Letters to My Torturer: Love, Revolution, and Imprisonment in Iran (3 page)

Whatever the answer, that return changed the course of my life. Or perhaps it moved it in a predetermined direction.

Back home, I paced up and down, waiting for my wife. I remember the time exactly. It was precisely twenty to ten on the morning of 6 February 1983 when they knocked on the door. Whoever they were, they hadn’t been able to find the doorbell and had come into the hallway and knocked on the inner door instead. I went down and opened the door. Three people were standing there in civilian clothing. One was holding my photograph, and asked: “Are you Houshang Asadi?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s go to the third floor.”

They knew that we lived on the third floor. Together we went upstairs. My mother-in-law was busy with some housework. They closed the door behind them and one of them said: “We’ve been ordered to arrest you. Your wife is already under arrest.” They showed me a piece of paper with my wife’s name, Nooshabeh Amiri, on it.

I was already dressed and ready. A pair of brown velvet trousers and a light brown jumper, a birthday present from my wife. I have kept that jumper ever since. It’s too tight for me now and is
unfashionable, but it’s always hanging among my shirts in the wardrobe. And boots. So I was left with nothing else to do. The last thing I did, which I later realized was a mistake, was to take my wallet out of my trouser pocket and place it on the table. That money would have been very useful where I was going. They threw a quick glance around the room and together we proceeded to the little library that my wife and I were using as our office. The room’s window opened on to a building where Shirin Ebadi
¹⁰
and her mother lived. Shirin’s mother was close friends with my mother-in-law and they used to talk to each other through the window. Next door to their building was some open ground where a wild fig tree had sprouted and subsequently grown to full size. The tree was leafless at that time of year, and I could see the Hillman car that had been parked nearby and several men walking around. They were the officials who had surrounded the building and blocked all the escape routes. One of the men in our flat, who must have been the leader of the arrest team, asked: “Where are the weapons?” I laughed.

“Are you making fun of us?” he asked.

“No. The weapons are there,” I replied, and pointed to the penholder on the desk.

He said: “We’ll find the weapons. If you want to collect some stuff, do it now so we can leave.”

I picked up my wife’s pills, as I knew she couldn’t sleep without them. My mother-in-law was standing by the door. She blocked their way and asked: “Where are you taking my child?”

The man who had spoken before said: “We’re going to ask him one or two questions. He’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

I said: “Mother, dear, if they turn out to be the boys from the Revolutionary Guards, then I’ll return. If they are
putchists
, then I won’t be coming back. Tell my wife that I’ll die shouting ‘Death to America!’ ”

My mother-in-law burst into tears. I kissed her wet eyes and threw one last glance around my home. We walked down the stairs
and left the building. On the street, a couple of Hillmans had been parked in front of the carpark. One of them was full. The men from the second car had got out and were walking about. They put me in the middle of the back seat with someone sitting on either side of me. Apart from the people from the Hillmans the street was deserted. When the car started moving, I saw another Hillman setting off from the bottom of the street and when we reached the end of the street, the fourth Hillman, which had been stationed in a guarding position, also started to move. When we made a turn into the side street, I saw my younger brother drive into our street.

I watched the crowds of people who were getting on with their lives on that wintry morning, looking at the passengers of this Hillman with their tired eyes. This wasn’t the first time I had been arrested, but somehow the experience was completely different. We were defenders of the revolution. This arrest must either be at the orders of the clerics in charge, and hence would be over in one or two days because, according to the Party’s analysis, the clerics were our allies in the struggle against imperialism. Or the Americans had masterminded a coup, which would mean that I’d be saying “Death to America!” while facing a firing squad alongside all the other staunch supporters of the revolution. These thoughts were going round and round in my head while I was looking at the walls, on which were written the fashionable slogans of the time. The last slogan I saw before we turned into a main street said: “Death to the Dashnaks, the agents of ...”

The leader of the arrest team who was sitting next to the driver, suddenly asked: “Are you familiar with the Dashnaks?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Armenian fascists!”

He turned and placed his hand on my head. He said: “Now shut up and lower your head.” And he pressed my head down, mustering as much force as he could, and threw a blanket over me. Everything went black.

I could hear his voice: “We do this so the public won’t see you. If they knew who you were, they would tear you into pieces ...”

From beneath the blanket, I said: “We are defenders of the revolution. I’m not aware who you people are ...”

I heard the sound of their laughter. A hand pressed my head down even harder.

I later found out that all the people who had been arrested that morning were taken to the army base in the centre of Tehran. On 11 February 1979, the day the Islamic revolution took power, I had held a gun and helped guard this important post alongside the people who had captured it. That base had become one of the main centres of the Revolutionary Guards Corps.

We reached our destination very quickly. The car stopped. They pulled the blanket off my head and put a blindfold on me. Someone took the bag with my wife’s pills from me, tugged at the edge of my brown jumper, and we walked up two or three steps and entered a courtyard, which I sensed was quite spacious. There was the sound of many people, subdued to a general humming. We passed a significant number of bags and bundles. The guard made me sit against a wall and left. I heard the voice of Rahman Hatefi over the humming. He was speaking loudly, answering questions. He was being asked about a typewriter and he was saying: “I’m a journalist. It’s my own typewriter.”

I realized that the arrests were extremely widespread. It wasn’t long before my name was called. I stood up. Someone grabbed the corner of my jumper and pulled me along. We walked down the same stairs. I wasn’t alone. I recognized the voices of a number of the Party’s cadres. I was put into a car, a blanket was thrown over my head, and the car set off. I tried to figure out from the car’s movement where I was being taken. I suspected our destination was Evin prison but I soon lost all sense of direction. After a short while, the car stopped and I realized we had arrived. So it wasn’t Evin, it had to be Moshtarek prison. Ironically, back in 1979, I had been one of the people who had helped to capture this notorious prison. Unlike everyone else, I hadn’t been looking for weapons or torture
instruments that sunny February day, I was looking for the cells where I had been held prisoner during the Shah’s time. I had searched almost the entire prison building, and was very familiar with it.

It took a few minutes for the large main gate to the east of the prison to open. We drove through, and the car stopped on the long, cobbled road. They made us step out, one by one. They took me to a room and pulled the blanket off my head.

I am asked for my name, my nickname, my father’s name and the number on my identity card. I’m handed a pair of trousers, a grey vest, and regulation prison slippers. I put them on. They collect my trousers, my shoes, my socks and my jacket. I put my own shirt and jumper back on over the vest. The trousers are baggy and falling down. The slippers are old and about two sizes too big for my feet.

They take me into another room. I take off the blindfold. A chubby man with a bushy beard places a placard around my neck and photographs me a few times. Around fifteen years later, when I went to the Islamic court to ask for permission to leave the county and the judge’s assistant brought over my file, I saw one of those pictures again. I was a young man in the photograph, thirty-two years of age with a full head of black hair, a thick moustache, a plump, happy face, and a curious smile on my lips. What was I laughing at?

The same chubby man puts his hand into a large basket and selects another blindfold and hands it to me. It’s brown and very coarse. The blindfold completely covers my eyes. I tie it up and the man tightens it. I am blind. The Islamic Republic’s greatest invention, its most dangerous weapon, is the blindfold, Brother Hamid. I don’t know whether you copied the blindfold from some foreign security service, or whether it’s an achievement of the “Glorious Islamic Revolution”. Either way, it’s the most horrifying instrument of torture. Deprived of vision the prisoner is disarmed. Your other senses strive to replace your lost sight. Your hearing is the first to rush to your rescue.

Your interrogator watches every tiny movement you make. Anything you think shows in a movement somewhere in your body. Even the rhythm of your feet translates into something meaningful. When you’re blindfolded, you’re unable to see the impact of your lies in the eyes of your interrogator, to catch in his movements something that might be useful or to your advantage.

On this battlefield, where the struggle between life and death is being played out, the blindfold removes all advantage from the prisoner. The interrogator has all the weapons at his disposal. He can see you and he can beat you. The prisoner doesn’t even know from which direction the next blow will come. Watching an approaching blow, the body automatically prepares for defence. Blinded, you are defenceless. The blindfolded prisoner is deprived of the ability to sense the moment that is vital in all interrogations, and so takes part in a ghastly, one-sided chess game in which the interrogator controls all the pieces. He scrutinizes the prisoner’s slightest movements. He watches the impact of his words and whips, and is well placed to move a fresh piece to break the prisoner. His opponent, of course, blindfolded, doesn’t even know which piece he has moved.

Someone grabs at the corner of my jumper. I’m not yet familiar with the meaning of this action. During the Shah’s time, in this same prison, the guards would grab hold of our hands to lead us away. The blindfold is tight and I can’t see a thing. I, who have never had good hearing, am losing all sense of direction in the darkness. I suddenly fall over and hit the floor. I stand up again with difficulty. My guard says: “Pull up your blindfold just so you can see what’s under your feet.”

I do as I’m told. We are now walking again and I see what’s under my feet – that is, with as much sight as I can conjure up without my glasses. I lift up my head and see the vague contours of the landing. He hands me over to another guard. We enter the Under the Eight. We pass through a metal door and enter the detention centre. I’m expecting them to take me into a cell, but we stop by a blanket that has been thrown onto the floor just a few steps ahead of us.

“Stay on the blanket,” the guard barks. “Lift your hand anytime you need something.”

Then he walks away. I take off the slippers and stand on the blanket. Then, I sit down. I lift up the blindfold and look at the wall . The cream coloured wall is familiar. I have no doubt that I’m in Moshtarek prison. I want to be sure. I lift my hand. The guard comes.

“What’s up?”

“Toilet.”

“Stand up.”

I stand up. The guard tightens my blindfold, tugs at the corner of my jumper and takes me with him. The toilets in Moshtarek prison are at the end of a corridor. They’re a filthy green colour. We arrive and enter.

“Take off your blindfold. When you finish your business, knock on the door.”

I take off my blindfold. I put on my glasses. I spot several large rats, which make a run for it. I look at the toilet door, the window and the sink. Yes, I’m seeing Moshtarek prison for the umpteenth time. Three arrests during the Shah’s time, once the day the crowds overran it during the revolution, and now. I wash my face. I dry it with the corner of my shirt. I put on my glasses.

At that moment, the door opens and I see the guard. He’s a boy, very young, with plump red cheeks. I ask: “Where are we?”

He says: “Block 2000, Evin ...”

I laugh: “When did Evin prison move from the outskirts into the centre of Tehran?”

The guard becomes irritated and shouts: “Shut your mouth. Put on your blindfold.”

I put on the blindfold and we return to the detention area. I hear the muezzin’s voice as we walk back and I see, from beneath my blindfold, that the entire floor of the detention area has been covered with blankets. All the blankets are occupied. I discover later that the arrests had started at four in the morning. It is now afternoon and all
the cells and blankets of Moshtarek prison’s block 1 are occupied. I sit down and hold my head between my hands. I have to collect my thoughts.

The call to prayer and the prayer finishes. I hear the voice of one of the other prisoners shouting loudly: “We are not spies!”

There’s a smell of food and they bring in the first meal. It’s very tasty, rice with chicken, served in a plastic container, accompanied by a red plastic spoon and cup. As always, when I’m angry, I start eating fiercely. I sit down, facing the wall. I lift up my blindfold and demolish the food.

There’s a sound. I tighten the blindfold. It’s the sound of boots. Not the shuffling noise of slippers. The two sounds have not yet developed different meanings for me. Later on, I will always be hoping for the sound of boots. The sound of boots meant something else, it was only the shuffling that meant the torture chamber: the twodoor cells with blood-splattered walls and a rope hanging from the ceiling.

“Stand up.”

It’s the guard.

I stand up. He pulls at the corner of my jumper and takes me away. We walk down the stairs; we turn left. We pass a door. The air is freezing cold. We pass through a triangular courtyard. By the two steps.