Prisoner of Tehran: A Memoir (No Series) (20 page)

“My mother cried with joy and prayed for you as she sewed this. We’re very proud of you.”

I wished I could feel the same.

At the visitation, I told my parents about my conversion. I didn’t expect them to ask me why I had converted, and they didn’t. No one dared question what happened in Evin. They stared at me and cried. I guessed they knew that an Evin prisoner was nobody’s son or daughter, husband or wife, mother or father; he or she was only a prisoner and nothing more.

Ali kept his promise and took me to the church a few days later. His friend Mohammad came with us, because, as Ali had told me, Mohammad had never been to a church and was curious to see one from the inside. Ali parked the car in front of the building. It hadn’t changed at all, but I felt like a complete stranger. I stepped out of the car and walked to the main door. It was locked. I went to the side door and rang the doorbell.

“Who is it?” called the priest, Father Martini, through the intercom.

My heart sank. “Marina,” I answered.

Rushed steps neared the door, and it opened. For a moment, Father Martini was frozen with shock and disbelief.

“Marina, I’m so happy to see you. Please…come in,” he finally said.

I followed him across the yard to the small office. Ali and Mohammad were behind us.

“Can I call her mother and Andre, one of her friends, to come and see her here?” Father Martini asked Ali.

Ali and I exchanged a glance. My heart almost stopped.

“Yes, you can,” he said and asked Mohammad to step outside with him.

Mohammad came back in after a moment, but I couldn’t see Ali. He was probably waiting in the car. I guessed he didn’t want to see Andre. Father Martini asked me how I was, and I told him I was fine. His eyes moved from me to Mohammad and vice versa. I realized how terrifying it was for him to have me there. I had never thought of the fear my presence would create. I knew I had not put the priests in danger, but they had no way of knowing this. I expected to feel happy and safe here, but now I could see that my happiness and safety had died the day I was arrested.

Both my mother and Andre arrived within minutes. How I wished I could tell them the whole story, but I knew I might never be able to do that. Was it even possible to put so much pain into words? I had come to say good-bye. That was the only right thing to do. I had to give them and myself a chance to heal and forget. I had to close the doors on the past.

My mother wore a large navy scarf, which covered her hair, a black Islamic manteau, and black pants. She embraced me and wouldn’t let go. I could feel her ribs under my fingers; she had lost weight and, as always, smelled of cigarettes.

“You all right?” she whispered in my ear.

Her hands carefully moved around my back and arms; she was trying to make sure I was not missing any limbs. I finally stepped away from her, and her eyes examined me from head to toe, but because of my black chador, there wasn’t much of me she could see; only my face was visible.

“Mom, I’m okay,” I said, smiling.

She managed a forced smile.

“Where did you get the chador?” she asked.

I told her a friend had given it to me.

“You know that Marina has converted to Islam, right?” Mohammad’s deep voice filled the room.

“Yes,” my mother and Father Martini said together. My mother opened her purse, took out a tissue paper, and wiped her tears.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” asked Andre, looking at me and then at Mohammad.

“I’m fine.” I had so much to say but couldn’t think.

Andre had seen the struggle in my eyes.

“What is it?” he asked.

Words were lost deep inside me. The last few months of my life had created a circle of pain and confusion around me, holding me captive, not only within the walls of Evin, but inside myself. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

“When are you coming home?” Andre asked.

“Never,” I whispered.

“I’ll wait for you,” he said and smiled with conviction. The look in his eyes told me that regardless of everything, he loved me. I didn’t need to say another word. I knew that even if I begged him to forget me, he wouldn’t. When someone waits for you, it means there is hope. He was my life the way it had been before Evin, and I had to hang on to him to survive. Silent tears falling down my face, I turned around and walked out. Mohammad and I stepped in the car, and Ali drove away but pulled over after a few minutes.

“Why have you pulled over?” I asked.

“I’ve never seen you this pale.”

“I’m fine. Thank you for bringing me. You didn’t have to let them come and see me. I’m grateful. I know it wasn’t easy for you.”

“You’ve forgotten that I love you.”

“I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Yes, you do,” he said.

O
N OUR WEDDING DAY
July 23, 1982, after the morning
namaz,
Ali picked me up at my solitary cell at 209, where I had spent about a month without having any contact with other prisoners. I hadn’t slept the night before. My fear was my savior; it paralyzed my thoughts and left me numb. I sat in a corner, staring at my small, barred window, at the way its gray metal lines cut the dark-blue vastness beyond them into small, flat rectangles. I had always loved early mornings when light slowly filled the darkness of the night. A deep blue creeping into the blackness of the sky, like rain seeping into the body of the desert. But from here, this beauty seemed unreal.

Ali softly knocked on the door. With trembling hands, I put on my chador and stood up. Looking straight into my eyes, he came in and closed the door behind him. I looked down.

“You won’t regret this,” he said, stepping closer to me. “Did you sleep last night?”

“No.”

“Neither did I. Are you ready?”

I nodded.

We drove to his parents’ in silence. As soon as we arrived, Ali and his father left the house. His mother hugged and kissed me, insisting that I should have a good breakfast. I wasn’t hungry, but she wouldn’t have any of that. I followed her to the kitchen. She made me sit down and broke a few eggs over a frying pan. Unlike my mother’s kitchen, hers was spacious and bright. The large stainless-steel samovar hummed gently, filling the uncomfortable silence.

“Family and friends all wanted to come to the wedding,” she said after a couple of minutes. “I have three sisters and two brothers, and they all have children. Most of them are married and have children of their own. Mr. Moosavi has three brothers and a sister, who also have children and so on. There are also aunts, uncles, cousins, and family friends. They were very disappointed to hear that no one was invited to Ali’s wedding. But we explained, and most of them understood and sent you their best wishes. As soon as you and Ali are ready, I’ll invite them here to meet you.”

She had spoken slowly and had paused a few times, trying to choose her words carefully.

Uncomfortable silence again. The wooden spoon scraping against the frying pan.

“I know you’re scared.” Ali’s mother sighed, still standing in front of the stove with her back to me. “I remember the day I married Mr. Moosavi. I was younger than you are now. It was an arranged marriage, and I was terrified. Ali has told me that you’re very brave, and from what I’ve heard and seen, I know you are. But I also know that today, you’re scared, and you have every right to be, especially without your family by your side. But let me tell you that Ali is a good man. He’s very much like his father.”

When she turned around, we were both crying. She came to me, held my head to her chest, and stroked my hair. I had not been comforted like this since my grandmother’s death. Then we sat together and had some scrambled eggs. She explained that it was traditional for me—the bride-to-be—to take a long bath, and she also mentioned that she was expecting the
bandandaz,
who was a close friend of hers, to arrive in about two hours. I had not taken a bath in months, only quick showers. I remembered the bath I never had a chance to take on the night of my arrest.

Before showing me to the bathroom, she took me to one of the bedrooms that had been cleared for the
sofreh-yeh aghd,
which means “the cloth of marriage”: A silky white tablecloth was spread on the floor, and in the middle of it was a large mirror in a silver frame, on either side of which stood a large crystal candleholder holding a white candle, and in front of the mirror, there was a copy of the Koran. Silver platters filled with sweets and fruits covered the rest of the tablecloth. I knew it was customary for the mullah to perform the marriage ceremony with the bride and groom sitting by the
sofreh-yeh aghd.

In the bathroom, the expensive ceramic tiles gleamed. I filled the tub and soaked in the steaming water. Although it was summertime, I had felt cold all morning. As the intoxicating warmth surrounded me, my tightened muscles began to relax. I closed my eyes. God had given me a lifesaving ability: I could usually switch off my thoughts when they were too much to bear. I was not going to think about what was going to happen that night.

A while later, when the water had started to cool down, there was a gentle knock on the bathroom door, and Akram told me that the
bandandaz,
Shirin Khanoom, had arrived. “You don’t need your
hejab.
The men are still out and won’t be back until late afternoon,” she added. I dressed and stepped out of the bathroom. In Akram’s old bedroom, a large woman was spreading a white bed sheet on the floor. As soon as I entered the room, her eyes moved up and down my body.

“Beautiful girl,” she said, nodding in approval. “Too thin, though. Fatemeh Khanoom, you’ll have to feed her. She’ll look even better with fuller curves.” She came up to me, put a finger under my chin and examined my face. “Nice skin. Her eyebrows need a little bit of work, though.”

“Akram and I will be in the kitchen if you need anything,” Ali’s mother said to Shirin Khanoom and smiled at me as she and Akram left the room.

Sitting down on the sheet, Shirin Khanoom said, “Well dear, I’m ready. Take off your clothes and come sit in front of me.”

I didn’t move.

“What are you waiting for? Come on,” she laughed. “There’s no need to be shy. This needs to get done. You want to look your best for your husband, don’t you?”

No, I don’t, I thought but didn’t say anything.

Shivering, I slowly took off my clothes, sat on the sheet, and folded my knees to my chest. Shirin Khanoom told me to stretch out my legs. I obeyed. She took a long piece of string, spun one end of it around her fingers a few times, held the other end between her teeth, and bending over my legs, moved the string in a scissors-like manner and at an amazing speed to remove the hair. It was painful. Once finished, she told me to take a cold shower. After the shower, she braided my hair, which was almost to my waist, and gathered it in a bun behind my head.

At noon, the voice of the
moazzen
traveled through the neighborhood from the mosque, inviting the faithful to prepare for the second
namaz
of the day. We performed the ritual of
vozoo,
the washing of hands, arms, and feet, and when finished, I stepped out of the bathroom to find Ali’s mother waiting for me, holding a white silky bundle in her hands. She handed it to me: a beautiful prayer rug she had made herself. I felt enveloped by her kindness.

Ali’s parents had a
namaz
room. Except for the thick Persian rugs that covered its floor, the room was completely bare. There, facing Mecca, each of us unrolled our prayer rug and stood on it for prayer; mine was delicately embroidered with silver and gold threads and beads. Ali’s mother must have spent hours making it.

After the prayer, Akram set the dining table with the best china, and we sat for a lunch of eggplant and beef stew with rice. I managed to swallow some. We had tea after lunch, and as I was sipping my tea, I noticed that Ali’s mother was looking at me thoughtfully, as if she had something important to say but didn’t know where to start. I looked down.

“Marina, there’s something about Ali, I’m not sure if you know,” she finally said. “Has he told you that he was a prisoner in Evin during the time of the shah?”

I was shocked. “No, he’s never told me.”

“SAVAK—the shah’s secret police—arrested him about three years and three months before the revolution. I was devastated,” she said. “I didn’t think he’d survive. He was very dedicated to the imam and hated the shah and his corrupt government. I was expecting them to arrest Mr. Moosavi, too, but they didn’t. But Ali was gone. I knew he was being tortured. We went to Evin and asked to see him, but for three months they didn’t let us. When we were finally allowed a visit, he looked terribly thin and frail. My beautiful, strong son.”

Tears slowly fell down Fatemeh Khanoom’s face. “They released him about three months before the success of the revolution. They hadn’t told us they were letting him go. That day, I was right here in the kitchen when I heard the doorbell. It was a cloudy fall day, and the yard was covered with leaves. I ran to the door and asked, Who is it? There was no answer. And I knew it was him. I don’t know how, but I knew. I opened the door, and there he was. He smiled and embraced me and we couldn’t let go. He felt so thin. I could feel his bones under my fingers. And his smile was different. It was weighed down and sad. I knew he’d seen terrible things. I knew the sadness in his eyes was there to stay. He went right back to his life, but he had changed. The pain he carried with him never completely went away. Sometimes, I heard him walk around the house all night. Then, a few months ago, he came home from work one day, packed a bag, and went to the front to fight the Iraqis. Just like that without any explanation. I was shocked. This wasn’t like him. Don’t get me wrong; his going to the front didn’t surprise me; he’d been to the front before, but the timing was strange. I knew something had happened, but he didn’t tell me what it was. And for the four months he was away, I hardly ever slept. Finally one day, they called and told us that he’d been shot in the leg and was in the hospital. I thanked God a million times. When I went to see him, he smiled at me like the old times, like the little boy he used to be, and told me that something wonderful had happened to him. I first thought he’d lost his mind.”

So Ali had been a prisoner in Evin and had been tortured. Maybe this was one of the reasons why after I was lashed and he took me to the solitary cell, he asked me if I needed something to help with the pain and he arranged for the doctor to come and see me. Maybe he had done this because he had suffered just like me.

After the revolution, he wanted revenge, so he began working in Evin. During the first few months after the revolution, most Evin prisoners were former SAVAK agents, and he had his chance to get even with them. An eye for an eye. They weren’t only enemies of Islam, they were his personal enemies. But things changed. Those who had fought alongside him during the time of the shah, the Mojahedin and the Fadayian, were now being arrested. I was sure that at the beginning it wasn’t too difficult for him to justify their arrests; his former cell mates and their followers had become the enemies of the Islamic state, and as Khomeini had put it, they were the enemies of God and His prophet, Mohammad. Ali had been raised a devout Muslim, and he would follow his imam to the death, but he probably began to see that what was now being done in Evin in the name of Islam was wrong. However, because of his devotion to his religion, he had difficulty accepting this truth and didn’t know how to deal with it. His faith had blinded him, but, maybe because of his personal experience, he would sometimes see the situation from the perspective of the prisoners. And his parents were proud of him for being in the front line of the battle against the enemies of Islam. For them, his being an interrogator was one of the most honorable things a Muslim could do. For them, all that happened in Evin after the revolution was completely justified; they were protecting their way of life and their values. After all, they believed this was a war between good and evil.

After we cleared the table, Ali’s mother asked me if I knew how to cook.

“I do, but not as good as you and Akram. I’ve learned from cookbooks. My mother didn’t like having me in the kitchen.”

“Would you like to help us with dinner? We have to start right away. Agha—the mullah—will be here at five o’clock, and we’ll eat after the wedding.”

I helped them around the kitchen. Akram and I diced and sautéed onions, fresh parsley, chives, and other herbs. Ali’s mother chopped the beef and boiled the long-grain rice. She had already marinated chicken pieces in a mixture of yogurt, egg yolks, and saffron. We made some
khoresh-eh ghormeh sabzi
—a beef and herb stew—and
tachin
—a mixture of chicken, rice, yogurt, egg yolks, and saffron.

Mr. Moosavi, Ali, and Akram’s husband, Massood, came home at about four o’clock. Ali’s mother pushed me into the bathroom, saying I had to take another shower because I smelled of onions.

After the shower, I put on the white Islamic manteau, large white scarf, white pants, and the white chador Ali’s mother had left for me on the bed. Soon, there was a knock on the bedroom door.

“Marina, it’s time,” Akram called.

I opened the door and stepped out without giving myself time to think. Ali was already sitting by the
sofreh-yeh aghd.
I sat next to him, wondering if anyone had noticed how badly I was shaking. The mullah entered the room. He chanted a few sentences in Arabic, which I would have been able to understand if I could concentrate. Then, he asked me in Persian, “Fatemeh
khanoom-eh
Moradi-Bakht, are you ready to take Seyed Ali-eh Moosavi as your wedded husband?”

I knew it was customary for the bride not to answer this question the first time it was asked. The mullah was to wait for an answer and, not receiving one, repeat the question twice more. I said yes the very first time. I just wanted to get done with it.

After dinner, Ali and I drove to the house he had bought for us. He took my left hand, which had been resting on my lap, and held it tight until we arrived. This was the first time he had touched me like this.