Captive in Iran (30 page)

“Also, on behalf of the system, I ask for your forgiveness and hope you will forget the mistreatments you have been subjected to and will return to your normal life. And,” he added a little defensively, “you must excuse me for not visiting you these past few months. I was sick.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Now you can say anything you wish. You can even swear at us.”

I answered Mr. Mosavat simply, “I can only reply with the last words of Jesus, who said, ‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.’”
[8]

Dismissed, Maryam and I put on our blindfolds and left the room. “You know the way by now,” Mr. Mosavat called after us lightheartedly as we started down the hall.

That afternoon, we received a phone call from the mysterious Mr. Ramezani. “I hear the chief prosecutor has been to see you and you’re about to be freed.”

“Yes. He has agreed to a guarantor for our bail until our trial.”

“Well, thank God for that. I told you that you would soon be free! I’ve called to offer my congratulations and to ask you to definitely contact me after your release. I must see you. I also want you to know I am very happy about your freedom.”

We promised to contact him later.

The guard standing nearby said, “So you are to be set free?”

“Yes.”

“What was your charge?”

“Believing in Jesus Christ.”

“Well, thank God for that.” She and another guard stared in amazement. It was probably the first time the head of the security section had called a prisoner to congratulate her on her release. When Maryam told another prisoner that Mr. Ramezani had called us, the woman joked, “Now it’s President Ahmadinejad’s turn to come visit you in prison!”

While the final chapters of our story were playing out, other prisoners were hearing news both good and bad about their charges. Reihaneh’s case was also in Bureau 26 with Judge Pirabbasi, who had been so kind to us. The judge had encouraged her to end her hunger strike and had offered her something to eat in his courtroom. She was soon released on bail and joyfully reunited with her family.

Our sweet friend Marjan was sad at the thought that we would leave her. She became depressed and uncharacteristically argumentative. I reassured her we would always hold her in our hearts and be praying for her. “Our freedom must not be the end of our friendship with you,” I said. “We shall never forget you. You’ve promised to get in touch with us whenever you are freed. No matter how long it takes, we will be waiting to hear from you and celebrate your freedom.”

After the comings and goings of prisoners over the months, our closest remaining friend was Shirin Alam Hooli. Since her roommate Silva had been released, Maryam and I were the ones she had spent most of her time with. She was so gentle and had such a kind spirit, yet she had endured so much. Hearing of her friend’s execution had been a terrible blow, and now we, her best remaining friends, were about to leave her.

The last big hurdle seemed to be arranging the bail guarantee. We were on the phone to our sisters every day working out the situation. Because they had no personal wealth, they had found two well-to-do businessmen who owned property and were willing to guarantee our bail. Our sisters went with these businessmen to see Mr. Dolatabadi and make the arrangements. They brought a big bouquet of flowers to give him. However, he was out and they were unable to see him. When they went a second time, the same thing happened. But this time Mr. Dolatabadi’s secretary told
them they could come back and see Mr. Ghotbi, another judge in the Revolutionary Court, and he would handle our case.

Elena and Shirin appeared before Judge Ghotbi, and the two businessmen offered their guarantee. However, because the judge didn’t know the men, and because Maryam and I didn’t know them, the judge refused to accept their guarantee and said they had to put the full amount on deposit. He said that, as an alternative, our lawyer, Mr. Aghasi, could sign our guarantee. We had already asked him to do this for us, but he had declined.

The judge then suggested that our sisters themselves could be the guarantors. Under the circumstances, they agreed to take the risk, even though they wouldn’t be able to pay the bail if it became necessary. When they went to another room to sign and fingerprint the forms, the judge asked them if they were also Christian. They said that they were.

“Of course, you are aware that I am allowed by our religious law to cut you in half with a sword right now,” he fumed at them, his voice rising. Then he regained control of himself. “But I prefer to leave it to the law to decide.” He explained that he would now send a letter to Evin, instructing the warden to set us free. The charge of apostasy was still pending, but at least we could be on the outside until the trial. As we had learned from following our friends’ cases, it often happens in Iranian courts that prisoners are released on bail but the charges are never settled or dropped. That way, the accused still have a case open against them and can be rearrested on the flimsiest pretext.

Every night, we wondered whether this would be our last night in Evin Prison. Our last night in these crowded, smelly rooms. Our last night in triple-bunk beds, lying awake looking at the ceiling or our cellmates who were already asleep. Our last night living on awful canned meat and other miserable food. Our last night surviving dangerously incompetent medical care. We wondered whether it would be the last night we would spend with our dear friends, especially Shirin, Marjan, Setare, and Mahtab. Our last night to do God’s work behind bars.

We had always heard that the final few days before release were harder to endure than all the other time combined. Now it was true for us. The hours and minutes crawled by. Compounding our feelings were the hard choice our sisters had made and the risks they had assumed on our behalf.
And in the midst of anticipating our release, there was an indescribable feeling of terrible sadness at the thought of leaving our precious friends behind. Never in our lives would we form friendships as deep and rich as the ones God had blessed us with behind the high and foreboding walls of Evin Prison. The word
Evin
wasn’t strange to us anymore; it was now as familiar as our own names. It was our university, in that it had taught us things we could never have learned anywhere else. It was our church, a place of sincere, deep faith and trust in Jesus Christ. For months, it had been our home and family. It had become a part of our lives, representing the worst days of our lives as well as some of the best.

MARYAM

Shirin Alam Hooli was trying not to show her emotions, strong and stoic to the end. Sometimes she would say, “I’ll miss you,” but that was all. Late in the afternoon, Shirin, Marziyeh, and I went for a walk in the prison yard, holding hands.

“I want to pray for you,” I told Shirin. She laughed and said, “Go ahead!” But when I started, I realized I couldn’t go on without crying. I cut the prayer short because I didn’t want to cry then.

The day was gray, chill, and drizzling. As she had a thousand times before, Shirin looked up at the square patch of sky we could see from the courtyard. A flock of birds passed overhead, flying low in the bad weather. “I wish I were free like those birds,” she said wistfully. “I wish I were free like them. I wonder if I’ll ever see the whole sky again, instead of only a piece of it framed by a window or a prison wall.”

She looked around the courtyard with the sad stump where the lone tree had been, the wet ground, the numbingly familiar walls. “I’m so tired of this place,” she said. “I don’t think I can stand it another minute. When do you think I will be free, Maryam?”

“I don’t know,” I said, surprised and concerned by my friend’s somber tone. “But I hope it will be very soon.”

“Don’t forget our promises to each other,” Shirin said, suddenly more animated. “You will go and prepare our green farm, because when I’m free, I’m coming there to you.”

We had talked endlessly about Shirin’s dream of living on a green mountain far away, in a wooden house surrounded by peace and quiet. Sometimes it seemed so real we could almost feel ourselves standing on that mountain in the pleasant breeze, calm, serene, and free.

“Be sure to keep in touch with us, so we’ll miss each other less until you join us,” I reminded her. It was hard to talk. I wished that Shirin’s case could be settled before we left. Only God knew when we would see her again.

Later that night, our friends had a going-away party for us. After lights out, we all sang songs and they gave Marziyeh and me poems, notes, and little gifts to remember them by. Arefeh gave us a funny letter recalling her remark when we first arrived that we were stupid for insisting on our faith. She wrote, “I wish everybody in the world was as stupid as you!” We all tried to cover our sadness with laughter and joking, determined not to cry. Those of us who were closest decided to share a secret name so we would never forget each other. Besides Marziyeh and me, the group included Shirin, Arefeh, Kamila, Mahtab, Setare, Sousan, and Marjan. We were very different women, from different levels of society, with different faiths. But we were united forever in standing against the injustice that has destroyed the body and soul of the Iranian people.

We promised each other that one day we would meet again in a free Iran. Our greatest wish, our fondest dream, was that Iran would shake off the chains of its evil rulers and that the people of Iran would be delivered from injustice and dictatorship.

Though by now it was long past midnight, we were too excited to sleep. Tomorrow night we could find ourselves in a different world. Only God knew whether He was finished with us in Ward 2, Room 1 of Iran’s most feared and brutal prison.

MARYAM

The raucous sound of the loudspeaker woke me from a short and fitful sleep, ordering everyone outside as usual for the morning roll call. It was Wednesday, November 18, 2009 (in the Iranian calendar, Aban 27, 1388). This morning, for a change, Marziyeh and I went out for the attendance count. The weather at that early hour was bone-chilling, wet, gray, and depressing. After we were dismissed, most everyone went back to bed, but I couldn’t possibly sleep.

I was so restless I went for a walk in the courtyard despite the cold and rain. I picked up a couple of wet leaves and a small rock from the pavement—reminders of a place I would likely not see again. Alone in the yard, I said a prayer for all of our friends. For an hour, I poured out my heart about my love for them, my concern for the future, and all the other thoughts that flooded my mind.

After breakfast, when inmates usually left for the cultural center, no one on the ward wanted to go because they were afraid to miss our departure. But because prisoners were never released before noon, we encouraged everybody to go to their morning activities. The ones who stayed behind
were uncharacteristically tense and short-fused. Tempers flared hotter than usual over telephone time and careless remarks. Even women who were usually calm seemed out of sorts.

Marziyeh and I went to see some of the children, especially little Alfi. We would miss him so much. We tried to play with him, but he had a cold and was in a grumpy mood. I lay down on his bed with him and cuddled him for a while. If only we could take him with us! Into a world of fresh air and healthy food and safety and running barefoot across the grass. A world he had never known. What would happen to him? What would happen to all these people we had grown to love so deeply? If only they could all be freed before we were.

Midday, the women returned from the cultural center for lunch. Shirin Alam Hooli came to our room to eat with us. “What do you feel like now that you’re being freed?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “But I know we’ll miss you.”

Shirin answered, “When you are free, run to our mountain and shout for joy at the top of your lungs. Think about your freedom and don’t worry about me. I’ll be free, too. Come to my house and arrange my hair.”

“All right, Shirin,” I said with a smile. “But I wish we were together. Promise to look after yourself and get out of here soon.”

“I think I’ll be getting out of here soon myself,” Shirin said laughing. “I’ve been here two years, and I’m really tired of this place.”

One o’clock came, then two, the minutes crawling agonizingly by. I was waiting for someone in the hall when Mrs. Alipour burst out of the office, beaming, waving a piece of paper.

“Your freedom papers have arrived,” she shouted as she threw herself into my arms.

A few minutes later, our names were announced, and the whole ward burst into cheers. We had already packed our few belongings. Now friends from all over the ward swarmed into our room to hug us and wish us well. Many were crying. Someone began to sing “Yar-e Dabestani-e Man,” the Persian folk song that has become popular at many protests against the Islamic regime.

Then the women began to sing the song we sang whenever a political prisoner was released: “Go, go, and never come back!” I heard the sound of a plate shattering on the floor in our honor.

There was nothing left to do but walk through the corridor and out of the ward, yet Marziyeh and I could scarcely bring ourselves to leave. We carried our things from the cell into the corridor, still hugging and kissing everyone we could reach. Finally, we couldn’t hold back our own tears any longer.

At the end of the hall, the guards told the other prisoners they couldn’t walk any farther. We gave them all one final embrace, Shirin last and longest of all. Seeing each other’s tear-stained faces made us laugh in spite of our sadness. How we would have given anything to take Shirin with us on those few final steps to freedom.

We kept walking, waving to the sea of faces framed in the doorway until the office door closed behind us. We moved through a series of checkpoints to a spot near the main gate of Evin Prison. We signed and fingerprinted one last form.

The guard who walked us to the gate was one we had seen many times before, though we’d spoken very little. “Are you the two Christians?” she asked.

“Yes, we are.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m very happy that you are finally released.” She looked around to see if anyone was nearby. “Can I ask you a favor?”

“Of course. What is it?” I said.

“I’ve heard that your prayers are always answered. I have a problem in my life. Could you pray for me, too, please?”

“Absolutely. We will pray to Jesus that your problem will be solved.”

A sentry led us to the main gate, opened it, and ushered us through.

We were free.

Marziyeh

The first thing we saw was our sisters waiting with their arms open wide. We embraced them like we’d never let go, laughing and crying at the same time. The soldier told us to leave the area without making any noise.
Usually when prisoners are released, all their friends and family are there to welcome them. In our case, someone made sure there was no public display or celebration.

I couldn’t believe we could go anywhere we wanted. Driving toward our apartment, I stared at the traffic and commotion all around me, not feeling at all like I had expected to feel. For months, I had dreamed of this moment, but now that I was on the outside again, something was out of kilter. Though my body was free, my soul and spirit were still with our precious friends suffering terrible injustice inside Evin Prison. This thought made it impossible for me to enjoy our new situation. I felt strangely indifferent to our liberation.

Our sisters had cleaned our apartment, except for our bedrooms, straightening the mess the
basiji
had made the day they arrested us. Our books, computers, and other property were still missing. From the window in our apartment, we could see the walls of Evin Prison in the distance. We would never look at it in the same way again. Everything seemed so strange—the view, the rooms, our belongings were all so alien and unfamiliar. Maryam and I walked around staring, as if we’d never been there before.

We took turns in the shower. How huge and immaculate our bathroom was! No crowd, no time limit, no smell, no toxic-looking walls.

We looked at our furniture, clothes, pictures on the walls, and stacks of music CDs that the
basiji
had left behind. We had so much stuff, and it didn’t even feel like ours. Frivolous possessions mocked us from every direction. The two girls who once bought and used all these items were gone, replaced by two people with a different outlook on life. We were restless—pacing through the rooms, sitting on the floor, alternately crying and stunned into silence. We had never once cried for ourselves in prison. Now the tears came in a flood.

Without understanding why, Maryam and I both had a sudden, overwhelming sense that our things were closing in on us. Our apartment was oppressively cluttered, and we had to throw out whatever wasn’t relevant to our lives anymore, whatever could get our Christian friends into trouble. We dashed to our rooms and started ripping photos and posters off the walls, tearing up papers and lists, cleaning out our closets, tossing every
thing into the living room. After an hour or more, our sisters helped us put it all in trash bags and throw it away.

Somehow that made us feel better. Elena and Shirin prepared dinner—fresh, sanitary, and delicious—and ate with us: two kinds of stew, pasta, fresh fruit, and cookies. Every time we slowed down, they said, “Eat! Eat!” The meal gave us stomachaches after so long without regular food. These were the dishes we’d dreamed of for months, yet all we could think of now was our friends back in Ward 2 choking down that horrible slop. When prisoners leave, the other inmates ask for their phone numbers in order to keep in touch. Their first question during the first phone call is always, “What did you eat?” Our meal made us wish somebody would call. The moment would have been so much more enjoyable if we’d had our Evin friends on the line to celebrate with us.

That night, we couldn’t settle down. This was not what we had expected. We were apprehensive, deeply frightened somehow, after feeling so confident all of our months behind bars, though we didn’t know why we were afraid. We asked our sisters to drive us around town for a while. It was as if we wanted to run away from the home where we were arrested and which we hadn’t seen for nine months. The streets and the crowds looked the same as we remembered. The difference was that now we watched the people and thought of the terrible burden they live under, whether they know it or not—a ruthless dictatorship based on oppressive laws that in the blink of an eye can rob anyone of their freedom, or even their life. Someone might be watching them right now, tracking their movements, listening to their phone conversations, monitoring their e-mails, ready to spring a trap on the flimsiest of pretenses.

We had tried desperately to give the people of Tehran an alternative. Not to warn them away from Islam or criticize the Muslim way of life if that’s what they preferred, but only to let them know there was a choice and they deserved the right to make it for themselves, without threats or harassment. Was our work in Tehran over? Again, only God knew the answer.

We returned home and went to bed, each in her own room, with soft pillows and clean sheets. Lying alone in the dark, my mind raced with thoughts of the dear sisters we had left behind. I could see their faces, smell the ward, feel the close, unhealthy atmosphere of the place—and I missed
it so much! I cried myself to sleep, only to be tormented by nightmares of the
basiji
bursting through our front door.

The morning couldn’t come soon enough. First on our schedule was a visit to the doctor to begin treatment for the long list of health problems prison life had brought us or made worse: Maryam’s damaged ear and ulcer, my aching back, headaches, tooth problems, and kidney troubles. We had complete physicals and received all the medicines we had been denied for so many months.

Our physical problems could be clearly identified and treated. Our hearts and minds were a different story. Although we had been released, our apostasy case was still pending. We had no doubt that we were being watched and all our phone calls and other communications were monitored. By now, we could spot the intelligence police at a distance whenever we went out. Our release had made news around the world. We were in the spotlight and our old friends were afraid to share it with us. We were worried for their safety in contacting us. Even when we did meet with old friends, who greeted us warmly, it was stressful to talk with them because they had no idea what we had been through and how hard it was to go on as before.

We spent far more time with our new friends—fellow prisoners who had also been released, and those still awaiting their fate behind the walls of Evin. One of our first visits was to Silva Harotonian, who now lived with her mother. She understood how we felt. She, too, had thrown all her old clothes and possessions away. She, too, was still awaiting trial and being shadowed by the security police. She and her mother were also under house arrest and forbidden from traveling outside the country.