Captive in Iran (5 page)

No one had forced me into anything or hypnotized me. No one had cast a spell on me. The only explanation I could logically derive from that experience was that I had met with God through His Son, Jesus Christ. From that day forward, I dedicated my life to Jesus, I always felt God’s presence with me, and I saw countless miracles and dreams from Him. Jesus is the only person who has been with me every single day of my life. Even when I’ve gone through very difficult times and was profoundly lonely, I have walked with Him next to me, and He has been my guide in life. I will never deny God’s love or the life He has called me to; to do so would be to deny my very existence.

In time, I obtained certifications as a manager and trainer for hairdressers. Working with my salon trainees gave me opportunities every day
to share the good news of Jesus Christ. Many women were eager to know more and gladly accepted a Bible from me. Friends suggested I start my own salon business, but I wasn’t interested. My calling is with people’s hearts, not their hair.

Though I was successful and secure in my profession, I was sure that the Lord wanted me to serve Him full time. During my years in Tehran, I had dreamed of financial independence and running my own business. Now that I had the opportunity, it meant nothing compared to telling the world about Jesus.

When a pastor friend suggested I study theology, I quit my job and traded a certain future for the unknown. I had started with nothing in Tehran and in five years had achieved worldly success. Now I was starting over again.

I planned to study theology in London, but was unable to get a visa. Instead, I traveled to Turkey for a study sponsored by Elam Ministries. That’s where I met Maryam.

MARYAM

God made us a team and brought us back to Tehran, where we labored for three exhausting, exhilarating years, handing out accurate modern translations of the New Testament in Farsi to supplant the Islamic versions allowed in the public shops, which had been rewritten to support the Koran. We were always on the lookout for new opportunities to share the gospel.

God protected and guided us every day. Once a friend was helping us pick up some New Testaments and take them to our apartment. We had his van packed with three thousand Bibles and traveled at night because we thought it was safer. At the entrance to a bridge we had to cross, policemen were stopping and searching every car. By the time we saw what was happening, we were hemmed in by traffic and couldn’t get out of line. All we could do was pray for the Lord to protect us. At that moment, a fight broke out between the police and a driver one or two cars ahead of us. While that was being settled, they stopped searching cars and let the rest of the line go on across the bridge. We gratefully thanked God for getting us through that danger safely.

Whenever Marziyeh and I walked around the city, we always carried ten or fifteen New Testaments in a backpack, in case we had the chance to give one away. One day, in a bookstore, I overheard a customer ask for a Bible. After the manager said he didn’t have any, I followed the customer outside and gave him one. The man said he’d had a dream in which Jesus told him to get a Bible and go to a quiet place in the mountains where He could talk with him. The man had his hiking pack with him and was on his way to meet Jesus.

We often went to a place in Tehran where young people liked to go walking. One time, Marziyeh gave a Bible to a young man who said he was looking for the truth. Another time, in the same place, we met the man again. To thank Marziyeh for the Bible, he gave her a beautiful wooden cross he had treasured for years, decorated with pictures of Jesus and four apostles. We have it here beside us as we write.

There are two kinds of taxis in Tehran. The more expensive ones pick you up at a prearranged point and take you directly where you want to go. The other ones pick up and drop off customers like a bus, so that passengers don’t have the taxi all to themselves. The driver tries to keep a full cab of four passengers as much as possible. These taxi drivers got to know us well because we would ride around and hand out New Testaments to other passengers. One day, I rode with a
sayed
, a man who claims to be descended from Mohammed, who was also
hadji
, meaning he had made a pilgrimage to the city of Mecca. These pilgrims consider Christians dirty, especially those who have converted. Usually they won’t touch a Christian or even take anything from a Christian’s hand. To my surprise, this man asked me many questions about Christianity and then invited me to visit an Islamic charity and go from room to room blessing it with Christian prayers.

Yet despite our commitment and dedication, for the last couple of months before our arrest, we had inexplicably been unable to evangelize. We didn’t canvass the city like we had before, we had fewer meetings, and we didn’t hand out a single New Testament. Something was holding us back. Now, surrounded by the dark, somber walls of the Vozara Detention Center, we could see it was the Lord protecting us and our friends. We had no idea that the
basiji
had been watching us, but their surveillance began right when our efforts began to wane. If we had continued as usual with
the police on our tail, many others would have been arrested along with us for meeting with us and accepting a New Testament. God had saved all those people from the experience we were now enduring.

Most amazing of all, we were in the best place we’d ever been for witnessing to people hungry for the gospel of Jesus. We had spent ourselves and our resources traveling all over the country with the message of salvation, always mindful of the danger if the wrong person overheard us. Now we were stuck in jail, and God was bringing spiritual seekers to us in waves. The living conditions weren’t very good, but we didn’t have to deal with travel and traffic! And we could tell our fellow prisoners the story of Jesus openly because no one would come into this rat hole to spy on us.

We had prayed long and diligently for more chances to share our faith. Now the Lord was answering that prayer beyond our wildest expectations, though certainly not in the way we imagined. It was all so new and strange, unlike anything we’d ever experienced. We didn’t know what to expect. What was the routine? What were the rules? What would keep us safe or get us in trouble? It was like being dropped into a completely foreign culture without warning and without a guidebook. Our only guide was Jesus. What blessings and opportunities would He bring us tomorrow?

MARYAM

We had been imprisoned in Vozara too late on Thursday to go to court. Friday, the Muslim Sabbath, the courts are closed. So Saturday was the first day that our case could be heard. We awoke again to the sound of Leila screaming for a cigarette, visited the toilet facilities, and got a breakfast biscuit from the same generous woman who had given us one the day before. We hadn’t eaten any dinner out of the community pan the previous night and were now extremely hungry.

The morning routine was for a guard to call out the names of the women going to court that day. Prisoners gathered at the cell-block door one group at a time as their names were called, depending on which court they were going to. Then a guard herded them upstairs to ground level. If it was a small group, the guard took them in a car or taxi to their court appearance. Larger groups traveled in a van. Because everyone in Vozara had come directly from being arrested, no one had any luggage or belongings beyond whatever they happened to have at the time. They took everything with them to court, in case they were set free.

In court, the judge would decide whether a woman would be released,
returned to detention, or sent to prison to await trial. Inmates were not supposed to stay more than three days in detention. Because we had arrived late on Thursday, this was technically our third day in custody (though only our second morning at Vozara), and we expected to be called, have our case resolved, and be released. The chic young party girls who spoke English were all called, as were the women who had been arrested outside the bakery. As they left, many of them asked us to pray for them. We assured them that the Lord would never abandon them and that He could change their lives like He had changed ours.

After a while, the cell block was empty except for Leila, Sephideh, Marziyeh, and me. As we were walking up and down the hall to get a little exercise, two guards came to the hall doorway with some cleaning supplies. They handed us two brooms, a mop, and a bucket and ordered us to clean the cells. Our immediate response was revulsion. How could we possibly tackle the filthy mess all around us? But then we thought,
What an opportunity! Not only will cleaning give us a way to pass the time, but we can also make this a more decent and humane place to live.
We asked the guards for some liquid soap, and they gave it to us, they were so surprised. Marziyeh and I swept and mopped the cell floors and the hallway, including the passage to the guard office, and last of all the toilets. Hours later, we had cleaned every surface, and though the smell was not entirely gone, it was far more bearable. The only disadvantage of all our work was that it made us even hungrier. Plus we were very thirsty; we hadn’t had a drink of water during our two days in custody.

As we lay down for a nap, we heard Leila singing again, her beautiful voice echoing through the empty rooms. She started dancing, too, and the gracefulness of her movements was as surprising as the purity of her voice. But it wasn’t long before she and Sephideh woke us up, shaking the cell-block door and screaming for cigarettes.

Late in the day, the other women began returning from court. The ladies from the bakery had been taken to Revolutionary Court, where political cases were decided, but the judge hadn’t heard their case, so they were back in detention for another day. Several were crying in frustration, worried about their children and wanting some way to tell their families where they were. We heard that the big group of party girls had been released and the charges
against them dismissed. Also returning were two young girls with beautiful long hair, who had come in the day before charged with being improperly dressed. One of the girls had also admitted to having a boyfriend. Her parents had been in court when she was brought in. Her mother had known about her boyfriend but her father had not, and his look of shame and disapproval had devastated her. Now she was crying her heart out. We tried to comfort her, but for the moment we were not able to get through.

New prisoners also arrived, including an attractive girl of sixteen or seventeen with her hair cut short like a boy. Her name was Sahar, and she seemed happy, energetic, and full of life. All the older ladies wanted to mother her. She had run away from home and been arrested for shaving her head. Despite her fresh look and friendly ways, she made her living on the street as a prostitute. When she started talking about her sexual experience, she sounded like a woman of forty.

Another newcomer was a tall woman with a masculine build, extremely dirty and smelly. No one wanted to go near her because she looked so repulsive. Marziyeh and I went over and sat down beside her. Her name was Sayeh.

“What are you charged with?” she asked us.

“We believe in Jesus,” I explained.

She laughed, a big laugh that showed her yellowed teeth and gave us a whiff of her terrible breath.

“What is your charge?” I asked.

“Being homeless and lonely, and having no one to go to. I was arrested for sleeping in the park. The police said I should have registered with social services.”

Behzisty, the state welfare organization of Iran, is notorious for the abusive way it treats people who go there for help. I didn’t blame her for staying away.

“I wish I had a comfortable place to sleep,” Sayeh said, “or just someone who could help me. Anyone.”

“You have a God who is with you wherever you are,” I told her. “Have you ever asked Him to help you?”

“I’ve never had any help from the god of the Muslims. Perhaps your God can help me. Please pray for me.”

As I prayed, Sayeh’s eyes filled with tears. Then she listened carefully as I told her about Jesus and His plan for her salvation. She asked me about my own beliefs and then asked for the address of a church. After I gave it to her, she said, “If I ever get released and ever get away from Behzisty, I will go to church.” In spite of her wild appearance, she had a tender and open heart. And in the Lord’s providence, Marziyeh and I were there at that moment to share the love of Christ with her when she was most ready to receive it.

Marziyeh

The next morning, after the usual “alarm clock” of Leila screaming for cigarettes, Maryam and I visited the much-improved toilets, listened to name after name being announced by the guard, and watched as one woman after another left the cell block. After a while, she and I were the only two prisoners left. The place had been filled with chatter and commotion and people; now it was eerily silent. As we were about to return to our room to rest, we heard the guard call our names.

“Maryam Rostampour and Marziyeh Amirizadeh?”

“Yes?”

“It’s time to prepare yourselves for court.”

We were led to an inspection room where Sayeh was already waiting. The guard handcuffed the three of us together, with Sayeh in the middle, and took us up the stairs. The sunlight almost blinded us as we walked out the door toward the police car. We hadn’t seen the sun since we’d been in Vozara. It was beautiful and felt so good on our faces. What a relief from the chill of the detention center! We couldn’t take in the fresh air fast enough—what a blessing it was to be out in the world again, if only for a moment.

We heard our names and looked around. My sister, Elena, and Maryam’s sister, Shirin, were running toward us. What an incredible joy it was to see them! The guards warned us to ignore them and keep moving; instead, we ignored the guards and threw ourselves into our sisters’ arms, awkwardly hugging them despite our handcuffs, and weeping with joy and relief. They were shocked at how hungry, pale, and dirty we looked. “Are you being tortured? Are you being tortured?” they asked over and over. We assured them
we were not. We told them in a whisper about a supply of New Testaments the police hadn’t found yet and asked them to hide them for us. They said they would, then handed us some chocolate and fruit juice. It looked and smelled so wonderful!

“You’re not allowed to have that!” the guard barked at us. “That is not allowed.”

We were so hungry we could almost taste the delicious treats in our hands.

“Into the car!” the guard ordered.

We handed the treats back to our sisters, gave them one last hug, and along with Sayeh, struggled into the backseat. The guard rode up front with the soldier who was driving. Both of them held their noses all the way to the courthouse.

After delivering Sayeh to the Family Court, Maryam and I went on to the Revolutionary Court, a huge brick building that is famous in Tehran. We came in through a back door, where prisoners enter so the public can’t see them, then into a small room where guards searched us. We were led through a courtyard and through another door. Inside, the Revolutionary Court was a maze of rooms, long corridors, and elevators. Still handcuffed together, we walked upstairs to a waiting area outside Enghelab Court, Branch 2, of the Security Police. The ladies who had been arrested at the bakery with the We Are flash mob were there with their families and were happy to see us. They wanted to introduce us to their children and relatives. Our guard warned us to sit still.

“This place is covered with surveillance cameras,” she said. “If you are caught talking, it will cause problems.”

We exchanged brief greetings with the ladies and then sat down.

Next to us were two handsome young men in suits. They heard us talking to a couple of lawyers in the room about our charges and started asking questions.

“Why have you been arrested?”

“Because we are Christians,” I said.

“Really!” one of the men exclaimed. “What a charge! They have no mercy on anybody. How did they know you were Christians? Were you involved in any church activities?”

At that moment, our guard told the man with all the questions to stand up. She then took his seat next to Maryam, leaned over to us, and said quietly, “These are plainclothes secret police, the
basiji
. They are trying to collect damaging information about you.” This guard from Vozara had sympathy for us and was trying to protect us.

A group of men came in, some walking only with difficulty. They had been arrested with the women at the bakery and badly beaten by the
basiji
. The
basiji
who had hit them were the two handsome young men talking to us.

The ladies went into the courtroom, declared their innocence, and told the judge they wanted to file complaints against the
basiji
. The judge replied that if they would not file any complaints, he would release them on bail. If they insisted on pressing charges, they would stay locked up. The ladies were so relieved at the prospect of being released that they agreed to the deal. However, as so often happens in Iranian courts, the charges were not officially dropped. Once the bail was paid, the women were free to go, but the charges against them remained on the books indefinitely, in case the government wanted to pressure them in the future.

Every judge in the Revolutionary Court has a large, impressive office. We were called into the office of a fat, pompous man with a dark beard. He was Mr. Sobhani, the judge for the Revolutionary Court who had received our case from Mr. Rasti at police headquarters. He had a red mark on his forehead that devout Muslims get when they pray for long periods with a prayer stone pressed against their brow. However, I could tell that, like others we knew, he had heated the stone before using it. That made a red mark right away, displaying his devout status without all that time-consuming prayer. He wore a huge ring inscribed with verses from the Koran. On the wall were photos of Iranian soldiers fighting and dying, some of them covered with blood. There were photos of Ayatollah Khomeini, who had seized power from the Shah in 1979, and Ayatollah Khamenei, the current supreme leader of Iran. Some of the pictures looked to be of Sobhani himself. The courtroom was a monument to martyrs for Islam. The judge wrote out a list of questions for each of us and ordered us to write the answers without talking to each other. They were the same questions we had already answered many times, and our answers were practically identical:

We continued on to the end, and then signed and fingerprinted our answers.

Back in the car, as the driver navigated the heavy noontime traffic, I assumed we were returning to the detention center. Instead, we were taken to the Gisha police station and soon found ourselves face-to-face again with our old friend Mr. Rasti.