Captive in Iran (9 page)

“I am Iranian, but my family heritage is Armenian,” she said. “I went to Armenia about a year ago to work for International Research and Exchange, an American charity. I helped offer Iranian experts in mother-and-child health care the opportunity to travel to the United States and consult with their counterparts there. I often traveled back to Iran to meet with Iranian applicants for the program. I was introduced to Drs. Arash and Kamiar Alaei, widely known for their work on AIDS and international health.

“My last visit ran far longer than I expected. In June 2008, the security
police came to my apartment in Tehran and took me to a hotel for questioning. They told me they had been following me for months, recording every move with a security camera. I didn’t think they had any problem with my work. In fact, the Iranian government had invited IREX employees to Iran a few years earlier, though this was during the era of the reformist president, Khatami.

“After spending the rest of the day answering questions, I asked the police if I could attend a friend’s wedding later in the evening. ‘You’re not going anywhere for some time,’ they replied. So that night, instead of celebrating with my friend, I was brought here to Evin Prison.”

She went through intense interrogation the first few days and was kept in solitary confinement. “They demanded I confess things that weren’t true. For example, they wanted me to say that the Alaei brothers were leading the programs I was handling at IREX. But it wasn’t true and I refused to say it.”

Three weeks ago, she had been transferred to Ward 2 and was now very happy to meet two Christian girls. Her story won us over; we believed her.

Throughout the evening, the loudspeaker announced the names of people who were being set free. By 10:30, the bed above Mommy’s was vacant. Knowing that Marziyeh’s back had been bothering her for some time, I took a spot on the floor so she would have a better chance to get some sleep in the bunk. Around that time, the lights were turned off, except for a small spotlight in each cell, though the individual rooms were not locked.

After midnight, a group of
mujahideen
women were released, which freed up some additional bunks in our room.

“You’re lucky,” one of the women told me as I climbed into a newly vacated bed. “Most people have to sleep on the floor for the first week or so.” After sleeping on the floor at Vozara for the past fourteen days, even a thin and dirty mattress in Evin Prison felt like a cloud.

I woke up to the sound of yelling. For an instant, I had a flashback to our first days at Vozara, when Leila welcomed the morning by screaming for a cigarette. But now it was Mrs. Imani—a young, thin, jumpy woman who
read the Koran and fingered her worry beads for hours at a time—screaming over use of the telephone. Each inmate was allowed to use the phone once a day. Established prisoners received more minutes than new arrivals, and those with longer sentences got more time than the rest. Prisoners could sell their time to other inmates, usually for snacks from the commissary. Mrs. Imani spent every moment possible on the phone every day, trading for some of the time, badgering inmates out of more, and simply taking it whenever she saw a chance. Whenever a phone was available, she wanted to put it to good use.

Marziyeh and I had breakfast with Mommy. We noticed that others in the room steered clear of her and that she kept to herself. We felt sorry for her. Because she had a hard time walking, we washed her dishes for her and helped her to the toilet. With six toilets and sinks for more than one hundred women, the wait to use the facilities was often long, especially for an elderly woman who could barely stand.

Later that morning, we had a long talk with Sanaz, the woman imprisoned for her brother’s bad check. Being separated from her children during the holidays was very hard for her. “I don’t know why God doesn’t solve my problem,” she said dejectedly.

“Maybe God is using this to prepare you for something better,” Marziyeh suggested. “Instead of complaining, ask for wisdom to understand what He is trying to teach you. Leave your problems to God. Perhaps God wants to give you a great gift and has put you here because it was the only way to get your attention.”

Sanaz thought for a moment. “Maybe you’re right. I always pray only for God to solve my problems, never for the sake of honoring Him. From now on, I will ask God to show me the truth. Thank you.” From that moment, our friendship with Sanaz grew closer every day.

As time for the New Year’s celebration approached, we went back to our room, where a crowd was gathered around a small TV set waiting for the festivities to begin. The spring equinox, March 20 or 21 depending on the year, is the first day of Nowruz, the Persian New Year. The actual moment comes when the sun crosses the equator. When the announcer said the new year had arrived, we all cheered and congratulated each other. For many, it was a bittersweet moment as they clutched photos of their children and
families on the outside. It’s hard to celebrate when a prison wall separates you from the people you love.

Many inmates tried to observe the Nowruz tradition of Haft Seen, setting the New Year’s banquet table with seven items beginning with the Farsi letter
s
, symbolizing the various parts of creation: a mirror, representing the sky; an apple, representing the earth; candles, representing fire; rose water, representing water; grain, representing plants; goldfish, representing animals; painted eggs, representing humankind and fertility. Of course, no one had most of these things, so they substituted, say, a hairpin bent into the shape of a stalk of grain, or a picture of a goldfish cut out of the newspaper. Inmates displayed their Haft Seen, one per room, in little piles on the floor or on the beds. It was a way to connect with the outside world and memories of happier days.

As the commotion marking the moment of Nowruz died away, I noticed Mrs. Mahjoob crying quietly on her bed. Not knowing what troubled her, I asked, “Could we pray for you to find peace in your heart?”

“Yes, please.”

As Mrs. Mahjoob cried, we prayed—not loudly, but not hiding what we were doing. Gradually, the women around us stopped their conversations to listen. By the time we finished, nearly the entire room was silent. Someone called out, “Your heart is pure and God will listen to your voice. Will you pray for me, too?”

Evin Prison, the dreaded hellhole of Tehran and symbol of radical Islamic oppression, had become our church.

And so we prayed on.

Marziyeh

Of the six rooms on our floor, Room 3 was the only private room. Mommy’s description of the distasteful character who lived there only reinforced our impression that Mommy was quite the gossip. She was eager to share personal tidbits about everyone, but the resident in Room 3 triggered a reaction like no other inmate. We had seen this woman during the Nowruz celebration, when everyone was going from room to room wishing each other Happy New Year. She was immense, weighing at least four hundred pounds, and was so fat she could scarcely walk.

Mommy told us the woman’s name was Soraya and that she had been in prison for eight years on fraud charges.

“She thinks she owns the place,” Mommy sniffed.

Everybody was afraid of Soraya. Because of her size, she could not get on and off the toilet, so instead she used one of the showers to relieve herself. One shower of the six was for her exclusive use, and she put a sign up to make sure no one invaded her private territory. She had a long list of medical problems and took a big handful of pills every day. She was allowed to take extra food from the kitchen, which she gobbled loudly as everyone else made do with their scarce rations.

Just before dinnertime on New Year’s Day, Mrs. Mahjoob came into our room holding a beautiful little boy in her arms. I couldn’t believe the sight of this child in a dirty, overcrowded prison. At first, I assumed he belonged to one of the guards or someone in the warden’s office. Mrs. Mahjoob explained that Room 4 of Ward 2 was for prisoners who were mothers of young children. The children lived in the cell with them. This boy, whose name was Armin, was two years old and had beautiful fair skin. Maryam and I went with Mrs. Mahjoob to Room 4 to meet the boy’s mother, a very tall, slender Afghan woman, imprisoned on drug charges. I could tell she tried to be a good mother behind bars, because her son and his clothes were so clean. Staying clean was almost impossible, and her success was proof of how hard she worked to make his life better. She said she had six other children living on their own in Tehran. The oldest, a girl of sixteen, was taking care of the others.

While in Room 4, we met some of the other mothers and their children. One boy, Aboubakr, had the biggest, most beautiful brown eyes imaginable and lots of blond hair. His mother was another tall Afghan, locked away on drug charges. She was depressed because soon her son would be taken from her. Children could live in the prison only until they were three years old; after that, they were separated from their mothers by the authorities and sent to an orphanage if no other family members were available.

Hamid was the child of his mother and her lover. When the woman’s husband learned she was pregnant, he attacked her. She stabbed him to death in self-defense and was sentenced to life in prison for murder.

Hapal was a beautiful but pale and frail-looking little girl who was always dirty. Her hair was a matted mess and her face and clothes were covered with grime. She had been born in prison. Though she was at least two years old, her mother still breast-fed her, smoking cigarettes as she did so. The mother was as dirty as Hapal was and had only a few yellow or blackened teeth remaining. She was a drug addict who, like several other inmates, earned pocket money and extra food by cleaning the toilets in Ward 2.

Though Armin was the favorite child of all the women because he was so beautiful, Maryam and I were drawn to Hapal and even made up a pet name for her. She was delighted to get attention from us, and soon would
come running into our arms whenever she saw us. Her mother seemed grateful for the attention we gave her daughter.

Like every other rule at Evin, the rule about mothers with children living in Room 4 was not strictly observed. A curly-headed girl named Kasra was the daughter of a woman who lived downstairs, where the cells were darker, dirtier, and thick with cigarette smoke. Kasra was the pet of the women’s prison warden, Mrs. Rezaei, and was the only child she showed any affection.

Kasra’s mother was a beautiful, aggressive lesbian, whose young lover, Vida, was known as “the jail child” because she had been born in prison and had lived most of her life there. Vida had no family on the outside, so every time she was released, she committed a crime in order to return to the only real home she’d ever known. She had black hair and a dark complexion. Her face, chest, and arms were covered with scars from knife fights.

These two were known as bullies in Ward 2. They spoke openly about their relationship and had regular sexual encounters in their room, despite the security cameras. Before the cameras were installed, lesbian assaults and rapes had been commonplace, so most of the women welcomed their presence, even at the cost of constant surveillance.

Though outright violence was under control at Evin, homosexuality remained a powerful and ever-present force. Since we had first come into the Vozara Detention Center, we’d seen lesbian behavior in some form every day and felt the tension it brought to a roomful of women locked up together. The situation at Evin Prison was as bad or worse—taunting words, suggestive movements, and open expressions of physical love were so common that they were taken for granted.

Another well-known couple were Reza and Arash, boyish-looking girls with short haircuts to match their male names. They had been in prison for two years on drug charges and lived downstairs. During the holidays, Maryam and I went downstairs to exercise in the little courtyard, where we mixed with the Ward 2 prisoners from the lower floor. The outdoor space was paved with rough stones and had high walls so that all we could see was a square of the sky. There were a few pieces of broken-down exercise
equipment in one corner, just for show. One lone tree added a touch of life and greenery to the scene, but during our stay in Evin the guards made one of the prisoners cut it down.

One of the long-term inmates was able to borrow a CD player so we could have music for dancing. Some of the women were excellent dancers, especially Reza and Arash, who danced like professionals and took it as seriously as if they were in a competition. They were both rough-looking characters, with knife marks and broken bones in their faces. Their hands were sliced with so many scars that they looked like zebra skin.

At first, we hesitated to talk with strangers during our breaks outside because we didn’t know who might be spying for the regime or who might try to hurt us. And since we didn’t see the women from downstairs at any other time, it took us longer to feel comfortable around them. After a few days, we gradually started mingling with them and began looking for a chance to start a conversation with Reza or Arash.

One day, we saw Arash trying to wash her clothes in a bucket, holding the hose in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

“Do you need some help?” Maryam asked.

“Yes, pretty woman,” Arash answered in an unusual accent. At close range, we could see that she had only a few blackened teeth left and that her face and neck were completely covered with scars. Maryam held the hose so she could wash. We asked her name.

“My real name is Maryam,” Arash said.

“That’s my name too,” Maryam said with surprise. “My friend and I are in prison for our belief in Jesus. I have been a Christian for eleven years.”

Arash looked up from her laundry. “That means you are an apostate and you will be executed. Why did you do this?”

Maryam explained how she had come to know Jesus and read the Bible, and how she had learned that Jesus is the Savior of the world and was crucified for our sins.

Arash looked surprised. “What do you mean He died for our sins? Does that mean we’re no longer sinners?”

“If you believe that Jesus died on the cross for your salvation, then for the sake of His blood you are forgiven in the eyes of the Lord,” I said.

Arash’s eyes widened. “What a wonderful thing He has done, then!”
she exclaimed. “I always liked the Christians. I’ve never seen any benefit in Islam. I was married at twenty to a drug addict who beat me. He made me an addict and our daughter, too. She’s eleven. I miss her so much!”

Women who saw us talking to Arash warned us to stay away from her because anyone who had a conversation with her was suspected of being a lesbian. Clearly, this was a topic about which we still had a lot to learn.

Samaneh and Sima, both in prison on murder charges, were the most notorious couple at Evin. I saw Sima for the first time during a break when she came into the courtyard to dance to the music. She looked nothing like anyone else I had seen behind bars. She had creamy white skin and straight blonde hair that fell to her waist. She wore expensive, stylish clothes, including very tall high heels. Her dancing was incredible, with her long hair flying and her beautiful legs visible beneath her skirt.

Her case had been a big story on TV and in the newspapers when she was arrested eight years before. I remembered it well. Who would have ever thought I would be standing beside her in prison? She was a glamorous young woman who fell in love with a national sports celebrity. They began an affair, even though the man was married with children. He and Sima established a
sigheh
, a temporary marriage contract under Islamic law, which allowed them to have sex, because Islam permits men to have up to four wives. A
sigheh
can be as short as one hour, and is very convenient for turning a session with a prostitute into a legal Islamic marriage, or an affair into a legitimate relationship. Of course, the man’s wife has no say in the matter.

According to the rumors flying around her case, Sima killed her lover’s wife when the lover was out of town. Sima, it was said, sneaked into their house with a key he had given her, waited in the basement for the children to leave for school, and stabbed the wife to death. Sima denied the charges and was still fighting them after eight years in prison. During that time, her celebrity and personality had made her the most powerful inmate—the boss of bosses—in the women’s prison at Evin. The years had also turned her into someone who would do anything to satisfy herself and stay on favorable terms with the prison officials. She had become an open, aggressive lesbian. Other prisoners hated her because she treated them so scornfully and because she turned them in for rules violations in order to enhance her position with the staff. They could hardly wait for her to be executed.

When she was in charge of frisking prisoners for drugs, some inmates said she took the job to extremes, putting her finger inside their bodies or making them relieve themselves in front of her to ensure there were no drugs hidden in the most private of places. If she found drugs, she always turned the person in. At least two women had been executed after she set them up. This made her a favorite with the warden, and Sima hoped it would extend her stay of execution. It was very sad to see how life in prison had made her willing to do anything to survive, even sending other women to their death. Maryam and I were trying to bring these same women to life.

I used to think of murderers as evil, heartless monsters with the faces of demons. Sima had a beautiful face, even after eight years behind bars. She had been a poor, beautiful girl swept up into the life of a wealthy, successful, famous man who already had a wife and children. Under Islamic law, he could legally satisfy his lust with her. If she did murder the man’s wife, it was a terrible crime. But what made the crime possible? A law that allows men unlimited freedom to play out their sexual fantasies with women who are nothing but toys to them.

For every hard-hearted prisoner like Sima, there were many who were kind and friendly to us. Arezoo was a widow with two children, who claimed she was falsely accused of stealing jewelry. She was offered bail, but the only way she could get the money was if her mother mortgaged her apartment, which she refused to do. Arezoo had been locked up for two years. Her best friend was Rozita, who looked very young, although she already had three children. Rozita had been in prison for three months. She told us she had signed checks for the steel company where she worked, not knowing the checks were worthless. After creditors accused her of being an accomplice in an embezzlement scheme, she was sent to Evin.