Captive in Iran (31 page)

For two years before our arrest, Maryam and I had hosted two home churches and given away New Testaments. For nine months in Evin Prison, we had spent every day praising Jesus and proclaiming His gospel. Now our evangelism work was stopped dead in its tracks. Iranians wanting to know more about Christianity dared not contact us. People who once attended our home churches wouldn’t come near us. It was like we were in quaran
tine or had leprosy. We sympathized with their dilemma and spent most of our time at home to avoid raising suspicions of the
basiji
against our Christian friends. Any contact with us could put them in danger. The good news was that we heard indirectly of many cases where news of our arrest and our defiance had led others to Christ. When people learned we were willing to die rather than deny our faith, they wanted to know what it was that was worth that kind of sacrifice. Some we had spoken to in the past who hadn’t been interested in Christianity now read the Bible eagerly and asked probing questions about it. We praised the Lord for that.

As our elderly apartment manager explained to me, “After learning about your arrest and your refusal to renounce your faith, I wanted to know what about Christianity could be so powerful that you would sacrifice your lives rather than renounce it. This made me think that if Jesus was not the truth, you would not have been able to resist these harsh conditions. I became very interested in finding and reading a copy of the Bible for myself.”

Maryam and I had promised Mr. Ramezani we would contact him. We also wanted to ask him about getting the letters that had been sent to us in prison. Not wanting to use our own phones, we called him from a public phone a few weeks after our release. He was delighted to hear from us and admitted he didn’t think that once we were free we would ever call him, since he was a high official in the government. He said that even though, at his suggestion, our judge had ruled we could have our letters, the prison office had overruled him and destroyed them all. Thousands of them.

To our amazement, he invited us to his house for lunch. He said the mysterious man who had dreamed about us, foretold our freedom, and sent him to Evin to visit us in the first place wanted to meet us. We hesitated to visit the home of a powerful man in the Iranian prison system, particularly since we knew we were being watched constantly. Yet we remembered that our mystery man had seen Jesus in a dream and was instructed by Him to come to our aid. Now he wanted to see us. We were so curious, we simply had to accept Mr. Ramezani’s invitation.

Our first surprise was how modest his house was. The powerful bureaucrats in Iran live in ostentatious luxury. This house was small and unpretentious. Our host, simply dressed, greeted us at the door and introduced his
attractive young wife and their two children. His wife was preparing the meal, and he was helping. Here was a man whose name struck fear in the hearts of all the guards and officials at Evin Prison cooking lunch for us in his own home. Only God could have worked out anything so fantastic. His wife was sweet-natured and calm, with a slim figure and a beautiful smile. After talking with her for a few minutes, we deduced that her husband had helped many other prisoners deal with unfair conditions. How he managed to do that and hold on to his position was another mystery.

Soon afterward, our benefactor arrived from his home in a provincial city. He had come to Tehran just to have lunch with us. He asked us about our conversion to Christianity and listened to our testimonies with rapt attention. He then shared some of his own beliefs and said he had spent years in prison for his opposition to Islam. He said he and like-minded people had meetings together, and he invited us to join them. As much as we would have liked to, we decided that for everyone’s safety and for the sake of Mr. Ramezani’s family and position, we would not accept his invitation. Our friend was not at all offended by our decision. Rather, he encouraged us to hold fast to our beliefs.

As we gave our testimonies, we noticed that Mrs. Ramezani was quietly crying. Our stories made a powerful impression on her. She asked us to pray for her, and we promised to do so. Mr. Ramezani and his guest encouraged us to keep in touch in order to support one another and exchange ideas.

On the way home, Maryam and I decided we should not maintain contact with Mr. Ramezani or his friend. It was just too risky for them. True, Mr. Ramezani had somehow persevered and survived in spite of the help he had given others. We simply didn’t feel peaceful about accepting his offer to stay in touch. A few weeks later, we heard he had been transferred to a job in the provinces. There was no way to know whether our visit had anything to do with his reassignment.

Hearing that all our letters had been destroyed made us even more anxious to get our laptops, books, identity papers, and other personal property back. Silva, who had already gone through the process, explained what we had to do. We wrote a letter to the Revolutionary Court and delivered it in person to the clerk. He told us that the court would tell our lawyer where our things were and how to get them back. He recommended we not pur
sue the matter ourselves, because some court officials were very angry that we were out of prison. We were world figures in the news now. Our story, and the inability of the regime to control it, infuriated them.

Eventually, the court told Mr. Aghasi that our property was at the police station. We went to the station with Mr. Aghasi and were sent downstairs to speak to a bureaucratic drone named Mr. Yazdi, who was in charge of the storage section. When our lawyer showed him the letter from the court, Mr. Yazdi exploded in anger.

“Who told you to bring a lawyer down here? We don’t deal with lawyers! There’s no reason for you ladies to bring one with you!”

More likely, he was concerned that Mr. Aghasi knew the law and wouldn’t allow him to take advantage of us as he usually did with ex-prisoners trying to get their property back. He finally calmed down, and we convinced him we weren’t there to make trouble, but that the court had instructed us to come to him for our property. He asked for a list of items, and we gave it to him.

“I’ll look for them and call you when they’re available,” he said brusquely. “Next time come by yourselves. Do not bring your lawyer to this place again.”

A few days later, we got a call that our property was ready for pickup. This time, Mr. Yazdi acted like a different man, extremely friendly and polite. He had everything except our identity papers, which we had to come back for in another week. During our wait, we happened to see the officer who had taken us into custody the day we were arrested.

“Have you been in prison all this time for believing in Jesus Christ?” he asked.

“Yes, we have,” I said. “You should know this, since it’s your job to frame innocent citizens of this country.”

“How did you get released?” he asked with genuine interest. We explained that our case had attracted international publicity and this put pressure on the regime to set us free. The whole matter was in the Lord’s hands; these were the tools He used to carry out His will.

“You have no idea what goes on around here,” the officer said. “They lock people up for having a couple of CDs or a bottle of whiskey. They must have kept you in prison on phony charges, too. I can’t wait to leave
this job. I’m only doing my conscription service. You must be famous now after all that has happened to you.”

“Yes,” I said, “Mr. Rasti has a unique talent for framing his fellow citizens. But in so doing, he helped us spread the message of Jesus among the neediest people—the prisoners of Evin—and gave us worldwide publicity we never could have gotten on our own.”

The young officer could only shake his head as he walked away. I like to imagine he has thought about that conversation since then. We certainly have.

MARYAM

As we waited for a ruling from the court, several of our friends got news about their own charges. Some were better than expected, others worse. Either way, at least for them the waiting was over.

Setare was sentenced to five years, along with her brother. When she called to confirm the news, she sounded almost lighthearted, laughing and hopeful for the future. She was a strong girl who could stand up to prison life as long as she knew the end was in sight. Arefeh, who had been arrested at a post-election demonstration where her cousin was beaten, was sentenced to four years. She was devastated when she called to give us the news. She couldn’t believe she would be locked up for four years for one day of protesting. The judge said it was for her
intention
to act further against the regime. She was convinced he was punishing her for being from a
mujahideen
family, even though she herself was not a member. Her lawyer had already appealed her sentence, and Marziyeh and I tried to cheer her up with the hope that the appeal would be granted. Unfortunately, at best it would reduce her sentence by only a year, and three years was still terribly unjust.

One of the best stories was from our friend Fereshteh, who had suffered with multiple sclerosis in Ward 209 and was under the threat of life imprisonment or death. Her sentence was set at two years because of her medical problems. Her husband had never given up trying to persuade the judge to consider her illness, and finally his work brought this wonderful news. Furthermore, since she had already been in prison for a year, she had only one more year to go.

Mahtab, Sousan, and Rozita had all been freed, though their cases were still pending. Learning of their freedom was the best news we’d heard since our own release. We visited them all, which reinforced our belief that no one understood us as well as people who had shared our experience. Mahtab told us about going every week with her father-in-law to visit her fiancé, who was still in prison in another city. She and her fiancé remained very much in love; her support for him was incredible.

Sousan lived with her two daughters. She was battling depression, but remained as dedicated as ever to fighting the regime any way she could. We encouraged her to concentrate on her children and make sure they got a good education.

Rozita could not have been more joyful at being reunited with her three sons, and they were so happy to have their mother back. It was a joy to see the family content—though a shadow remained over them because her case was still awaiting a verdict.

Our friends still in Evin were in our thoughts every day. They called to give us the latest news, and we tried to keep their spirits up. The smallest gift or expression of kindness is vastly more meaningful inside prison than on the outside. We remembered how wonderful it had been to receive new clothes, and so we decided to send some to our friends to celebrate Nowruz, the Iranian New Year.

A couple of months after our release, as the New Year’s holiday approached, Marziyeh and I went to the market and bought a whole armload of clothes and gave them to relatives of the prisoners to deliver for us. In return, we got a series of phone calls from friends to thank us for the
gifts and for not forgetting them. The coming of Nowruz marked a full year since we had been arrested; we had observed the holiday at Evin just after we arrived.

As time went on, our biggest concern was our friend Shirin Alam Hooli. She called to say she’d been interrogated in Ward 209 yet again. Two people questioned her this time. They said if she would give them a list of her friends, maybe they could cancel her execution decree. When she refused, they told her that she was under their control and had two choices: cooperate or die. They ordered her to make a video interview to be broadcast on television. She refused to do that, too. Then they said, “This is the last time we will see you. We will have nothing more to do with you.” That statement confused and frightened her.

The stress of her interrogation had aggravated her physical problems. Headaches and nosebleeds were more frequent, and her eyesight began to fail more rapidly; she couldn’t see well enough to knit anymore. When we told her she should go to the doctor, she said she had told the authorities she needed new glasses, but they had ignored her.

Shirin called later to say that her brother, Esa, had learned that her sentence would be life in prison. “But I can’t stand it,” she declared, sounding uncharacteristically forlorn. “I would rather be executed. All the political prisoners have been moved together in Room 6; they argue politics constantly. I have no patience for these discussions anymore. They’re useless and I’m tired of them.” She was reaching the end of her endurance.

A letter she wrote to her judge and the interrogators somehow found its way onto the Internet. Her powerful words sparked protests around the world, which lifted her hopes a little. We tried to encourage her by saying we thought her decree would be changed.

“I think I will be freed soon,” she said. “When I told the other girls that, they laughed. But I won’t stay in here forever.”

The commutation of her sentence to life in prison, plus the worldwide response to her letter, made us hopeful that in time her prison term might be reduced even more. Then we got a call from Esa that was like a knife to the heart.

He called my cell phone, so agitated and distraught he could scarcely
speak. “Please help me! Please help me!” he begged over and over. “I have nobody else! I’m devastated! For God’s sake help me!”

“What is it? What’s happened?”

“They’re going to execute Shirin!”

“What are you talking about? She told us you said the decree was changed by the judge and her sentence had been commuted!”

“That never happened, but I didn’t have the heart to tell her. I told a lie instead.”

Marziyeh and I agreed that we had to see Esa and get the whole story. To keep the police from overhearing us, we picked him up in Haft-e-Tir Square and drove around while we talked.

“Judge Salavati has confirmed the death decree in the appeals court,” he said, frantic with fear. “The written copy of his decision will be sent to Evin. Shirin will have it in a few days.”

Judge Salavati, known as “the killing judge,” was famous for sentencing prisoners to death. He looked the part, too, with heavy black eyebrows, his big, square face frozen in a fearsome scowl.

What could we do? We met with Silva and some other women to formulate a plan. One woman wrote to Mr. Dolatabadi, the head of the judiciary who had come to see us near the end of our sentence. She claimed to be Shirin’s mother and begged him for mercy. We knew the judges liked it when people begged. We prepared a summary of Shirin’s life and the facts in her case to distribute to human rights organizations. Others started a blog about Shirin to get publicity and support. The final appeal would be heard in one month: that was all the time we had to save our dearest friend’s life.

Esa told Shirin what we were doing. The first time Marziyeh and I talked with her after she learned the truth about her sentence, we could scarcely speak. We didn’t know what to say at first, and she was furious with her brother for lying to her. Finally we started joking with each other about Shirin going over to “the other side.”

“Promise me that once you arrive there, you’ll get in touch and tell me what it’s like,” I said, fighting back tears.

“Definitely,” Shirin answered. “I’ll come scare you every night. As soon as my soul leaves my body, I’ll fly to your house because it’s the
closest to Evin Prison. You know how I always wanted to see your house, and now I will.”

We talked about somber things, but made them sound like a game. “Promise me that when I die you’ll be waiting for my body outside Evin,” she admonished. “If you do, I promise to tell you a very important secret.”

“We’ll be the first people there,” I assured her.

We talked regularly after that, keeping Shirin up to date on our efforts to help her. We told her to write a letter explaining that she had been tortured and drugged, and that her old video “confession” was nothing but a string of lies. We begged her to pray to Jesus to help her. He could perform a miracle and spare her life. The thought of this made her happy and she promised to pray. We prayed together over the phone. There’s no doubt she loved Jesus in her heart, though she would never say so. She was very glad to hear that many Christians were praying for her. We asked our friends still in Evin to keep a close watch on her and comfort her as much as they could.

Marziyeh

After the Nowruz holidays, we received word that our court appearance on charges of apostasy would be held on April 13, 2010, at 9:00 a.m. To our surprise, the hearing would be in the provincial court of justice, where we had not been before. This was where many heavy sentences were handed down, including executions.

Maryam and I knew there was a chance we might be sent to prison again. We passed the word to our friends on the inside that we might be rejoining them soon. We also packed suitcases to take to court with us, just in case.

On the appointed morning, we arrived at the courthouse. Leaving our luggage in the car, we stepped inside an enormous building with a seemingly endless maze of hallways and security forces everywhere. Finally, we found the right bureau and waited for Mr. Aghasi. After a few minutes, he came limping into the room. He had some kind of pain in his legs and could barely walk. When we told him we had our luggage in the car, we all laughed to break the tension. He warned us that there were security cameras
everywhere, so it would be better if we didn’t look happy. He still thought that part of the reason the judge had refused to see us on an earlier trip was because we didn’t look like we were afraid of him. Mr. Aghasi explained that we would appear today before a five-judge panel that would make the final ruling on our apostasy charge.

We waited for an hour until our names were called. When we walked into the courtroom, a huge room filled with empty chairs, it took our breath away. Up front was a long desk on a raised platform with the center chair raised higher than the rest. In this highest seat presided the chief judge, a fat middle-aged man with gray hair and beard. On either side were two younger associate judges. A veiled woman sat at a table in front of them. Two other men sat in the corner. Our instinct was to take seats in the middle of the room, but Mr. Aghasi directed us to a table directly in front of the judges. Maryam and I were so used to laughing in order to calm ourselves down that it was hard to resist, yet we maintained control. Our polite greeting to the panel was met with stony silence. We sat down with Mr. Aghasi at the table.

For ten minutes, no one said a word. We couldn’t tell whether the judges were reading something in front of them or staring down at us. Or maybe sleeping. We were thinking that if every judge asked us only a few questions each, we would be there for hours. At last, the chief judge intoned a prayer to Allah and ordered the charges against us to be read. The veiled woman stood and read the indictment in a loud voice. It was a long statement charging us with apostasy, promoting Christianity, and possessing Bibles and illegal CDs. It accused us of being apostates who must be dealt with according to Islamic law and asked the court to hand down the “maximum possible punishment for promoting Christianity.” As everyone in the room knew, the maximum possible punishment was execution.

The chief judge trained his eyes on us. “Miss Rostampour, do you accept these accusations?”

“No.”

“Miss Amirizadeh, do you accept these accusations?”

“No.”

“Mr. Aghasi, write down your clients’ defense and hand it to the court.”

We watched as our lawyer started writing the words that would determine
our future. By now he knew better than to try to shade the truth or minimize our Christian faith in any way. He wrote that we had never insulted Islam or the beliefs of others. He wrote that the Bibles and CDs belonged to us and that we had never engaged in promotional activities against the government.