Letters to My Torturer: Love, Revolution, and Imprisonment in Iran (26 page)

The first movement of my bowels is imminent. All of a sudden the pressure is intense and accompanied by a cramping stomachache. I grab my stomach and gasp out: “Bathroom!”

It’s as if you’ve been waiting for this moment. You snap the handcuffs around my ankles and before I know it, I am hanging from the ceiling by my feet, with only the tip of my nose reaching the floor. On cue, my bowels start heaving. A dreadful warmth is trickling
down in the direction of my head and reaches my neck. My only solution is to yell. When I fall silent, I can hear the cries of the woman who is crying: “Help me ...”

I don’t know how much time passes before you come back and untie me. I take off my filthy underwear and trousers, still hearing the cries of the woman (my wife?) in the background. You give me another pair of trousers and again, I am up in the air, hanging, turning. This time, my filthy trousers and underwear are put underneath my nose and mouth. A new wave of bowel movements grips me. Again you untie me so I can change my trousers. Every time I am strung up, my mouth and nose dive deeper into the excrement, and every time I take a breath, the foul-smelling discharge enters my body through my nose and mouth.

This goes on until I finish eating all the potatoes, washing them down with three jugs of water. My stomach is throwing up everything it contains and my mouth is pushing down what the stomach has discharged.

You have at last lived up to your earlier promise, Brother Hamid: You are forcing me to eat my own shit.

Four or five days later, when you untie me, I have no heart or energy left for resistance.

“Say ‘I ate shit.’”
⁷²

“I ate shit.”

“Again: ‘I ate shit.’”

“Now bark, spy.”

“Woof, woof.”

“Sit down on the floor, dog. Walk on all fours and bark.”

I do as I’m told.

By the time you untie me, I am utterly, totally broken. I am wracked with waves of vomit and diarrhoea. My headache intensifies. I am cold and shaking uncontrollably. I am empty. I have nothing left to lean on. That is exactly why there’s repentance. Repentance holds a
special place in Islamic theory. It is one of the tools of interrogation. For both the prisoner and the torturer. The prisoner wants to be freed. The interrogator, who under huge pressure relies on Islamic compassion, wants to get into the inner world of the prisoner by forcing him to repent. The whip and the handcuffs are there to overcome the prisoner physically. Repentance is there to overpower the soul. It’s as if you open up your own chest to allow a spear to strike through to your heart. The interrogator knows very well that claiming to repent is yet another lie told by the prisoner, another role acted out by the prisoner. He also understands that confessing to having repented pulls away the ground from beneath the prisoner’s feet, breaking him.

The ideologically driven interrogator takes pleasure both in extracting confessions and making use of confessions. This type of interrogator, be they employees of a Stalinist system or the likes of Brother Hamid, reach their climax when intellectuals throw themselves at their feet, repenting and laying down the banner that represents their worldview. To repent is to be both disarmed and to be hanged. As soon as one repents, the benefits and advantages that come from repenting are relegated to the hereafter, and to God’s judgement. The interrogator is in charge of the earthly rewards of repentance, and if you repent, he stops torturing you, he gives you freebies, allows you visitors or keeps promising you that you’ll be allowed visitors. The interrogator always wants the prisoner to take yet another step to prove that his repentance is authentic. And eventually, a point is reached when the prisoner turns up in the execution square, firing bullets at his own wife, mother and father.

I cannot eat food. I cannot even drink water. Everything smells of excrement. Everything has become shitty. My stomach is discharging and my mouth is vomiting. Deep inside, my lungs are filled with shit. Your diagnosis, Brother Hamid, is that I am acting out a new role. You distrust the Baluch doctor as well. The poor man is pleading with you in that accent of his. You order them to grab hold of my
hands and feet and throw water into my mouth. Water mixed with compote, and I throw all of it up.

I have lost track of time, space and myself. I have difficulty even recalling my wife’s eyes. Instead I hear her cries; she is hanging from the ceiling and screaming. The only person I interact with is you, Brother Hamid, only you. The sound of shuffling slippers is nearing. For days you don’t let me go back to my cell. I am either in the room upstairs, in the corridor outside, or in the room downstairs, a place close enough for you to push me quickly if you are in a rush. We sit down on the bed. I say: “I ate shit.”

I am on all fours, crawling and barking and telling you the story of a coup. Step by step, you communicate to me your ideas, bringing other people’s written confessions so I can add interest to the soup, adding oil and onions so I am not returned to the ritual of eating my own shit. You must be doing the same thing to others, too.

I am no longer myself. I have become what you tell me, Brother Hamid. And you tell me that in May 1982, the British instructed me to arrange a meeting in Tehran with the Soviet representative. The meeting place was Paprika restaurant, at the top of Villa Road. The British had come to an agreement with the Mujahedin to launch a coup with the support of the Tudeh Party. I made sure the news of the agreement reached Rahman and to ensure my complete safety, I broke off all contact with the editorial staff at
Kayhan
and stopped going to the newspaper office. A few days prior to my arrest, the British representative arranged a rendezvous with me in his car under the Hafez Bridge and announced the designated day for the coup, which was 1 April 1983. He told me that the Soviets had informed the Party via a separate source.

I now realize how my previous confessions have been used. The words of a
Mardom
reporter – who nine months prior to his arrest had severed ties even with the editorial desk, who had no serious, organizational responsibilities in the Party, and was totally unaware of its secret network – would not be considered evidence by anyone. But
the situation changes if he’s a British spy who is also an agent for Savak and the KGB. I can’t believe such a ridiculous story even for a moment. I have no doubt that the Party is incapable of launching such a coup; besides the Party is not getting along with the Mujahedin. You insist that this is the truth, and of course I am not sharing my thoughts with you, Brother Hamid. In order to help you develop your film script, I’d report to meetings between the British, the Soviets and Kianuri, and you would insist that I had been in charge of delivering information to Rahman. So I wrote down what you wanted me to write down.

I drink a bit of water and compote juice. I am breaking into pieces, day by day. I smell of shit. I think I’ve got lice. I drag a particular blanket around with me wherever I go. I put my slippers under my head and go to sleep. I sleep in Under the Eight, outside the room downstairs or in the room upstairs. The room upstairs is best; it’s warm and I can see the ghost of my face reflected in the metal wall of the bathroom.

I am fully at your service, Brother Hamid. I, who have become your tongue. You read me the Party leaders’ confessions to the coup. Moshtarek Prison is full of hustle and bustle. Work is going on, day and night. The sound of crying can be heard. The business of extracting confessions is going well. Then it’s time to determine the coup regime. You become animated and say: “Congratulations Mr Asadi, you have become the head of both the radio and television.”

“I?”

“Yes, you. The coup regime has given you the chair.”

I say: “The most responsibility I would be given would be that of a reporter for a newspaper.”

You say: “Don’t be modest, please.”

And you show me someone’s handwriting, I don’t know whose, but he has introduced me as the head of the radio and television. Okay, I accept this, and become a TV boss. There are other officers identified as well. If my memory serves me right, Kianuri is to be the
president, Amoui the commander of the air force, Shaltouki the commander of ground forces, Hatefi the minister of culture, Khodayee the minister of intelligence, Kayhan the minister of labour, Amir Nikayeen the minister of agriculture.

According to this plan, the Soviet forces will be entering via the Afghan and Tajik borders. The Mujahedin are being organized by the British.

Ali Shamkhani
⁷³
was the deputy chief of the Revolutionary Guards Corps back then. He had asked me: “The coup story, is it true?”

I had insisted it was a lie. He slapped me on my ear, then shook me hard. Later, whenever I saw him smartly dressed in his post as minister of defence in Khatami’s reformist cabinet, my ears would make a whistling sound.

I spent the whole night of the supposed coup twisting and turning, between sleep and wakefulness. You came and went, and each time you hit me on my head. My tooth is still aching as it did on that night, even though it was pulled out yesterday. No pain relief seems to work on it. It’s cold and I am writing. Do you remember, Brother Hamid? That night you were wearing a mask. The rest of them were also wearing clothes that revealed their true nature: you all looked like members of the Ku Klux Klan.

How many nights have I spent sleeping outside the door of the room downstairs or the room upstairs? I don’t know. You have been kind and haven’t taken away my blanket. During these days I struggle to drink water and eat compote. I try very hard not to throw up. You are right, Brother Hamid. Shit has taken over my whole body, has even gotten into my heart. Since the eat-your-shit ceremony – I don’t even know which day of the month it is – I have written down whatever you wanted me to write.

I’m huddled under my blanket, in the corner of the room upstairs. I hear the sound of doors being opened and then closed. Some people pick me up and take me off somewhere, then bring me back. The door opens and I can hear the shuffling sound of slippers.

“Face the wall. Put on your blindfold.”

I do as I’m told. Someone grabs hold of my hand. Removes the blanket from my shoulders and takes me away. It’s you, Brother Hamid, dragging me to the room downstairs and hanging me up. You say: “You don’t have much time until I feed you shit again. Tell us the exact time of the coup.”

I bark.

“Shut up, useless wimp. Stop acting.”

“First of April.”

For the first and last time, you make a confession: “That’s the one I told you.”

That is the one.

My mind is not working. The coup, which from the beginning was organized by you, Brother Hamid, has no external existence in my mind. I mean, what sort of coup is it when its leaders are already in prison? Could its date change and the report of the changed date reach me?I am totally quarantined.

You say: “Wait now, I’ll be back in a sec ...”

You leave and return a bit later. You untie me. You move my shoulders. It feels like they are being split from my body. You place me on the bed. There is an awful smell and I don’t know where it’s coming from. I assume it’s me and that I have shitted myself again. I touch my trousers. My stomach has nothing left to digest. You are watching my movements and say: “You have eaten your own shit. Now you have to eat your comrades’ shit.”

And you hand me something. It’s a spoon.

“Pull up your blindfold.”

I pull it up. A red plastic spoon is in my hand and there’s a bowl
next to me. I realize that the awful smell is coming from there. You say: “Please, help yourself.”

Even now I cannot believe it. With a shaking hand, I am dipping the spoon into the bowl. I feel sick and want to throw up. With a shaking hand, I lift a spoonful. Bring it closer to my mouth. My whole body is crying out “no”; I throw away the spoon. Four strong hands grab my head and push it into the bowl.

[I have broken into a sweat and cannot write down the rest, how spoonful by spoonful ...]

It’s good medicine. The correct date of the coup becomes clear: “The third of April.”

You explain that all the comrades have confessed the correct date and you are counting on me to confirm it.

“Eighth of April?”

“No.”

Why did I say no? I myself have absolutely no idea why.

“Fifth of April?”

“No.”

“Third of April?”

For no apparent reason, I blurt out:

“Yes.”

Why did I say yes? Again, I don’t know. Maybe deep down my brain is looking for a memory linked to this number.

And I hear you running and running. The last chance to foil it is this evening, 2 April 1983. I only know this because the date has been shouted out.

The guard takes me away. He allows me to wash my face and gargle as much as I can. Then he takes me to the room upstairs. There’s a huge commotion. Yelling can be heard from behind all the doors. In the corridor, he makes me stand, facing the wall. I hear the continuous sound of blows. Someone is being slapped in a rhythmic and uninterrupted manner. I hear some people coming along the corridor. They walk past me, quickly. The guard takes me to a
room and sits me on a chair. He tightens my blindfold. I hear some people entering the room. A chair is being moved and placed in front of me. Suddenly, in the dark and out of the blue, my jaw is being hit hard, on the same spot where I pulled out the broken tooth yesterday. There’s a pause for a second and then the subsequent blows ...

[My whole body is shaking in the cold of exile. It takes me two hours to regain composure and get back to writing. I have to finish this.]

I don’t know how many blows. Heavy and without pause, finishing off my already broken teeth. I am about to collapse when it stops. From behind my back, a voice says: