragement and followed us to the court building.

The last time we’d been to the Revolutionary Court, the judge had told us that if we didn’t change our story, our case would be transferred to Bureau 15 for a final verdict. The judge there, who was also the judge in Shirin Alam Hooli’s case, was famous for sentencing prisoners to death or to life in prison. Nothing else. But when we entered the building this time, we saw from the sign that we were going into Bureau 26. “This is good news,” Mr. Aghasi remarked. “I know the judge in 26. He comes from the family court and is a very kind man.”

We stopped outside the courtroom door. “I’ll go in first,” Mr. Aghasi said, “as I have not been given the opportunity to read your file yet. I was only informed about your court summons yesterday. Now I have fifteen minutes to read your file and prepare your case. After that, I’ll call you in.”

We had been in prison almost eight months. We had been threatened with a sentence of death. Yet this was the first—and might be the only—time we would ever appear before a judge with our lawyer present. And now he had fifteen minutes to read our file and prepare our defense.

As we waited, Elena and Shirin joined us. This was the first time they had been allowed in the building when we were there. They gave us some fresh fruit juice, which tasted wonderful. They also had food and sweets for us, but they were not allowed to give them to us.

A few minutes later, the clerk opened the door and called us in. We waved good-bye to our sisters and passed through a very large courtroom into another one that was smaller. There was a raised desk at one end where the judge sat. On the wall behind him was a large color photo of the Scales of Justice. The judge wore a gray suit and looked as if he hadn’t shaved for two or three days. In front of the judge’s bench was a table for the defense. We sat down and Mr. Aghasi took a seat next to us.

Looking up at the Scales of Justice, I knew that our faith and our lives were hanging in the balance. But I also knew that God’s hand would guide whatever happened next.

Marziyeh

Our lawyer greeted the new judge. He was a middle-aged man with gray hair and beard. He wore glasses and had the familiar red spot on his forehead indicating many hours of Muslim prayer.

“We’re fortunate to have Mr. Pirabbasi as our judge,” Mr. Aghasi said, gesturing toward him as Maryam and I settled into our chairs.

“I’m rather busy these days, I’m afraid,” the judge said. “But Mr. Larijani contacted me and asked me to follow your case.” This was incredible news! Mr. Larijani was the head of the entire judiciary. Our lawyer asked him why Mr. Larijani was involved.

“Sources at the United Nations have telephoned him and asked him to sort out this case as soon as possible.”

In time, we learned who had brought our case to the attention of the United Nations. To protect that person and preserve his ability to help others, we will not say any more about him here.

The judge turned from Mr. Aghasi and looked at Maryam and me with a stern expression. “Do you realize that, due to your perseverance, our enemies have taken advantage of the situation and run several negative
campaigns against us? Maybe you don’t know what kind of people are using you and your case for their own objectives.”

There had been a vigil in front of the Iranian Embassy in London supporting our release—another reminder that Christians around the world were praying for us. As good as this made us feel, the publicity made things trickier for the Iranian judiciary, and the government’s anger grew, along with its frustration over not resolving our case. We very much hoped their anger wouldn’t boil over into harsh action.

The judge opened our file and sat reading silently for a few minutes. When he looked up, I had butterflies in my stomach. Mr. Aghasi’s face revealed nothing about what he was thinking.

The judge said, “The charges of propaganda against the regime and insulting our sacred values are baseless. There is no substantiated evidence to support them.” He leaned forward. “I don’t suppose you’ve insulted any other religions or religious beliefs, have you?”

“No,” we said.

“No,” Mr. Aghasi echoed.

Judge Pirabbasi sat up straight behind the bench. “Therefore, I hereby acknowledge your acquittal from the charges of instigating propaganda against the system and insulting our sacred values.” Just like that, without a statement or a word of testimony from us, we were cleared of these serious charges after months of interrogation, humiliation, and judicial stalemate. As the judge spoke, he made some notes. Then he looked at us again.

“Now we come to the charge of apostasy. This charge remains valid. And as you know, the sentence for this crime is the death penalty for men and life imprisonment with labor for women.”

The judge looked at our lawyer. “I’m sure you’ve already briefed your clients about this issue.”

“Yes, I have.”

We had been told repeatedly that the maximum sentence possible for us was death. We knew of plenty of women who had been executed in Iran. However, this was also the second time we’d heard that we could not be executed because we were women.

Judge Pirabbasi turned to us again. “I wish to ask you a few questions,
one person at a time. Miss Amirizadeh, are you a Christian? Are you called to follow Jesus? Explain to me what you mean by that.”

As the questions hung in the air, I felt chills run up and down my body. They were the same questions, asked the same way, I had been asked during my baptism ceremony in Turkey. And as Maryam had reminded me the night before when our court date was announced over the loudspeaker, today, October 7, was the four-year anniversary of that day.

After I became a Christian, my friends encouraged me to be baptized because a baptismal certificate made some kinds of travel easier to get approved, but I hadn’t wanted to take advantage of my faith or use it as an excuse for anything. I didn’t want to use God; I wanted God to use me.

Furthermore, I’d had a dream in which Jesus Himself had already baptized me in a beautiful lake. “You no longer belong to this world,” He had told me. “You belong to Me.” At the time, I didn’t think a “second” baptism was necessary or appropriate.

But during my trip to Turkey, when other believers were being baptized in the sea, God had prompted me to take part as well. I had never wanted to be baptized inside a church, but instead wanted the ceremony in a natural setting like the one in my dream. And so, seven years after becoming a Christian, I had been baptized in the sea on October 7 at 7:00 p.m.

“Are you a Christian? Are you called to follow Jesus? Explain to me what you mean by that.”
It was easy to say yes to those questions during a Christian ceremony filled with hope and promise. And though I was very afraid as I sat in this Islamic courtroom with my life on the line, it was just as easy to say yes now. I would willingly follow Jesus to a new life or to death. Though the situations were polar opposites, the promise of faith was equally steadfast for both.

In answering the question before the judge, I explained my faith in Christ and my personal relationship with Him. “I consider Jesus to be the Son of God and my Savior,” I concluded, using the exact words I had used at my baptism.

The judge was visibly startled by such a bold statement from a prisoner whose freedom seemed so close at hand. He challenged my statements of faith, and soon he and I got into an argument.

“I am a Christian, and my faith is in Christ!” I declared.

“So you don’t believe in Islam?” the judge asked angrily.

“Jesus said, ‘It is finished.’ He said there would be no more prophets after Him.”

Mr. Aghasi became anxious at this turn of events, finally interjecting himself into the conversation. “This woman’s belief in Christ must not be interpreted as an insult to other religions,” he said, almost shouting.

The judge stopped talking to me, and I stopped too. “Mr. Aghasi, you may present your defense to the court in the matter of apostasy.”

“My clients respect other religions in the same way they respect their own,” Mr. Aghasi said hopefully. “In promoting Christianity, they have not tried to turn people away from the religious beliefs they already held. They believe in Christ in the same way other religions believe in Him.”

This, of course, was not true. Mr. Aghasi was doing his best to have us acquitted of the apostasy charges. But Maryam and I had told him repeatedly that we stood by our belief that Christ alone was the Son of God and that there were no other prophets or historical figures to compare with Him in any way. The more he talked, the more he veered away from the Christian truth we were upholding, toward a religious position that was completely alien to us. He was no longer representing our position; he was talking for himself.

Unwilling to remain silent any longer, no matter what the consequences, I interrupted Mr. Aghasi’s statement.

“Judge, our lawyer is wrong!” I felt all eyes in the room now fixed upon me. “We’re not two children who need someone else to say what we think on our behalf. Jesus said, ‘I give you the Holy Spirit and you don’t need anything else. It is finished.’ We don’t believe in Christ the way other religions do. Jesus is the beginning and the end. He is everything. Any view that diminishes His perfect completeness is a false view. Jesus is the one and only true Savior of the world. Nothing you can do will make us deny that truth or water it down.

“We believe the Lord is our ultimate liberator, and we don’t want to be released from prison under any circumstances if it means denying Christ. If we had wanted to be freed by denying our faith, we could have gotten out of prison months ago. Jesus is our Savior now and forever!”

Mr. Aghasi’s face flushed with anger and frustration. He thought he was
doing a heroic job to save us from life in prison, and here I was undoing all his effort!

“So you disagree with his statement?” the judge asked.

“Yes, we do,” I said. “We have to change some of the last sentences.”

“That’s fine,” Judge Pirabbasi said. If he had any doubts about our position before, he certainly had none now. “I have no problem with changing them. I’ll write down whatever you say. I’ve already told you what to expect if the charge of apostasy is proven. I will write that you say, ‘We believe in Jesus Christ.’”

Our lawyer’s face was still red as a beet.

“Mr. Aghasi,” the judge said, “I’m going to write down whatever these women want me to write. And I say to them, ‘Stand by your beliefs.’ After all, everything in this world comes at a price. If they have reached this conclusion and believe in what they say, then they will have to pay the price for it.”

Maryam and I stepped forward to sign some papers acquitting us of the political charges and reaffirming our belief in Jesus Christ. When we returned to our seats, the judge said, “I have made a note of all our conversations today. I have acquitted you of the political charges brought against you by the Court of Revolution. But with regard to the apostasy charge, it must be dealt with by another court, which is designed to look into these particular cases.”

“Couldn’t you handle this issue in your court, too, instead of referring it to another judge?” Mr. Aghasi inquired.

“No, I don’t think so,” Mr. Pirabbasi answered. “You can check the law, but I’m sure I have dealt appropriately with the first charges, yet can be no further help on the second charge.”

Maryam asked the judge if we could have the letters that had been sent to us. The guards had told us we could have them only if a judge gave his permission. To our surprise and delight, he agreed and said he would order the letters to be released to us. We also asked about our laptops, identity papers, and other items that had been confiscated on the day of our arrest.

“None of that property is here,” he told us. “Everything is probably at the Gisha police station where you were arrested, or in Bureau 2 where you
came to court before.” He called a clerk and instructed him to see if any of our belongings were there in Bureau 26. The clerk left the courtroom and came back in a moment with two Bibles.

“This is all we have here,” the judge said. “But don’t worry, everything of yours will be returned.”

“What about the rest of our Bibles?” I asked.

“Oh, well, I’m afraid they cannot be returned to you. We kept these two in your file as evidence. The rest must have been shredded by now.”

“Well,” I said, “since you have these copies here, maybe you should read them. You’ve read the Koran; you might as well read the Bible, too.”

Mr. Aghasi jumped to his feet. “Now then, young lady,” he snapped, “you don’t give up on your evangelizing even in here?” I had truly rattled him—he had to have a way out, and I wasn’t giving it to him. The judge walked out of the courtroom, leaving us alone with Mr. Aghasi.

MARYAM

After Marziyeh’s outburst, Mr. Aghasi was frustrated, embarrassed, and angry all at once. “Why did you have to do that?” he said to her. “I was only at the beginning of my defense! There would have been no problem if you had simply agreed to sign the statement I prepared. You are the first defendants ever to deny their lawyer’s statement. It would have set you free! And so what if they weren’t exactly accurate? They were only my words, not yours.”

“We would not sign,” Marziyeh interjected, “because you know as well as we do that by signing that statement, it meant we agreed with whatever it said.”

“Judge Pirabbasi is a friend of mine,” Mr. Aghasi reminded us wearily. “He has been recently transferred to the Court of Revolution and is responsible for the political cases. I wish that today he would have tied up your case file so that the apostasy judge could deliver his ruling. Unfortunately, now your case will be referred to the Court of Justice.”

The judge came back into the courtroom, and to our surprise he sat at the table with us and ordered his clerk to serve us tea. He had collected himself and was back in search of a solution. Mr. Aghasi said again to Mr. Pirabbasi that he wished the judge could resolve our case.

“In serious cases that normally end with a sentence of life imprisonment or death, this court, the Court of Revolution, does not get involved,” the judge said. “Those cases go to the Court of Justice, where there is a three-judge panel. I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do to change that.”

He took a sip of tea. “As I’m drinking tea with you, it reminds me of a guest from Sweden who was also a Christian. To prove we don’t regard Christians as unclean, I picked up her half-empty teacup and finished it. That really impressed her. I love the Christian people and respect their religion and beliefs. But you must not do anything that might play into the hands of the Western powers.”

The judge left again and returned with a bottle. He asked about the conditions inside Evin prison, especially the medical care. Then he poured half the contents of the bottle into a smaller bottle. It was rosewater perfume. “I don’t believe you have any perfume in prison. I give you this as a gift and hope it will also help with the hygiene there.”

Marziyeh and I exchanged glances of half surprise, half amusement. It was hard not to laugh at the thought of carrying a glass bottle of perfume through security. “Thank you, but I don’t think the prison staff would allow us to take this bottle into our ward,” I said.