Letters to My Torturer: Love, Revolution, and Imprisonment in Iran (32 page)

Have intercourse on Monday nights, for if a child is created, he will be able to recite the Qur’an from memory and would be content with the fate as chosen for him by God.

If you have intercourse on a Thursday night and a child is created, he would become a Shari’a judge or a scholar. And if you have intercourse on a Thursday around noon, and a child is created, Satan will never approach him and God will make him healthy physically and mentally.

If you have intercourse on a Thursday night and a child is created, he’ll become a famous sage, and if you have intercourse on Friday night after the Isha’a prayer,
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there is hope that he will become one of God’s chosen ones.

Do not have intercourse in the first hour of the night or else, if a child is created, you cannot be sure that he’s not a magician, forsaking the hereafter for the sake of worldly power.

Eventually, the time would come when all the most favourable conditions were met. The excited young man, who had been waiting impatiently for the night’s adventures, would be intensely aroused and keen to progress affairs quickly. When Iqbal got to this point in his story, he would hold his stomach with his hand and laugh out loud and then say: “When I entered, Zahra pulled away and protested: ‘You forgot to say “In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful”.’”

“So I quickly learned that at the moment of entering, I had to say ‘In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful’ or else my child would be considered an offspring of Satan’s. It made me laugh so much that I nearly lost my erection. But I quickly collected myself.”

Iqbal had become used to all this, and despite the complications, gave Moonface two children. At the time of his arrest, one of them was nearly a year old, the second was still inside Moonface.

One day, security officials turned up and arrested him at work inside the loan office. During the interrogation, he realized that his younger brother had also been arrested. Iqbal never found out who had grassed on him. His coming to Tehran and his method of hiding had made the interrogators even more curious, putting him under intense pressure to confess. One day, they called him up. He went and returned that night. They had taken him to the family court. The fair Moonface had asked the court to divorce her from this heretic.
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The judge had obliged. The woman had screamed in the courtroom: “I hate this bastard.”

And Iqbal became an unmarried man.

In the daytime, he would walk around reciting sections of
The Ornament of the Righteous
from memory. He used to say: “That book was seriously in demand in the prison. Initially, they were pleased that a canonical work of Shi’ism had so many readers in a prison full of communists. Later on, when they realized that prisoners were only interested in the book’s sexual content, they took it away.”

Eventually, Iqbal was taken away. I don’t know what happened to him. He himself believed that they were about to release him. We embraced each other to say goodbye.

While I was writing this book, it occurred to me to read
The Ornament of the Righteous
again. When I got hold of the postrevolutionary edition of the book, I realized that the relevant section had been censored. Eventually, I found a pre-revolutionary edition
in the house of a veteran communist. The book’s pages were loose. I found the passages that Iqbal used to recite from memory. I wrote them down and the memory of those days made me laugh.

On the last day of autumn, a guard turns up and says: “Collect all your belongings.”

The phrase is filled with possible meanings: transfer to another prison, freedom, execution. I gather up all my belongings, which fit into a small plastic bag. I sit down on the blankets and stare at the walls and the door. My heart is heavy. I am being let out of that solitary confinement cell after exactly 682 days. This could be the longest, or at least one of the longest, solitary confinement sentences ordered by the Islamic Republic. I have become so used to cell number fifteen that the thought of leaving it makes me sad. I discover the truth of the phrase: “One even gets used to one’s own grave.”

I follow the guard up the stairs. When we reach the second floor, he pulls aside a curtain and sends me inside. I take off my blindfold.

A group of people are waiting there expectantly, wondering who this newcomer will be. They are all part of the Party’s leadership and close friends of mine. We embrace each other. We cry and we laugh.

I am now in an ordinary block, number 107. The block has its own bathroom and toilet. It’s comfortable, relatively spacious and sunny. The doorway, which opens into a round room, has a curtain instead of an iron door.

All of the men have undergone intensive, prolonged torture. They have all confessed to spying and have accepted the charge of participating in the coup.

We have a TV set and newspapers in the block. After 682 days, my eyes light up at the sight of coloured images and being allowed to touch a newspaper. The Iran-Iraq war is fully underway and the media is full of propaganda.

We perform our prayers. It’s a scene from a horrific decade of sheer terror but we are still in its very beginning. We do our ablution collectively. Hussein leads the prayers. We all queue behind him. The block had been jam-packed with various leftist prisoners before my arrival. Most of them were Tudeh Party members who’d been arrested during the second clampdown in 1983. They all used to queue up behind Hussein for prayers. But now, it’s only us, the Party’s leadership. I am one of the youngest and the least experienced of them. The others have lengthy prison terms behind them from the Shah’s time. They had been involved in hijacking planes; they had lived in secret locations and had fought an armed struggle. And now, they are standing, praying to a God they do not believe in. Torture has broken them.

No one says a word. There’s no need for talking. Whatever is going through my mind is also going through their minds. Sometimes, when we bow down longer than necessary, I see a mischievous smile appear on Rashid’s lips. Back then, we used to be close friends. I guess he’s grinning at his own life and at what’s happened to us. Later, when we meet up again in freedom, I remind him of that smile and he says: “Yes, I was laughing. It made me laugh to watch how fear had made us lift our arses to bow down to God.”

When the prayer finishes, we return to our real selves. Back to what we used to be. None of us is older than forty years of age. There’s still mischief in us and sometimes our loud laughter fills the air. We both know and don’t know what is awaiting us. No one has been to court yet. We have all lied, confessing to all sorts of things. We’ve all been accused of being KGB spies but I am the only one who has the honour of being accused of spying for Savak as well as the British Secret Intelligence Service, MI6.

The first news I hear once released from solitary confinement is of Rahman’s death. Rahman’s departure means that the Party as I knew it, the Party that was Rahman Hatefi, is now finished, and in fact has
been gone for years. The news of Rahman’s death – Rahman who had influenced my entire political life for better or worse – was the final, missing piece that I needed to construct my new beliefs. I was myself again. I returned to myself. A human being who no longer followed a leader and was no longer a member of any party. But a man who loved justice and believed that love was the source of life.

Evin Prison was the largest torture centre holding political prisoners in Iran. During the Islamic regime, Tehran’s gangsters and hoodlums, who had been appointed as prison guards and executioners, put into practice court orders issued by Haqqani’s Taliban-style madrasa. Much later, in the summer of 1988, thousands of political prisoners, men and women, young and old, were hanged from the pipes of the prison’s heating system.

Ayatollah Khomeini said, “Prisons should be places of learning.” And the Shah’s prisons, which had been closed for a while, were rapidly reopened and extended. Moshtarek Prison specialized in leftwing groups. Solitary confinement and sleeping on blankets with our eyes blindfolded were part of our early lessons. Then came the lashing, handcuffs, eating shit and sleeping in coffins. The lessons were taught by the experienced experts of the Revolutionary Guards Corps. When they had done their work we were handed over to the experts of Evin Prison.

My twenty-first letter is a goodbye letter from Moshtarek Prison, Brother Hamid. I have spent around two and a half years in this place. After exactly 869 days, I have been released from your service. As you know very well, I have spent 682 of these days in a solitary confinement cell. I am now leaving for Evin with your blessing, so I can complete my studies at the Islamic Republic’s “university”.

In late June 1985, they call us up. We are ready at lightning speed. They make us run and board a minibus, which sets off immediately. We are blindfolded. A while later, they order us to take off our blindfolds and put them into our pockets.

Suddenly we could see the roads of Tehran. Life was carrying on. No one was paying attention to this minibus full of people dressed in blue uniforms and guarded by the Revolutionary Guards Corps. Watching ordinary life, the streets and the people, was intensely pleasant after such a long time spent in a prison cell. We were moving in the direction of the mountains to the north of the city and it was obvious that we were on our way to Evin. When we started to move down the street leading to Evin and reached Peech-e Tobah,
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they ordered us to put our blindfolds back on.

The original owner of this delightful garden was the aristocratic offspring of a dynastic clan who had served as prime minister during some perilous times. He set up the garden in one of Tehran’s most beautiful summer pastures, where the twin villages of Evin and Darakeh are situated. During his lifetime, which he spent facing anger and scorn, he sold the garden to Savak. Were he to come back to life and see the way his garden had been invaded by hoodlums, he would certainly have died of another heart attack.

Assadollah Lajevardi, originally a clothes merchant from Tehran’s bazaars, who presided over the first Islamic court and transformed himself into a serious torturer, was the head of Evin Prison. He ran a special training system there, which ended, in 1988, with the shedding of the blood of thousands of prisoners. The prison system is still intact. The judges, who were under the tutelage of Hujjatul Islam Nayeri, the chief justice of the time, completed the picture. The majority of them belonged to Haqqani’s circle,
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in other words, they were Taliban, though Taliban with Iranian identity cards.

The “teaching” at Evin was just like that in Moshtarek, though lessons were also taught to members of religious groups, including Muslims, Jews, Armenians and Baha’is. The experts in charge of our tutelage were thugs from the roughest areas of Tehran. Lajevardi had brought the most violent gangsters in to Evin, and put them in charge of all prison affairs, from cooking to guarding the prison.

The transfer of prisoners carried on until about midnight. I was taken to one of the cells in the “sanitorium”, a less regimented section of the prison. This was a very large, L-shaped building that had been unfinished prior to the revolution, but Lajevardi had quickly completed it. The solitary confinement cells were the same shape as their Israeli counterparts and included a toilet and a wash basin. The uncompromising rule in this block was complete silence. The only sound that was permitted to break the silence was the screaming of prisoners being tortured in the interrogation rooms.

The sun shone through the high windows of the cells. If you bent over and someone stood on your back, they could see Melli University (now Beheshti) and the mountains to the north of Tehran through the window. We calculated the time according to the university lecture bells. Evin’s horrible food was pushed into the cell through an opening at the bottom of the cell door. We were allowed a five-minute wash once a week.

The corridors are filled with prisoners on the day I am taken for interrogation. A young prisoner who has only just been brought in, is being beaten, blows being rained on him with tremendous force. A young woman prisoner is crying and two little girls are running after each other calling: “Rana ...”

“Ziba ...”

So I realize Hussein Abi must also be here. How can I find him? I lift my hand and shout out: “Brother, bathroom.”

Someone hits me hard on my head: “Shut up.”

Then he makes me stand up and takes me with him. I take off my blindfold inside the interrogation room. A heavyset thug, who is so overweight he can hardly get up from his chair, places some questions in front of me. It’s the same old questions, though this time they have used letterheaded paper, and hence given it an official appearance. I write down the answers. I deny the accusations and write: “These confessions have been taken from me by force and are legally invalid.”

The interrogator reads my writing. He spits and says: “Fuck off, turd.”

A few days later, I am settled in. Accompanied by a guard, we walk past the pool and enter the “university”. This two storey building used to serve as Savak’s administration and relaxation centre. It’s located towards the rear of Evin, just at the foot of the mountains. Lajevardi has introduced some changes to the place, transforming it into a block where prisoners who had already been taught “general lessons” in the solitary confinement cells were sent to learn “special lessons”. The place of learning has a series of rooms called “closed doors”, where sixteen people are kept in a space intended for four. The only activity allowed is two hours per day in the fresh air. Everything else, even pencils or personal hygiene items are strictly banned here.