Captive in Iran (23 page)

MARYAM

Every so often, we had groups of official visitors at Evin Prison. Beforehand, the guards would nervously shout at us to clean our rooms, take down our clotheslines, put on our veils, and not eat anything to avoid dropping food on the floor. We had to sit silently on the floor while a herd of strangers walked through, looking at us like we were a museum exhibit or animals at the zoo. Sometimes they were government officials; other times they were foreign visitors or celebrities. They were always taken to the newest, cleanest parts of Evin, which meant that most of them didn’t come into Ward 2. Typically, they saw only the cultural center and Ward 3. Still, we had to sit on the floor wearing our veils for hours before a guard would come through shouting, “Finished! The veil is finished!” and that would be the end of it.

New prisoners kept pouring in, even after we thought our cells couldn’t
possibly hold another body. One new arrival was Zari, a former professional basketball player at least six feet tall, who had been arrested for fraud. Of course, we immediately nicknamed her “Little Zari.” Despite her size, she was a simple, sensitive, frightened lady. She had been married only two months and was afraid her husband would divorce her now that she had been arrested; his parents didn’t know about her situation, and she was worried what would happen when they found out.

Another new inmate was Shahla, who soon became friends with Shirin, Marziyeh, and me. Shahla was an amazingly happy person, always saying funny, nonsensical things and making jokes. She did hilarious imitations of the different guards, of soldiers marching, and of other people in the prison. She was even entertaining when she cried. She shed so many tears that she had to wipe her face with towels because tissues were soaked in no time.

We also welcomed Mrs. Yadolahi, who said she was a well-known news anchor on one of the satellite TV networks. She actually lived outside the country and had been arrested when she came to Iran to visit. She loved to dance and took it very seriously, closing her eyes and moving in wide, sweeping motions, running across the break area and assuming artistic poses with her hands reaching up to the sky or wrapped around her body.

So many women and girls came and went during our stay in Evin. For every one we’ve mentioned, there are many more whose stories should also be shared with the world. But it would take another whole book just to tell of their lives, courage, and sacrifice. We hope one day we will have the opportunity to write it in their honor.

From the earliest days of our imprisonment, we both had serious health problems. Marziyeh had a backache, sore throat, kidney problems, and infected teeth; I had headaches, a terrible earache, and stomach trouble. We were severely undernourished and had almost no exercise and not enough sunlight. At its best, the clinic was no help; sometimes it even made us sicker, and visiting the doctor was always a major ordeal because it required so much bureaucracy and waiting. We felt sick or in pain every day of our imprisonment. At one point, Marziyeh was in bed so much that the ladies
teased her with the nickname Sick Saint. Though we tried not to let our infirmities bother us, there were times when we hurt so bad that we had to go to the clinic again in hopes of getting some relief.

For me, one of those times came during the holy month of Ramadan, when devout Muslims must fast from sunup to sundown every day. The morning call to prayer, which had been at 5:00 a.m., was moved to 3:30 a.m., when it was still pitch black. Few prisoners observed the fast, but for the entire month, the meals were served only before dawn or after dark. We continued to avoid the smelly, chemical-laced prison food and bought canned food, jam, and cheese (which we could save for breakfast the next morning) from the shop. The canned food was always some horrible brand sold only in prisons.

Lesbian activity continued at a high level. The government secretly encouraged these relationships to help maintain control and to give the guards leverage: a threat to separate two lovers carried a lot of influence. Some guards themselves had lesbian encounters with the prisoners. This also seemed to be unofficially approved, because their behavior was visible to the security cameras. Relationships and tensions caused fights almost every day. Some altercations were so violent that the guards were afraid to enter the cells to stop them. When a lesbian mother got into a screaming, punching, hair-pulling fight, her children were terrified. Some of us would always try to move the children to a safer place until the fight was over.

I had never recovered from the terrible stomachache I’d had in 209 or from my burst eardrum. Stomach pains interrupted my sleep nearly every night. I made an appointment with Dr. Kashani, a slim, bad-tempered woman, to ask if my sister could bring me some vitamin tablets. When I arrived for my appointment, the doctor paid more attention to the papers on the desk in front of her than she did to me.

“So what’s wrong?” the doctor asked curtly. When I started to explain my problems, the doctor interrupted. “Make it short!”

I told her that the warden had said we could have vitamins in the prison with a doctor’s approval.

Dr. Kashani looked up. “What are the charges against you? Which other doctor has seen you?”

“I am in prison because of my belief in Christianity. Dr. Avesta and a few other doctors in Ward 209 have seen me.”

“Are you here for your belief in Christianity or for your conversion from Islam?”

“I converted to Christianity eleven years ago.”

Dr. Kashani looked back down at her desktop. She never examined me or even touched me. “About your ruptured eardrum, it will get better,” she said. “We can’t do anything for your stomach here because we don’t have any equipment. The issue of bringing vitamins into prison has nothing to do with Mrs. Rezaei. The clinic will decide on such matters. Your condition is not so serious as to need vitamins.” Then she yelled to the clerk through the doorway, “Next!”

Our health crisis took an even more dangerous turn when a prisoner came in with a case of swine flu. The crowded cells, poor air circulation, and terrible sanitation gave the virus perfect conditions for spreading. Before long, half the ward had the flu, including Marziyeh. She became so weak she couldn’t sit up in bed. The sound of coughing rang out up and down the halls day and night. None of the sick prisoners received any medicine or treatment. I was one of the few who were well enough to try to help the others. I bought milk and asked a friend who worked in the kitchen to warm it, then passed it among the flu victims. I also made tea and honey. That was all some of the women could eat; even those who usually ate the prison food couldn’t stomach it when they were this ill. Eventually, the epidemic passed. As far as we know, by the grace of God no one died.

One week melted into another as we waited in vain for some news of our case. Our lawyer, Mr. Soltani, who had seemed so capable and dedicated to defending our rights, was still in prison. We didn’t know when or if we would have a trial. No one seemed to know anything, and no one seemed accountable to anyone. We kept hearing conflicting reports—some
questioning whether we’d even broken a law, and others suggesting we would be condemned as apostates and executed.

Iran’s civil law specified that religion was a personal decision and that everyone was officially allowed to observe their religion openly. However, it was an offense punishable by death to convert from Islam or to induce someone to convert. To further confuse matters, the part of the national penal code calling for execution of apostates was currently in draft form and not officially approved by the Guardian Council, the Islamic elders who ran the country. Judges were directed to use their personal knowledge of Sharia law to decide matters that weren’t specifically covered in the penal code. So if a judge personally thought we were apostates, he could condemn us to death, whether the law was officially approved or not. Or he could keep delaying action on our case until the law was passed and execute us then.

We had to have a new lawyer and decided to try to get Mr. Aghasi, a famous lawyer in Iran. Our sisters met with him, and we talked with him by phone. He agreed to take our case, but as before, he had to get our written permission to represent us. With all the interference from the prison and the court, it had taken poor Mr. Soltani months of fruitless trips, calls, and cajoling to try to complete even that simple step.

Marziyeh asked the social worker at Evin exactly what the procedure was and who should be involved. She told us each to write a letter giving our permission, sign and fingerprint it, and give it to her. A social worker would pass it to Mr. Aghasi in the prisoners’ visiting hall. He couldn’t visit us to get the letters because without the letters he couldn’t visit us. (This, we later learned, is what Americans call a “catch-22.”) It wasn’t even clear if the court would let us have a lawyer. The “investigations” were still going on, and the intelligence ministry had still not given permission for us to be represented in court.

Also about this time, we had our first contact visit with our sisters since our arrest. Usually, only prisoners who had close ties with the authorities or spent time in the cultural center were allowed these visits, and we had been banned from the center by the director. Even so, we had asked Mrs. Rezaei for permission to have contact visits, and they were approved.

It was so exciting! The morning seemed to drag by more slowly than ever as Marziyeh and I put on our veils, waited in one line after another, and finally got to the visitor area. The few prisoners who were allowed contact
visits met their guests in a different place than where normal visits occurred, a big room downstairs furnished with tables and chairs. The guards did what they could to intimidate us and make themselves feel important. One gruffly told us that if we talked to anyone except our visitors, he would cancel our visit. They criticized our
chador
s and said other things to make sure we remembered how important they were and how unimportant we were.

None of that mattered as we entered the room and ran to our sisters—we wrapped our arms tightly around them and never wanted to let go. “Be strong!” we said. “Don’t cry!” But we all cried with happiness anyway. We had just sat down together, the four of us, when another self-important guard came over and told us we could only sit in pairs. So we split up, Marziyeh with Elena and me with Shirin. They told us the good news that they had received our letters of permission for Mr. Aghasi and everything looked fine. We should expect to hear from him soon. Knowing that our contact visits would only be once a month for ten minutes each, we talked like crazy.

A guard walked up and stood beside my sister and me. After listening for a moment, he looked at Shirin and said, “If your sister did no wrong, she would not be in jail now.”

Shirin stopped talking long enough to look him in the eye and say, “I take pride in my sister!”

This guard had been extremely rude to us in the beginning, but he had softened his attitude over time to the point where he was almost friendly. He looked at Shirin and then said to me, “Well, it wasn’t so bad for you to come to prison. You’re famous now! A few nights ago, I saw you on the Voice of America, and that was the first time I knew what your charges were.” He leaned in a little. “I hope you will get your freedom. Good-bye.” Then he walked briskly back across the room.