Captive in Iran (22 page)

In my wildest dreams, I never expected to celebrate my twenty-eighth birthday in prison. Yet here I was, and it was a wonderful party. Shirin Alam Hooli had knitted a beautiful bag for me; others made gifts in the craft center or bought them from other inmates. Silva and our friend Marjan sang for me, and Shirin even danced, which no one had seen her do before. Marziyeh’s sister had sent her some jewelry to give to me, and my sister had sent a beautiful cross for me to wear as a necklace. Since we had not yet been allowed contact visits, these gifts were smuggled in by families of our friends in prison, who secretly gave them to Rozita during one of her contact visits.

At our meeting with the warden, we had told her that we had not been allowed any contact visits, even though we should have, and she arranged for them after that.

My cross necklace was yet another way to attract the attention of new prisoners. One of a group of new girls stopped me in the courtyard during a break and asked if I was a Christian.

“Yes, I am. Why?”

“I noticed your cross, and I thought you and your friend must be the two famous Christian girls everybody’s talking about. Is that right?”

“Yes, that’s right. How do you know about us?”

Without speaking, the girl took me by the hand and led me over to the rest of her friends. There were ten girls, all still in their party clothes from when they had been arrested for improper social contact under Sharia law.

“Hey!” the girl shouted to the group. “This is Maryam, the Christian girl we prayed for in church. Can you believe she’s here in person?” Her friends crowded around, hugging me and shaking my hand. Shirin Alam Hooli and I sat down to visit with them.

“Most of us are Christians,” the girl explained. “We live in Dubai. We were baptized a few months ago and go to church there. We came here for
vacation and were invited to a garden party where there were both boys and girls. An hour after the party started, officers came and arrested us all. We’re waiting to find out how much our bail is, but nobody knows we’re Christians. Please don’t tell anybody,” she added quietly.

It was exciting to see so many young girls enthused about being Christians. Their biggest worry at the moment was that there were pictures of their baptisms in the cell phones the police had confiscated. If the authorities saw the photos, the girls would be in serious trouble.

“There are two girls in our group who are not Christians,” the young woman said. “Would you talk to them?”

Both of these girls recognized me and asked some questions about Christianity. Then one of them said, “Seeing you here is a sign for us. We feel ashamed because we actually are Christians, but are afraid to say so openly, and many things inside our hearts still haven’t changed.”

I spoke to them and encouraged the whole group. The next day, they paid their bail and left. As they were going, one of them said, “It seems like the only reason for us coming to prison was to meet you.”

By now, our case had been mentioned in several official reports that were circulated by Amnesty International, the United Nations, and the European Parliament about the brutality of the Iranian government. On August 8, 2009, online petitions were launched on our behalf. On August 14, Jubilee Campaign USA submitted a formal petition to the United Nations Working Group on Arbitrary Detention, requesting help for us. In their petition, Jubilee referred to a May 27 declaration from the European Union condemning Iran’s discrimination against Christians in general and us in particular.

We knew the Iranian judges were much more lenient when accused prisoners begged them for mercy and made them feel important. Our elderly friend Sousan, sentenced to eight years, had had her term reduced to one year after her sister went to court and begged the judge on her knees for help. Marziyeh and I agreed that we could never humiliate our faith in that way. We had absolutely nothing to apologize or ask forgiveness for. Now God was honoring our steadfastness by sending the whole world to help us.

Marziyeh

Ever since the postelection protests, the whole country was in chaos. The rest of the world had no idea how angry the Iranian people were at being cheated, because foreign reporters were banned from showing the crowds in the streets or documenting any of the opposition. A few brave citizens made videos with their cell phones and broadcast the truth to the world. The security police tried to keep a lid on the uprising by cutting off communication inside the country and censoring the news even more than usual.

Within the walls of Evin Prison, the overcrowding went from extreme to unimaginable, with prisoners packed in so tightly that guards couldn’t even enter our rooms. Many women had no bed and nowhere to store their belongings. We had to stop using windowsills as storage shelves and drying racks because new prisoners had to have the space. Their blankets completely covered the floors; at night it was hard for everyone to find room to stretch out. The heat and stench of so many bodies was worse than ever. We heard that hundreds of young girls arrested in the streets were downstairs in the drug addict ward, and that hundreds more were being held in schools because the prisons couldn’t take any more.

We used to read the
Hayat-e No
and
Etemad-e Melli
newspapers every day, but now they were banned. The only hint we had at the time of the scope of the protest, other than the prison filled to bursting, was through the censored stories on state TV. It was such big news that even they had to show some of it. For a while, we also got news from phone calls: friends on the outside told of hundreds of protestors, especially young people, being murdered by the regime. Then all the prison telephones were disconnected; our last source of information was cut off.

Many prisoners accused of fraud and other nonviolent crimes had expected to be released under the newly elected administration. They had started packing their bags and waited for the prison doors to be opened wide. Instead, the investigation of all charges ground to a halt. No one was getting out; no cases were being moved through the courts.

Our friends Tahereh and Kamila were experts at ferreting out bits and pieces of news. They were the first ones to learn that the Ashraf camp in Iraq, where so many
mujahideen
prisoners had friends and family, had been attacked by Iraqi soldiers, killing or injuring many of the refugees there. Tahereh, a kind, elderly woman with serious eye problems, had no word about her children. She felt sure that the Iraqi and Iranian government officials had worked to distract the attention of the world from the internal political demonstrations by slaughtering innocent people in this Iraqi camp.

After a while, Tahereh learned that her children were safe, but the Iraqi government was now demanding that the refugees leave the country or be sent back to Iran by force. Some refugees, including Tahereh’s sister, started a hunger strike, hoping to get the attention of the United Nations or some other international body that could help them. The Iranian government was now claiming that the
mujahideen
themselves were behind the protests all along. It was all part of the regime’s plan to arrest
mujahideen
and their supporters without any evidence and send them away to be tortured.

As the crisis in Ashraf played out, the authorities told Tahereh she was being transferred to another prison with a reputation even worse than Evin’s. She had appealed her five-year sentence, and though the appeal had not yet been heard, she was being transferred anyway. The doctors had warned that she needed eye surgery right away or she might go blind. Moving was a hardship for her, and there was no reason for it. Maryam and I joined a large
number of Tahereh’s friends who complained to Mrs. Rezaei about the order. Even enormous Mrs. Soraya waddled down to the office to show her support. She liked Tahereh, and she would never miss an opportunity to complain to Mrs. Rezaei. The women’s warden made a call, but the person in charge at the other prison was at lunch. She spoke with our head warden, Mr. Sedaghat, who he said he knew nothing of any orders to transfer Tahereh. We helped her pack, then hugged her and cried at the thought that we might never see her again. That afternoon, officers from the other prison arrived with a written order and took her away. We lost a kind and faithful friend, and the children down the hall lost a substitute grandmother who loved them very much. The little ones missed her as much as we did.

To balance out this sad departure, there was some rare good news for a couple of our friends. The first was Tahmasebi, who had served thirteen years of a life sentence and thought I was crazy for predicting she would be free in six months. Now she was free! When word of her pardon came, no one could believe it, especially her. She ran into our room sobbing. Everyone on the ward remembered my dream and the prediction that Tahmasebi would have her freedom.

“Now you can rest assured that God does love you,” I said.

One of the other women asked, “Why is it that the Christians’ prayers and dreams lead prisoners to freedom?”

“It isn’t us,” I explained. “This is a victory for the Lord. He is only using us to do His work.” God was showing Tahmasebi a miracle in her own life. She was convinced that her freedom was impossible, but for God, nothing is impossible.

Once a prisoner knows she will be released, the final few days seem as long and agonizing as all the years before. The paperwork for Tahmasebi had to come from another city; in the meantime, her mother had gone into the hospital with a serious illness. Tahmasebi was desperate to see her mother before she died. After several more days of delay, the prison agreed to let her go with a prison escort to visit her mother in the hospital for a day. The trip made her very happy, and after that she seemed more able to bear the wait.

A few days later, her mother died. Now she hoped to be out in time to attend the burial, but that didn’t happen either. Maryam and I decided to hold a memorial service for Tahmasebi’s mother in our room. Many of the women were surprised that two Christians would organize a memorial service for a Muslim and conduct it so sincerely.

With her mother’s passing, Tahmasebi wondered what she would do once she was free. She had no skills, no money, and a criminal record. She expected her brothers and sisters to sell their mother’s belongings and divide the money between them without giving her a share. She had an Islamic temporary marriage with a man who had promised to help her when she was released, but now he said he couldn’t because of financial problems. He also had another wife and children who knew nothing about his relationship with her.

She applied for a loan of two million tomans ($1,000) to help her start a business, but her request was denied. We prayed for her, and many of us gave her what little money we could to help her begin her new life. For her years of work in the warehouse, she had earned eight thousand tomans ($4) per month.

As the day of her release approached, the women on the ward threw a party for her, with singing and dancing. Marjan made a cake, and we all signed a card and gave Tahmasebi little presents to remember us by. At last, the great day arrived. Her name was announced to report to the office to be released. We made a double line for her to walk through, showering her with candy and other little treats, singing and dancing with happiness. I had also given her a cross some time back. Now she said, “I will keep this cross forever!” We walked her to the door with one last prayer for her safety and success. “I don’t know what awaits me,” she admitted. Then with a last smile, she turned and was gone through the doors of Evin Prison to the blue skies and fresh air of freedom.

Only a short time later, our dear friend Silva was the fortunate one. Because she had served only one year of a three-year sentence, she was not optimistic that she would be out anytime soon. Then one day she whispered to Shirin
Alam Hooli, Maryam, and me that she was going to be released after all. A few hours later, her name was called from the loudspeaker. The regime had set her free!

We all shouted and cried with joy. It was a bittersweet time, because as much as we wanted her to go, we would miss her so much. She and Shirin had been cellmates for a year, so parting was especially hard for them. We all sang a song to her, and Soraya honored our tradition of breaking a plate, which symbolized the farewell message of the lyrics: “Go, go, and never come back!”

After Silva left, Maryam and I spent more time than ever with Shirin to help her get over the loss of her closest friend. Shirin, too, heard her name over the loudspeaker from time to time, but it was never good news. All of her close friends hated to hear her name called because we were always afraid it meant more hard questioning. Sometimes she was taken to Ward 209 for a day of interrogation, as we had been, though she was often beaten as the authorities constantly pressured her to turn over names of other members of PJAK.

Even though Shirin had been through some of the most severe torture we’d heard about—hung by her heels, whipped on the soles of her feet, kicked in the stomach until she vomited blood, beaten unconscious for days—she had the will of an ox, and her pride in her Kurdish heritage and loyalty to the PJAK political movement were unshakable.

Shirin’s attitude got her in trouble with the guards over the smallest matters. One time, the pipes in the toilet became blocked. It took three days for the plumbers to make repairs. After the repairs were finished, the guards told us we had to take some pills to make sure we didn’t get sick from the backed-up pipes. Because our medical care was so incompetent, a lot of us didn’t want to take the pills, because we didn’t know what they were. Everyone pretended to swallow them, but hid them in our hands and threw them away later. Everyone, that is, except Shirin. She openly refused to swallow the mysterious pills. The guard reported her to the warden, and Mrs. Rezaei summoned her to the office.

Shirin already had a long history of defying prison rules. That, plus the charge against her as an enemy of God—punishable by death—added weight to the smallest incident. But Shirin didn’t care. She was a radical,
stubborn girl who believed the struggle against Kurdish injustice should be fought in the open. She never considered any other approach. Her tough attitude was a stark contrast to her sensitive personality and big heart.

When a top judge was murdered in Kurdistan, the regime interrogated all the Kurdish prisoners associated with PJAK, including Shirin. They also asked her again if she was ready to repent of her opposition and cooperate with them. Instead of answering their questions, she grilled them about the torture she had endured and demanded they answer for it. Nothing could stop brave Shirin. With her eyes weakening and her hair falling out because of malnutrition, she looked ineffective and helpless. But inside she had the heart of a lion.

We talked with her sometimes about the similarities and differences between her standing up for Kurdish rights and our standing up for Christ. The key difference was that Shirin’s fight was personal, while ours was God’s will. We didn’t oppose her fighting, because her battle was important, but we did oppose her tactics. It was painful to see a young woman so kind and full of life make such a hard sacrifice in pursuing her goals of freedom for the Kurdish people and especially Kurdish women. We encouraged her to stand for the dignity and freedom of her people but not get caught up in politics.