Captive in Iran (32 page)

While Mr. Aghasi was writing, one of the associate judges shuffled a stack of papers.

“Miss Rostampour?” he said.

“Yes?”

“I have a few questions for you.”

Before he could say another word, the chief judge cut him off. “Ask your questions later!”

“All right,” the younger judge answered. “I just wanted to satisfy my curiosity.”

Another associate judge had an angry look on his face and a tone in his voice to match. “I have a few questions too!”

Mr. Aghasi stood and handed his written defense to the chief judge, who glanced at the page and turned his attention to us. “Does each of you accept the defense your lawyer has given?”

We said we did.

The angry young judge interjected, “At least let the lawyer read their defense so we can all hear it.”

By this time, all four associate judges had sour expressions on their faces. They had come armed with stacks of questions. Evidently, the chief judge had no intention of allowing them to ask any. He called us to the bench and leaned over to speak to us.

“Sign this statement and these forms saying you were in court, and you are free to go home.” They were not acquittal documents, only papers saying we had appeared before the panel.

Almost exploding with anger, one of the younger justices barked, “Don’t think it will always be so simple. We’ve let you off the hook this time. But if you ever step into this courtroom again, you will surely be sentenced to death.”

After we signed, the chief justice said that our lawyer would be informed of the final disposition of our case. Outside the courtroom, Mr. Aghasi could barely contain his joy. I thought he might go skipping down the corridor, leg pain and all.

“This means you will be acquitted,” he said. “That other judge made such a mess of things. Finally your case will be resolved and you will be truly free. I never imagined it would be this easy.”

For the first time since our arrest, we did indeed feel truly free. Although we still didn’t have an official ruling, our lawyer had no doubt that this was our final court appearance. An indescribable burden was lifted from our shoulders. The pressure was off.

After a lot of thought, discussion, and prayer, we had decided that once all the legal matters were put to rest we would leave Iran. Though we had been physically released from Evin Prison, we were still held captive by a regime that monitored our every move and could arrest us again at any time. Even without charges pending against us, the
basiji
would never be far away. Christians and anyone curious about Christianity would endanger themselves merely by talking to us, much less visiting us or meeting us somewhere. Some of our friends ignored us in the street out of fear. They were captive in Iran, just as we still were. The whole country knew us by sight; it would be impossible to evangelize quietly, as we had in the past. If religious extremists took matters into their own hands, the government would probably secretly reward them for killing us.

Furthermore, after what had happened, we knew that if we gave the regime the slightest excuse for arresting us, our lives would be in grave danger at the hands of the courts. Iran was our home, our motherland; yet if we had to decide between our faith and our country, we would choose Christ.

Practically speaking, until our case was settled we were still under undeclared house arrest. At that time, we didn’t want to leave Iran even if we could, because the government could have announced our “escape” and branded us as fugitives: “See? We told you those Christian girls were up to no good!”

A formal acquittal would be a victory for Christ and a defeat for the regime. We wanted to see them squirm, humbled before an international audience by reversing a shameful death sentence for people who stood firm on their principles. Now that we had our acquittal in official form, it was time to go.

Our friends from Evin called to hear the news and to celebrate with us. We also kept up with Shirin Alam Hooli’s case. Our greatest hope was that she would be rescued before we left. Four different activist groups were now publicizing her case and trying to bring pressure on the court to show leniency and compassion.

MARYAM

At breakfast some days later, Marziyeh’s cell phone rang. She listened without speaking—she didn’t have to say a word; her face told the story: Shirin Alam Hooli had been executed before dawn that morning. Sousan said she had heard it through the
mujahideen
grapevine.

Impossible! Even the sadistic animals of the Iranian court system would not execute a woman without a final decree from the court, would they?

While Marziyeh began tracing the story on the Internet, I took a taxi to Evin Prison. There was no commotion or scene of any kind outside the gate, only the usual two sentries. I went to an Internet café to see what I could learn online, but found no mention of Shirin anywhere. While I was there, Marziyeh called.

“It’s true. Shirin is dead.”

She had been killed many times by this savage regime. Now, by the grace of God, at least she was at peace. She was twenty-eight years old.

Marziyeh met me at the prison gate. Shirin’s brother and another friend were there too. No one needed to speak. Our eyes told the story. Everyone was crying. We cried until the tears wouldn’t come anymore. Then we sat on the curb to wait for Shirin’s body to be released.

Eventually, we pieced together the story of her last hours. It was as if she knew the end had come. On Saturday night, she had taken a bath and put on the new clothes we’d sent her for New Year’s. Everyone thought she looked prettier and happier than she had in a long time. She’d gone to visit the prisoners in Room 2. She was laughing and drinking tea when a guard came and took her away, locking the door behind her. Shirin spent her last night in solitary confinement. None of her friends knew she was being taken away to execution. No one had a chance to say good-bye. She
was alone with her thoughts until the next morning, when she had a noose tightened around her neck. Who could have kicked the chair out from under that quiet, tenderhearted, artistic girl? Who could have been coldhearted enough to look into those serene eyes as the light in them went out forever?

Shirin was one of five Kurds hanged together on Sunday, May 9, 2010, all convicted of belonging to the PKK, the Kurdistan Workers Party, which leads the struggle to form a Kurdish state from parts of Iran, Turkey, and Iraq. At the last moment, when their blindfolds were removed, they sang a Kurdish song until the instant the ropes silenced their voices.

We waited for her body, hoping to see her beautiful face once more. We had promised her we would be there. At last, her brother learned that her body and those of four other Kurds had already been taken to a cemetery. We would have to go there for the body, but here at the prison we could pick up Shirin’s belongings. Marziyeh went inside to retrieve them.

The first item in one of the bags was a blue T-shirt she’d often worn with a necklace we gave her. We cried and hugged her clothes as we went through them, pretending they were Shirin. Who could have imagined that so soon after we’d last seen her we would be here and she would be dead? We heard her voice and saw her face before us, recalling images of her over the months wearing these different clothes. They still carried her scent. It was almost too much to endure.

Why, God? Why is there so much injustice in the world? How can You keep silent in the face of such evil as this? How many more brave young girls must die at the hands of this cruel, evil, cowardly regime?

The Lord sees the evil that people do to one another, and it makes Him sad. Sometimes, from our lowly, earthly perspective, it’s impossible to see all of God’s perfect plan. But He loves Shirin and suffered the same, and worse, to bring her forgiveness.

A guard at the cemetery said that, yes, the bodies of the executed prisoners were there, but no one could see them without written permission from the court. Because it was too late to get permission, we went home. Our apartment was a very bare place since we had thrown away so many of our belongings. The rooms felt cold and sad. Neither of us could sleep; Marziyeh and I spent the night on the living room floor crying in each other’s arms.

The next morning, we went back to the main gate at Evin Prison, where a large crowd had gathered. News had spread that the regime refused to release any of the bodies of the Kurds who had been executed. Some students had started a petition. The crowd quickly identified us and thanked us for being there. Guards watching the people in front of the prison took special notice of us.

About noon, the relatives of another executed prisoner arrived and said the court had refused to release the bodies because they were afraid of a protest or riot. Instead, they gave cards to the dead prisoners’ relatives and told them they could present them at the cemetery and collect the bodies later, when the threat of a riot had passed.

We offered our condolences to the mother and sister of Farzad Kamangar, a well-known and respected Kurdish teacher who was one of the victims.

“Don’t cry,” they told us. “Farzad and the others have not died. They are always alive and we should be proud of them. If we have lost them, we have you instead. The sisters and brothers of Farzad and Shirin and the others live on.”

The lawyer for the executed Kurds had been in prison himself. Now he stood before the crowd, and with tears in his eyes said that the court would notify him when they could pick up the bodies, and he would tell everyone.

Marziyeh and I spent another sleepless night in our apartment. The phones at Evin had been cut off the morning after the executions. As soon as they were back on, our friends called in shock and pain. The news horrified them even more than it did us. We couldn’t talk together; all we could do was cry for the whole fifteen minutes of phone time allowed. They had learned of Shirin’s fate when a guard came in the morning after and said flatly, “She’s dead.” Nothing more.

The next morning, Mr. Aghasi called to say that even though he still didn’t have written documentation, he had received oral confirmation that we were free and our files were closed. This was laughable because we had been told so many times that nothing is official in the Iranian legal system until it is in writing. Three of the judges had written their approval; the other two were on vacation. We never did receive written confirmation of our acquittal.

We also never received Shirin’s body, and never saw her again. The executed Kurds were secretly buried in an unmarked mass grave to avoid a public protest or family reaction. We had Shirin’s diary, which was smuggled out of Evin and given to us. After making copies, we gave it to a mutual friend to forward to Esa.

On May 22, 2010, less than two weeks after Shirin’s death, we left Iran, not knowing when or if we would ever be back. As our plane rose through the early morning sky on its way to Turkey, we looked out the window at the lights of Tehran. We had promised our friends in Evin that we would wave as we passed overhead. We were heading to an uncertain future, forced from the land of our birth, leaving a lifetime of memories behind.