Captive in Iran (11 page)

“Do you think God will ever forgive me and welcome me back?”

“Absolutely! He has already paid the price for you. Besides, I don’t think you and your husband will ever prosper with this money. It won’t buy you happiness. Money that belongs to others will not bring you a better life. Without God’s love, all the money in the world will not make you happy.”

Mana asked for prayers for herself, her husband, and their family. As I prayed, Mana hugged me tightly and started to cry. “I feel so relaxed and peaceful,” she said. “Maybe this will help with my nightmares. I have a hard time sleeping, and when I do fall asleep, I have terrible nightmares.” That night, I prayed for hours that God would grant Mana solace and peace of mind and guide her in His path.

Late the next morning, Mana burst into our room so happy and excited. “Look!” she said, opening her hand to reveal a beautiful wooden cross. “I can’t believe this! Last night, I spoke to God for the first time and asked Him to show me the truth about Jesus Christ. Then, as I was lying in my bed this morning, a friend who knew nothing about my prayers handed me this cross and said, ‘Mana, I made this at the craft center and wanted to give it to you today.’

“I can’t believe God would answer my prayers so quickly with this wonderful gift! I know it’s a sign and that all your words about His love are true.”

Mana started coming in almost every day with exciting news about some other sign that God was listening to her. She started talking about how much she would like to have a Bible to read. She told me, “I believe what you said about seeking and finding a new path for my life. I want to see the Bible for myself and know God’s message firsthand.”

Though I had no way to give her a Bible, her request was another reminder of how easy it was to witness behind bars compared to the work we had done on the outside. Maryam and I didn’t have to look for prospects or sneak New Testaments into their mailboxes. We could talk to them openly, rather than hiding behind closed doors or in basements. Our fellow prisoners
were hungry for the truth. Desperate for it. The guilty ones felt the weight of sin for their crimes and believed Islam condemned them to punishment or death. They had lost all hope until they heard news of the true God. On the surface, the prison environment seemed to be a dead end. At the same time, the truth of Jesus, His love for sinners, and His atonement for their sins, was a miracle to these inmates, a balm for even the oldest and most painful wounds in their souls. Most of these women had lost all hope of salvation because of Islam’s depiction of God as a god of retribution and revenge, a god who demanded impossible standards and had no mercy on those who failed to achieve them. The realization that God is their Father and loves them unconditionally just as they are was a life-changing revelation. And because we were already in prison for promoting Christianity, we figured we might as well shout the good news of Jesus Christ from the rafters.

Not long afterward, as I was cleaning the floor under Mommy’s bed, I discovered a long-forgotten box of what looked like trash. I asked Mrs. Mahjoob if she knew whose it was. Mrs. Mahjoob said that some prisoner who was gone must have forgotten about it and left it, and I should just throw it away. As I carried the box to the trash, I looked through it, just in case. Even trash might have some value in prison. To my surprise, I found a pocket-size Gospel of Luke mixed in with the scraps and castoffs.

I quickly slipped it under the blanket on my bed. I could hardly wait to get to bed that night and start reading. When it was time for lights out, I retrieved the little book and opened the cover. On the flyleaf was an inscription and the signature of Archbishop Ramsey, the former archbishop of Canterbury and leader of the Anglican Church worldwide, who had evidently given it as a gift. What a treasure and miracle it was to find it!

It’s hard to describe the feeling of being able to read Scripture after being away from it for a month. Every page, every word, every letter was a blessing. A banquet for the starving soul. Maryam and I decided to share it with people who might be interested. First we loaned it to Mrs. Mahjoob. After she finished with it, we gave it to Mana. When she saw it, her eyes widened in shock and amazement.

“God has answered your prayers,” I said, handing it over. “Now you can read a portion of the authentic Bible you’ve always wanted.” As word got around, many, many prisoners wanted to read it. Before long, dozens of women had their first look at the true Christian Scriptures, reading the little volume signed by one of the most powerful men in the church, who had died more than twenty years before and whose little pocket Gospel had miraculously turned up under a bed in a women’s prison in the middle of Islamic Iran.

The holidays were coming to an end. The courts would soon reopen, and the little freedoms we had enjoyed would likely be curtailed. Often in the afternoons Maryam and I took walks in the courtyard or up and down the hallway with Shirin and Silva. On one of the last days of Nowruz, at sunset, we were looking up at the sky. To look at the sky from behind the high walls of a prison is like a stone weight on the heart. Sometimes, feeling the wind on our faces, we imagined we were the birds we saw flying so gracefully above, floating and free. We looked through the only window in the hallway at the one hill we could see in the distance and wondered what it would feel like to run barefoot along the ridge.

Shirin asked, “Do you think God is looking at us? Do you think He can see us at all?”

“Yes,” Maryam said, “I think He can see us.”

“Then why doesn’t He do something? Why is He silent in the face of so much injustice? Does He like the oppressors better than us?”

“I don’t know why He doesn’t do something,” Maryam said. “Maybe He does, but we can’t see it. I don’t know why He is silent. But I don’t believe His silence is forever. Sometimes God is silent, and sometimes He speaks.”

“I don’t understand this God of yours,” Shirin said. “What kind of God would see all these years of misery and hardship and do nothing to help us? Is He waiting until all the young people in Iran are killed, and then maybe He’ll do something?”

“I have many similar questions,” Maryam admitted, “but God hasn’t answered all of them yet. Even so, I am sure God loves His children more than you and I do.”

Sometimes the four of us sat in front of the hallway window, looking at our hill, the sky, and the birds, singing hymns. We envied the birds their
freedom, their ability to see the whole sky instead of the little square visible to us. As we watched, we took turns singing. Shirin’s Kurdish songs were beautiful and sad. She always asked us to sing the hymn with the words, “My heart is in Your hand. My life is filled with Your love. I am held by the world. You are my Savior.” When we sang, people who passed by the corridor would stop and listen. Now, as the holidays were coming to an end, we enjoyed our little ritual again.

After the songs were over, we talked some more as we looked out at the bright spring sky of a new year, the carefree birds, the distant mountains, and the billowing clouds above. And we thought of the presence of the one true and all-knowing Lord Jesus Christ listening, watching, and loving us.

MARYAM

On the thirteenth and final day of Nowruz, known as Sizdah Bedar, the prisoners were allowed to spend the whole day outside, visiting, dancing, drinking tea, and savoring the final hours before the normal prison routine resumed. Somebody borrowed a CD player from the office again, so that music filled the courtyard all day. Some couples danced like two women, some danced like two men, and others like a man and a woman. There were prisoners who danced beautifully with graceful, artistic moves, while others pulsed and gyrated to the pounding beat of hip-hop music. The lesbian girls kept eagle eyes on their partners. They flirted and teased, told dirty jokes, and kissed each other passionately without any concern for privacy.

The first day after the holidays, we were jolted awake at 5:00 a.m. by the scratchy sound of
azan
, the Muslim call to prayer, over a speaker that was so loud it rattled the windows. Everyone who wanted to be counted a good Muslim, which meant nearly everyone but Marziyeh and me, had to get up and bow in prayer toward Mecca. We stayed under our blankets, but our reprieve didn’t last long. At 6:30, a guard’s voice, badly distorted and incredibly loud, boomed over the loudspeaker, ordering everyone into
the courtyard. “Register time! Register time!” This was the mandatory headcount of all prisoners taken every morning and again at 7:00 p.m. every night. Though roll call had been neglected during Nowruz, it would now be part of our daily routine. Some prejudiced guards forced prisoners to pray
omalyajib
Islamic prayers. “Swear to God that Mohammed is the prophet of God,” they ordered. “Say your prayer ten times and God will answer.” We stood in the freezing cold for an hour waiting to be counted. At last, one of the guards and Mrs. Alipour, a prisoner who worked downstairs, came out to do the job.

The end of Nowruz also meant that the prison shop would reopen. Our sisters had set up an account for us so we could buy snacks and a few other small luxuries. We stood quietly in the queue. The moment the window opened, there was a mad dash as dozens of women scrambled to be first in line after two weeks without shopping. Others jumped in front of us, shoving and yelling. Soon they were pulling each other’s hair, screaming, and swearing. We backed farther away, saying, “Please go ahead.” It wasn’t worth it to fight for a spot. We could wait until tomorrow. We turned and started back toward the ward.

The only quiet place was at the very front of the line, where Soraya’s gigantic bulk nearly blocked the view of the window for everyone else. She was first, and for all the other squabbling and pushing, no one dared lay a hand on her. Seeing us retreating, she headed toward us, calling out, “You silly girls, why do you let others cut in line ahead of you?”

Before we could answer, she grabbed us, one with each hand, and led the way back, barreling through the swarm like a ship parting the sea, straight to the head of the line. “Here you go. Now do your shopping, my dear girls.” No one dared dispute her decision—including us.

The shopkeeper was a young woman who also worked in the office. She took one look through her little window at us—the Christian girls!—gave a sudden scowl, and said curtly, “The shop is closed!” sliding the panel shut in our faces. We waited for an hour until the window reopened, and then placed our order. But instead of handing us our items, the girl threw them through the window so that they either hit us or fell on the floor. Our natural impulse was to shout back at her or complain. Yet, we thought to ourselves, our little inconvenience and embarrassment was nothing com
pared with what Jesus endured for our sakes. We had no need to complain, though we surely had the right to. We knew we were there as part of God’s perfect plan to do His work. The incident tested us and reminded us of how hard it is to remain silent and Christlike in the face of even the smallest challenge. We prayed that God would always give us the power to forgive and a sense of compassion for everyone, even those who mistreated us.

For all the time and trouble it took to get it, the food from the shop was a terrible disappointment. We learned by trial and error which items were worth buying. The canned tuna and chicken were awful, supplied at inflated prices by one of the Mafia-like gangs that control much of the prison system. Most of the other snacks were no better. There were no dairy products or anything fresh, so there was little relief from the nasty prison food. The potato chips were good, and also the chocolate. We bought a supply of chocolate and the best snacks to give away to the poorest prisoners who couldn’t buy anything. We also gave a lot of items to the children, who, if they weren’t nursing, had nothing to eat but the disgusting prison food. Some of the mothers could never afford to buy their children anything. The kids loved the chocolate, cookies, and other treats, so we always tried to have some handy for them.

The cultural center, which had closed for the holidays, reopened. Many of the prisoners in our ward went back to bed for a couple of hours after roll call, then had their breakfast and went to the cultural center. Some took a snack lunch and stayed there all day. At first, we didn’t go, but passed the hours knitting, talking, walking in the courtyard, and doing exercises. When one of our friends suggested we go to the center, too, we decided to try it.

The cultural center was the cleanest, roomiest place we had seen since our arrest. There was a small sports hall with table tennis in one corner; a little library with a handful of brittle and worn-out books; a handcraft area for making pottery, dolls, and textiles; and a computer center with a few computers that were all turned off. There was also a class about the Koran. Other classes were scheduled, but some were listed just for show
and never actually held. The prison authorities portrayed the cultural center to the outside world as one of their strong points: a place where inmates got healthy exercise, expressed themselves artistically, and were instructed in the Muslim faith.

We took a look around to see which activities we’d like to register for. Marziyeh, who is a good table tennis player, started a game with another prisoner. When the woman in charge saw how well Marziyeh could play, she invited her to compete in an upcoming tournament. Meanwhile, I went to a woodworking class in the craft room and started a project. The teacher there asked me what I was making.

“It’s a cross,” I said, holding it up.

“Are you really here on charges of believing in Jesus Christ?” the teacher asked.

“Yes. My friend and I converted to Christianity and have been charged with acting against the state.”

“What’s wrong with Islam?”

After I shared my conversion story, I asked the teacher if she’d ever read the Bible.

“No,” she said. “I can’t find a copy anywhere. Is it in the bookshops?”

“No,” I answered. “You have to get it from a church.” I wrote down the name of a church and handed it to her.

“I hope you’ll register for this class,” the teacher said. “I’d like to talk with you some more.”

Marziyeh

The next day, I went to register Maryam and myself for classes. One of the women in the office asked me what the charges were against us.

“We are charged with following Jesus and promoting Christianity,” I said.

The head of the cultural center, Mrs. Ghanbari, overheard the exchange. “What?” she said with a note of surprise. “Since when is believing in Jesus Christ an offense?” She thought for a moment. “Maybe you should say you’re an apostate.” Believing in Christ was one thing; telling anyone else
about it was another matter entirely. Her tone turned suddenly angry. “Who let you into the center anyway?”

Her attitude shocked me. “Aren’t all prisoners allowed to use the cultural center, regardless of their charges?” I asked.

“Yes, but not those who have renounced their religion. In fact, hell-bound infidels like you must be executed!”

“I’ve done nothing wrong,” I declared. “I have no reason to be ashamed of my charges. In fact, I’m proud of them.” As I turned to go, I saw a quotation written on the wall: “Blessed are those who are rejected by their fellow human beings, but not by their God.” The Lord was speaking to me even then, reminding me of His love.

There are no secrets in prison. Soon everyone knew that Maryam and I had been denied access to the cultural center, and many were angry that we would be treated so unfairly. Our friend Silva wanted to help us, but she was waiting for parole, so we encouraged her not to stir up trouble with the authorities. When Mrs. Pari, the woman in charge of our room, went to the cultural center manager to speak for us, Mrs. Ghanbari angrily told her, “Those girls are apostates. They must be executed because their presence corrupts the others. At least they should be in solitary confinement.”

Hearing the word
executed
was startling. Could we really be executed? We hadn’t even seen the formal, written charges against us. After six weeks in custody, we had not yet been allowed to speak with a lawyer. From that time on, we heard that the Koran teacher talked about us often in class, criticizing and condemning us and our beliefs. On the other hand, our many friends in the ward became bolder about their friendships with us. “Come sit by us to eat your meal,” they would say. “We feel like being corrupted and unclean today,” or, “May God forgive us for sharing our food with these nasty Christians.”

Later, Mrs. Pari shared a secret with us: Her daughter was a Christian and attended a home church. The daughter had told her that our presence in prison was God’s message to her that she should convert. Mrs. Pari was more worried, though, about what would happen if her daughter were arrested.

“Should my daughter use the
taqiyya
?” Mrs. Pari asked. “Why don’t you use it and get out of here?” The
taqiyya
is an Islamic tradition that allows a lie of convenience in times of life-threatening danger.

Though we had sometimes shaded the truth since our arrest to protect our Christian friends, we would never deny our faith to save ourselves. “There’s no such thing in Christianity,” I said. “We don’t care if they kill us, because our faith is the most important thing in our lives. It’s more important than life itself.”

Mrs. Pari walked away with a troubled look.

When we were first arrested, all we could think about was getting out. Now, we were comfortable in the place where God had sent us. In the mornings, we knitted, exercised, and talked. In the afternoons, we invited everyone in Room 2 and our other friends in for tea and snacks and spent the whole afternoon in conversation. The most important topics were always prison conditions and the status of various inmates. Whoever had the latest news would share what she knew. With the courts back in session, new inmates arrived every day. We always invited them to our gathering and tried to make them feel welcome.

No visitors had been allowed at Evin Prison during the holidays. Now at last we would have the chance to see our sisters for the first time since we’d transferred from Vozara. Tuesday was visitors’ day. By law, each prisoner was allowed a noncontact visit every week, and one contact visit per month, when we could hug and touch our visitors. In practice, the head of the women’s prison, Mrs. Rezaei, and the prison staff reserved contact visits for their friends, and in exchange for bribes from other inmates. Contact visits were very important because they were an inmate’s only physical contact with the outside world, and it was when friends could smuggle in food, fresh clothing, and other contraband.