Letters to My Torturer: Love, Revolution, and Imprisonment in Iran (17 page)

We were the first and perhaps the last Iranian journalists to visit Pul-e Charkhi Prison. Mansour was caught up with asking his questions and I left the office and found myself at the end of the sort of corridor I had only seen in films. I walked down the corridor. A worn blanket was hanging in front of a hole that was lower than the height of an average person. When I pushed the blanket aside I could see a crowd of people seated around a lantern, huddled in black blankets.

A small metal window at the far end of the corridor opened onto a dusty, round courtyard. Cats were running about the courtyard. A rat was moving up the wall and there was a dreadful stench of human defecation.

I returned to the office, feeling unwell. Mansour had finished his interview. We asked to see Amin’s ministers. A young Parchami officer left the office and returned a few minutes later, followed by the twelve former ministers who were being held on suspicion of being American spies. They entered one by one and sat down. They all wore traditional Afghan clothing, were very young and very clean. They reminded me of the young men in the Party’s youth organization.

Dark tea was served in delicate glasses. One by one they picked up the glasses, looking at each other in astonishment until the prison director introduced us. When they heard that the Party had sent me, they became extremely happy and animated. Some of them walked up and kissed me on the cheeks.

We spoke with them for two hours. They had no idea what had happened to them. They said that they had been arrested out of the blue and brought to prison. They had assumed that the Americans had launched a coup. When we told them that the Soviets had arrived and that Babrak Karmal had become president they shouted in astonishment. When they heard that the charge raised against them was that of spying for America, they became seriously agitated. With the intensity of very traditional Afghans, they all protested that they were communists, believed in the Soviet Union, and were enemies of America. The farewell scene was sorrowful, as one by one they kissed me on the cheek, embraced me and told me to deliver their messages to comrades Kianuri and Tabari and tell them that they were not spies.

I had no idea that within three years, the bearer of their heartfelt messages would not only “confess” to spying for the Soviets but also for the British.

Years later, when I visited the famous San Quentin Prison in San Francisco, I realized that prisons represent a nation’s emotional state. San Quentin was a thousand times more gruesome than the prisons I had known in Iran. A regimented, iron prison. Violent, heartless and resistant to any influence. In the Afghan prison, with its chains and humidity, the violence had a primitive quality that you expected to be ultimately overcome by humanity.

The final meeting was with Babrak Karmal in Muhammad Zaher Shah’s palace. I had seen many of the world’s great palaces from the outside. And on the day after the revolution I had been inside the palace of the last Iranian Shah’s sister, which was on the outskirts of Tehran. In contrast, Zaher Shah’s palace was very unimpressive.

Our car stopped in the courtyard, in the shade of some Russian tanks. The chief of the palace security, who was also one of the young Parchami officers, came to receive us. We walked up the stairs and entered the hall. After we introduced ourselves, the young officer acted just like the rest of them: he embraced me tightly, kissed me on the cheeks and shook Mansour’s hand. He asked us to walk upstairs. I asked him: “Why aren’t you searching us?”

He said: “How can I search Tudeh comrades? I’d be embarrassed.”

I argued: “This is not right. You ought to search everyone.”

Mansour said: “But I have nothing to do with Tudeh.”

The officer responded: “Yes, but still, you are Iranian, comrade.”

Mansour said: “I am not your comrade, man.”

Eventually we were given a half-hearted search. Karmal came out to receive us while we were walking up the stairs. He was wearing a grey-coloured suit, looking chic and tidy, like a proper Party leader. The kissing on the cheeks routine was repeated once again. The president of Afghanistan waited until we had entered his office – a large sun-filled hall –before seating himself behind his desk. Mansour conducted his interview. After the interview we drank tea and
talked. Babrak Karmal was very hopeful. I told him about the jailed ministers and added that I was going to deliver their message to the comrades in the Party leadership.

He asked: “What is your opinion?”

“In my view,” I replied, “they are Khalqis but they are not agents of the West. They are radical communists.”

“What should I do?” he asked.

“Release them, quietly,” I suggested.

He went into deep thought and then sent a very warm message to the Party leadership. We kissed each other on the cheeks and separated. When I returned to Iran, I heard that Hafizullah Amin’s ministers had been quietly released and sent to Moscow.

Three years later, while writing yet another draft of this story as a “confession”, I kept putting a swear word next to Karmal’s name. But whatever he was, he was a man deserving of respect. When his government fell, he returned to the Soviet Union via the same mountains through which he had come, and in Moscow he drank himself to death in the bitterness of exile.

The following day, we were at Kabul Airport, waiting to board a plane to Moscow. Mansour wanted to interview the Soviet foreign minister Andrei Gromyko and I was not disinclined to visit the Soviet Union myself.

While we were waiting, a man with the appearance of a Turkman approached us. He spoke Farsi fluently but with a strong accent. He said he had been sent by the Soviet comrades to receive us and gave us each an envelope. We asked: “What’s this?”

He said: “The cost of your trip.”

We both returned the envelopes. Mansour said: “My newspaper has paid for my trip.”

And I said: “The Party has paid for me.”

Astonished, he took the envelopes, gave us a cold handshake and left. On the way, we kept joking – we nearly ended up being in the pay of the KGB.

The room and I have been left alone. I pull up my blindfold. I put on my glasses. I stand up. I pace. I stare at the cream-coloured walls. I am all ears for the door, for who might be coming. I hear the sound of doors closing. A telephone is ringing in the distance. The windows have frosted over. It is getting cold, slowly, gradually. As if the central heating has been switched off. I pace. I try to keep myself warm. The air is getting colder. I knock on the door. There is no answer. Again I pace. I knock harder. There is no answer. I am out of breath. My teeth are hurting, especially that damn molar. When I walk, I feel a sharp pain in my feet, which are wrapped in thin fabric. The shooting pain in my left shoulder has become unbearable. It’s getting colder and colder. I sit on the chair and draw my legs up to my chest, hoping to fall asleep. Pressure on my bladder wakes me up with jolt. I try to open the door. Useless. I think of relieving myself in the corner of the room. I don’t know whether there are specific rules about peeing in an interrogation room. It dawns on me that I am hungry. How long has it been since I last ate? I don’t know. I am getting colder inch by inch. My whole body is aching. The hunger, my burning bladder, the feel of urine, is driving me mad. I am sleepy. The only solution is to knock on the door. A solution that is no solution. A solution that has no answer. I don’t know whether it lasts one night or a thousand. I collapse in a corner.

I see my wife in a nightmare; she is running around Toopkhaneh Square in Tehran shouting: “He’s frozen! He’s frozen!”

I wake to the sound of voices. Doors are opened and closed. The sound of life returns. I bang on the door. There is no answer. I want to run outside and stand under the sun, but I have been tied to something. I bang harder. I yell. And suddenly something hits the door. I jump up with a start. A voice is saying: “Put on your blindfold.”

The order to put on my blindfold is the best news for me. I do it with the last of my energy. The door opens and I hear the sound of boots. Two people grab me and drag me along. They take me down
the stairs like a sheep’s carcass. They drag me across the courtyard. My instinct says that we are heading in the direction of the room downstairs. My brain has still not yet registered this when my hands are handcuffed. I yell out. They shove a piece of cloth into my mouth. They tie my legs with a rope. The marks of that rope are still on my ankles. They throw me face down on the bed and leave.

I turn and twist and each movement multiplies the pain a thousand times. The pressure of the handcuffs has added to all my other pains. I force myself to breathe through my nose. I am suffocating. Then, I don’t know when, I descend into blackness. I open my eyes when they unlock the handcuffs. I hear your voice, which is sounding terribly gentle: “I have been to visit Mr Montazeri.
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I had such a great desire to see the Aqa that I completely forgot about you, little lion. The brothers brought you here by mistake. Good job I am back.”

You help me stand up. You shake my hands, making sure my muscles don’t go stiff. Gently you take me to the room upstairs and you say: “Have a rest until they bring you food.”

And you leave. I take off the blindfold. They have thrown two blankets next to the heater. Without hesitation, I stretch myself out on one of the blankets. I press myself against the heater. I pull a blanket over myself.

My eyelids immediately begin to droop. The pleasure of sleep has not quite washed over me when a spasm makes me jump. I begin to shiver violently. I am aching from my brain to the tip of my toes. My whole body has dissolved into pain and the molar tooth is going on and off like a red traffic light. My body starts to fit. I try to stand up and collapse in a heap on the floor. I try with all my strength to control the shaking, but I can’t. Someone has obviously been watching me from behind the door; he rushes in and grabs my hands, trying to still my thrashing body, but he is not strong enough. He leaves. I lie like that, jerking on the floor. Then I start to yell. I hear a voice: “Shut up, useless wimp.”

It’s you, Brother Hamid. For a moment, the fear makes me go quiet and I look for my blindfold. You are shouting: “This is just a show. He has been trained in all this.”

I can’t stay silent. I yell again. Then I throw up. I throw up blood mixed with yellow liquid. I am in the middle of Toopkhaneh Square. I am trying to get myself home, running and running. I am telling my wife: “I have been freed. Everything has been a lie. A nightmare.”

Then I stretch myself out and my wife starts massaging my feet. Why is she crying? Why is she wearing black? I plead: “Wife, let me die ...”

She says: “No, no. You must live.”

And I slowly open my eyes. It is pitch dark. I am in a place like a hospital. My feet are tied to the bed. An intravenous drip is attached to my hand. And again, I descend into darkness.

When I return to my senses, I am back in my cell. It takes a while before I recall what happened. The cell light is off. So it must be day. I am cold. The shivering begins again. My whole body is aching. I sit up with difficulty. My need for the bathroom is horrific. I stand up with difficulty. My head is spinning. I touch the wall for balance. I manage to pull out the IV line. My hands have swollen and are aching badly. I try to look out through the hole in the cardboard. I bang on the door. The shepherd guard arrives immediately. He gently grasps me under my arms and lays me back down on the bed. He goes out and comes back with a bowl filled with warm water.

“Rub your hands and feet.”

I look down. The bandages have been removed. Warm water – what pleasure. I rub my feet. The shepherd guard is squatting beside me: “Why are they doing this to you?”

I have no idea. I shake my head.

“Bathroom ...”

“You are not allowed to leave your cell. Do your business here. You know how.”

The shepherd guard laughs and leaves. I do my business into the bowl. I am all ears for the door. I fear you might turn up, Brother Hamid. But no. There’s nothing. I push the bowl aside and stretch out.

There is the sound of knocking from the left wall, behind which is cell number fourteen. Someone is doing Morse code. I am not familiar with Morse code. Randomly, I knock on the wall. Again, there’s an answering knock in Morse code. Again, I knock on the wall, willy-nilly.

Who’s in that cell? What does he want to say?

During the Shah’s time, when the prisoners used Morse code, they also kept an ear out for the guard. The knocking is bound to be heard in the silence of the block. But no guard comes. Then there is silence. I don’t know how much time passes before I hear the shuffling of slippers and I jump up with the speed of lightning. You are coming for me, Brother Hamid. But no, the door to the next cell opens. I hear whispers. I force myself to stand up. I go to the door; I place my ear against the door. I can’t hear anything. I try to adjust the cardboard on the door and then I notice that there are some tiny holes in it. I put on my glasses. I look through the holes and see you, for the first time, Brother Hamid. How young you are and how thin. You have made the prisoner in cell fourteen lean against the wall. He is blindfolded. You don’t even reach his shoulders. He is saying something and you are listening. And this image stays with me for eternity. I turn away and stretch myself out on the bed.

The sound of shuffling slippers arrives later that night. The door opens. It’s your voice: “Get out!”

I first put on the blindfold. You grab me under my arm and help me reach the bathroom. You tell me to leave the door open. You also help me back to my cell. When the door closes, I find a piece of screwed-up paper on the floor. I open it. It’s a tiny instruction grid for Morse code. The light is still on. I hear the sound of tapping on the cell wall. I work out the meaning from the grid:

C ... o ... m ... r ... a ... d ... e

Comrade in resistance ...

Had I not seen you with the cellmate next door, the phrase would have meant something very different to me. But I realize that this is another way of extracting information. That night, I remain silent. The next day I respond in Morse. I have no secrets; I say what I have already said in the interrogation. Two days later, when someone else is put into that cell, the Morse code stops. Much later, I see the report of the Morse code episode in an envelope in my file.