Letters to My Torturer: Love, Revolution, and Imprisonment in Iran (6 page)

Our reporter has discovered that the spies who have been arrested by the Revolutionary Guards Corps had links with the KGB espionage network. According to this report, a well-known figure by the name of Nurrudin Kianuri, who was the First Secretary of the Tudeh Party, is among the individuals who have been spying on behalf of foreigners.

The newspaper is dated 6 February 1983.

I don’t know whether the newspaper has been left there on purpose or by accident. I re-read the report. The guard is knocking on the door. I throw the paper down. The guard takes me back to the
blanket. A bowl of dried-up food and a piece of stale bread is awaiting me.

I swallow the food with difficulty. My thoughts are scattered in every direction. I keep wondering where my wife is.

Words are entering my mind, as if hitting me. “Useless wimp. Dirty limericks. Spy. I’ll crack open your mouth.” I still can’t work out if there has been an American coup or we have been imprisoned by our own “allies”. I sense that someone is watching me. I lift my head. The round opening on the iron door is open and a pair of eyes is staring at me. As soon as I return the gaze, the cardboard opening shuts again. A thud. The door opens. A large scruffy head appears. A weathered, wrinkled face, thick hair. A voice with a strong Turkish accent asks:

“You are eating, right?”

“Yes, Haj Aqa.”
¹⁷

“Have you performed your prayers yet?”

I don’t respond. I realized that he was going to become my prayer instructor. He was going to teach me how to prostrate myself before God’s throne. He was going to tell me about Islamic justice. He was going to explain to me why peeing while standing up is a serious sin. Thud. The door closes again. I am still busy, wolfing down the food with peculiar enthusiasm, when the door opens again. I’m reminded of an earlier imprisonment during the Shah’s time when I shared a cell with Ayatollah Khamenei, now Iran’s supreme leader and onetime president, and we used to give nicknames to the prison guards. I now give nicknames to the prison guards of his government. This one is going to be “God’s father” because he obviously doubts the Muslim credentials of God himself. He asks: “Which one is Houshang?”

“I am.”

“Are you Houshang?”

For a moment, I doubt myself. Maybe there is someone else in the cell. I automatically look around me. Then I say: “Yes, that’s me.”

“Put on your blindfold and follow me.”

I put on the blindfold and put my glasses in my shirt pocket.

“Take this.”

An object hits my hand. I grab it. It’s a stick; the guard is holding the other end. This is to prevent him from touching me and so “polluting” himself. He sets off, taking me along the usual route. He asks me out of the blue: “Why did you call yourself Houshang?”

“I didn’t call myself Houshang. My parents named me, Haj Aqa.”

“Why didn’t you call yourself Muhammad
¹⁸
or Ali
¹⁹
?”

“I am not the one who’s responsible for my name.”

“Have you got any qualifications?”

“Yes, Haj Aqa. Journalism.”

“Why haven’t you studied the Qur’an? Or
The Way of Eloquence
?”
²⁰

I answer: “I have read it, Haj Aqa. But my professional training is in journalism.”

“Did you study in a newspaper office?”

“No Haj Aqa. I went to university.”

“Why didn’t you go to a mosque?”

My feet have completely frozen during the short walk through the courtyard. Door. Stair. Right turn. Door. That same room.

“Sit down until your interrogator arrives.”

I sit down, facing the wall. I remove the blindfold and put on my glasses. I’m used to flossing my teeth after lunch, a long-established habit. My teeth are in desperate need of flossing. My ears are listening out for you. Sounds are coming from a distance. A telephone is ringing somewhere. There’s no sound of the pigeon. The sound of shuffling approaches and moments later, I am blindfolded and facing the wall and you, Brother Hamid, are standing behind me. You hit my head with the pile of interrogation papers.

“Gobbled up your food? Lift the blindfold, useless wimp!”

I lift the blindfold. You place the papers in front of me. You have drawn thick red lines under large sections of my report. Or maybe it’s
the others who drew the lines, your colleagues, who also read my words with fascination and attention.

“Your handwriting is so unintelligible that we couldn’t decipher it. And you call yourself educated?”

“My handwriting is bad, has always been bad.”

I have not yet begun to address you by name. Later on, I get used to calling you Brother Hamid. By the way, do they still call you Brother Hamid or have you got a new name these days? Are they calling you Your Excellency, the Ambassador? Or Respected Brother Sarmadi? I have no idea.

You ask me questions about each and every word that has been underlined in red and I answer. Then you say: “Pay attention.”

You are standing behind me. You must be watching me, I who am seated, blindfolded, and rubbing my feet to warm them up.

“Start with the really important information.”

Your breath reeks of onion. I remember the lunch: spinach stew. You suddenly kick the back of my ankle sharply with the tip of your foot. You enjoy this. Slowly, gradually, you are getting yourself warmed up for the beating session to come. The palms of your hands must be twitching. You leave, and I pick up the papers and quickly look over what I have written. I pick up the pen and carry on.

I was attending secondary school. It was 1962, during the summer holidays. We were playing football on the dusty grounds of the neighbourhood when one of the local boys turned up, dressed in a bloodstained cloak, his clothes torn to shreds. He told us that the people downtown had rebelled against the Shah and the police had attacked them. I still vividly remember the boy’s account, like the memory of a film. We gathered around him and begged him to give us all the gory details.

He was older than us and we looked up to him, so we all wanted to go with him when he offered to take us to see what was happening. He took us to a house, and we went into a large room, with a
spiritual atmosphere. Clerics were leaning against the wall and one was seated in the middle of the room. Other people entered the room and kissed the hand of the one sitting in the middle. We proceeded to do that too. Years later I would realize that the cleric’s name was Ayatollah Khomeini, and that he had been exiled shortly after that day.

And now, the same Ayatollah whose hand I had kissed all those years ago had become the leader of the revolution and I, his prisoner, was laboriously writing out my answers in an interrogation conducted by one of his many anonymous soldiers.

This was not my first arrest. My first arrest took place when I refused to stand up when the royal anthem
²¹
was being played in the cinema. A famous Buñuel film was showing. I was arrested that night but released the following day.

I was twenty-four when I was arrested for the second time. As in many parts of the world, developed and developing, Iran in the 1970s was burning with the fever of freedom struggles, of counterculture and social revolution. Two armed factions, one Marxist and the other Muslim, took to the streets, engaging the Shah’s police and secret service in sporadic gun battles.

I had recently left university and gone straight to work at
Kayhan
, then one of Iran’s largest circulation newspapers. Along with a small group of university friends, intellectuals, idealists, and many of my colleagues at
Kayhan
, I supported the Marxists with their dreams of social justice.

My call-up papers for national service had come not long after I had started working at the paper, and I carried on working as the weekend night-shift editor-in-chief while doing my military service. As a graduate, I served as a duty officer with the navy in the north of Iran, based in the Caspian Sea. This is a lake, but it is so large they call it a sea. Sea, rain and marshland. When the boats set off on the water, they slipped past the waterlilies before stopping beside the little
wooden bars on the beach. The sharp alcohol would burn the throat; fish with garlic would be served on little, brightly decorated plates, and the dreamy night seemed to have no end. I would leave when the fishermen arrived before dawn to start preparing their boats. I was returning home, drunk, when I was arrested in the early hours of the morning and shipped off to the south of Iran. One of my leftist friends had just been arrested and had grassed on everyone else.

The preliminary court hearing, conducted by military judges, sentenced me to six months in prison. A week later, I was summoned from my cell, and taken out to the yard where I found the prisoners’ families standing on one side, and the prisoners on the other; they communicated by shouting. There I saw my father, standing and holding a bag of grapes. As soon as I arrived he shouted to me: “I’ll see you in Tehran in two weeks.”

I tried to question him but that is all he said. He gave the grapes to the prison guard and left. Astonished, I had just returned to my cell when my name was called up again. I went to the prison office. They had arranged a second court hearing for the coming week. I was astounded. Usually, it took two or three months before one was summoned to a second hearing. When I reached the block, the other prisoners were amending our strike declaration. We had arranged to refuse food starting that evening. Our motive was that the night before, one of the prisoners had approached a very young political prisoner with the intention of raping him. After sorting the guy out, the other political prisoners demanded that the offender be removed from their block. The prison officials had refused, giving us the perfect excuse for a hunger strike. Each of us was supposed to say that he had taken the decision by himself and that his decision had nothing to do with the rest so that the police would not be able to treat the situation as a collective strike.

When evening arrived, we did exactly that. We rejected the meal, boiled eggs and potatoes. An hour later, my name was announced over the loudspeaker. I left the cell. I was met by a soldier and a bunch
of Under the Eight prison guards. They asked me about the cause of the strike, and I gave them the answer we had agreed. The soldier signalled with his hand and one of the prison guards took my wrist and dragged me off. We left the block through the main door. He opened one of the “oven” cells in the courtyard and threw me in. These solitary cells were built behind the prison oven and were horribly hot. I squirmed in that terrible, hellish heat. I couldn’t see any openings in the cell and I had no idea how there could be any air at all in there. I was thinking about my father’s words, about the following day, my second hearing. Before long I fell into unconsciousness.

By the time the door opened and they pulled me out half alive, the sun had already set and the strike had ended. A week later, I went back to court. I was handcuffed, squatting next to the wall in the prison courtyard when an officer arrived and stood in front of me. I didn’t stand up. We were not supposed to respect government officials. He asked my name, I answered. The officer squatted in front of me and said, in an authoritarian manner: “Asadi, if you dare say a single word in court, I’ll fuck your sister.”

I froze. Who was he? Why was he saying this? I was thinking about these questions when the soldier who was in charge of accompanying me arrived and called my name. I stood up and walked behind him into the courthouse. As usual, the court went through all the accusations and requested punishment. The defence lawyer, whom I saw there for the first and last time, said similar things but towards the end, he requested that the charge be dropped on the grounds of ignorance and youthfulness. The court’s head called me up and asked: “Do you have anything to say?”

I answered: “No.”

And sat down. This meant that I was confirming my defence lawyer’s words. We left the courthouse. I walked outside and sat down again. A bit later, the same officer turned up. This time I stood up for him. He whispered into my ear: “You acted smart. Give my regards to Mahmud.”

Mahmud is my father’s name. When I returned to Tehran, I realized that my father, who used to come and visit me, had by chance happened to end up in the same train compartment as a former classmate who, in turn, had taken my father to his home one night. There, my father realized that the man was not only an army officer, but the head of the army’s appeals’ court. So my father told him about the incident. The following day, the officer studied the file and said: “If your son remains silent in court, I can manage to get him out.”

The officer had not yet left when the soldier in charge of accompanying me reappeared. He unlocked the handcuffs and said: “You’ve been offered an amnesty.”

I returned to prison and my fellow prisoners gathered around me joyfully. They sorted me out with a shirt and a pair of trousers. One of them gave me his only pair of jeans. Another one his short-sleeved white shirt. The money for my fare to Tehran was taken from the communal budget.

It was usual for the prisoners to line up in the block’s corridor and for the person about to leave to kiss them on their cheeks one by one. Messages for the outside world had already been exchanged. When the door opened, the guys would clap and shout: “Hurray!” I left in that heightened emotional atmosphere. Most of those I left behind were released either prior to the revolution or during it. However, many of them were later rearrested and hanged by the Islamic Republic. Many others have ended up like me, in exile.

I found myself on the streets of Ahvaz just as the sun was setting. I bought a sandwich and went to the cinema. The film
Papillon
was showing. I’ve always remembered the final scene. Steve McQueen and Dustin Hoffman have to jump into the sea in order to escape Devil’s Island where stormy waves perpetually break against the rocks.

The cowardly Dustin Hoffman stays put while Steve McQueen jumps into the sea. The film finishes with McQueen shouting at the prison guards: “Hey you bastards, I’m still here!”