Letters to My Torturer: Love, Revolution, and Imprisonment in Iran (39 page)

He’s very emotional, especially when we get ready for the weekly visiting time. Early in the morning, after exercise and breakfast, like an excited teenager he presses his clothes with his shrivelled hands. He shaves carefully. He uses a pleasant eau de cologne and before the clock has even struck nine o’clock, he starts walking up and down the corridor. Then he fetches the newspaper and cuts out
photographs of children and puts them in a photo album. It’s as if each and every single child is his very own child. He loves them. Every week, he takes the album to show it to Maryam. He always keeps a present for her. A flower plucked from the garden, a bit of cheese that his step-daughter, Afsaneh, has brought him.

Finally, they call us. Kianuri sets off, like a young boy in love, limping up the stairs. He talks to his step-daughters on the telephone and he’s allowed to see his wife in person for five minutes. I often see Maryam on my way up to the visitors’ room, with her long, wavy white hair under the black chador that she is forced to wear for her visit to the prison. She’s in her eighties but she still turns up, standing tall and straight and losing herself in Kianuri’s arms. When we return to our cell after the visits, we both talk about the sweetness of the meetings and the bitterness of separation in the whispered accounts of our past and our stories.

One day, Kianuri tells me: “Back in the old days, when we were young, we went to the famous museum in St Petersburg. By the stairs, located in a prominent part of the gallery, was a large painting of Muzzaffaruddin Shah. He had given his portrait as a gift to the Russian tsar. The museum guide had just started to explain the painting when Maryam said: ‘There’s no need for any explanation. My ancestry goes back to the king who’s pictured.’ ”

Another day, he was talking about Afsaneh, his step-daughter. She was trying to get a visitor’s appointment when the hated Haj Karbalaie, the official in charge of the visitors’ room, asked her: “Just who is this prisoner to you, that you are going to all this trouble to bring him cheese and medicine?”

Afsaneh had answered: “He’s the grandson of Sheikh Fazlollah Noori. And you, who are you?”

Kianuri spends most of his time learning English. He’s got hold of an easy-to-read novel and I help him. He has an extraordinary talent for learning languages and is picking up English very quickly.

He has a particular attachment to the news. When the TV or radio is available, he listens to the morning, evening and late night news. We have no radio or TV in block number 205. At exactly two in the afternoon, he walks down the stairs, limping and with much difficulty. He presses his ear against the door, trying to listen to the news on the radio belonging to the block’s guard.

One day, Kianuri comes running back from his trip downstairs to listen to the news. He kicks my side, waking me up from sleep, and says: “Get up! They are going to release us!”

He had heard the news of an amnesty for the remaining political prisoners.

On the first of January, they move us all up to the top floor. The leftists who have survived are all there. There are just nine or ten people. Most of the original five thousand
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have fallen victim to the Islamic Republic’s violent purges.

We are given a TV set and are allowed to write letters. Once a week we receive visitors. We take turns to read the only newspaper available on the block. Usually, when my turn comes, I open the newspaper without much interest, but one day the headline on the front page pierces my heart, like an arrow: “Mossad agent arrested in Tehran”.

Below the heading there’s a photograph of a woman, dressed in a white chador. The report says: “Official sources who want to remain anonymous have announced that they have arrested a Mossad spy. The woman, whose name is Sonia Zimmermann ...”

I have still not come back to my senses, when the guard comes for me and says: “Thank your lucky stars. You are going to the interrogation office.”

We walk through heavy snow. I’m only wearing slippers and my feet immediately freeze, but my head is hot from the sun. The scent of spring is in the air. Mint plants are sprouting through the snow.

As usual I am forced to wait for a while. Then I enter a room and a voice tells me to sit down. In front of me, I see a man wearing a
wintry jumper with a pleasant pattern on it. I hear a voice, asking those same eternal questions. It’s as if it’s some sort of hobby for them to ask me again and again what I have been up to, when I was arrested, and how long my sentence is. I answer all the questions. Then suddenly, out of the blue: “Right. Let’s imagine we let you out. What would you do?”

It’s one of those moments when I am myself again and nothing, not even the threat of dying, could stop me. I ask: “Shall I tell the truth or lie?”

He says: “Tell us the lie first.”

I say: “I’ll join the Hezbollah. I’ll never miss a prayer. I’ll attend the Nudbah prayer. I’ll hold the Qur’an.”

The voice says: “Now, tell us the truth.”

I say: “I have nothing left in this world apart from my wife, literature and beer. These are the only things of importance to me since I regained my independence in prison.”

The man stands up. He comes behind me and pats me on my shoulder: “You are the only one who has not lied to us. Just make sure not to drink too much British beer ...”

Later, when I look back on this episode and think about this sentence, I ask myself: “You idiot, what was that about?”

And the phrase, British beer, goes round and round in my head and goes back to the part of the file that had remained active.

This is my twenty-sixth and last letter, Brother Hamid. We’ve reached the final chapter, which itself is the beginning of another chapter. It’s been two years since I started writing this, spending my nights and days with you. And now the time has come to say goodbye. I don’t know why something inside me tells me that we will meet again someday, somewhere. But where? I don’t know.

They have chosen the anniversary of the revolution for our release. There had been approximately five thousand political prisoners in Iran, though some accounts put the number nearer to seven thousand. Of those, only around four to five hundred of us survived. We have lied in court and have been spared death. Now they are freeing us, with much pomp and ceremony. The survivors have all been brought to Evin. We are put onto buses and when the large gate opens, the cameras flash. It’s a sunny day.

The buses stop in front of the United Nations’ office in Tehran and we are ordered to get out. We stand in a line, surrounded by photographers and the Revolutionary Guards Corps dressed in civilian clothing. The prisoners try to look away or cover their faces with their hands to avoid being photographed. Some of them pull down their woollen hats to cover their faces. The officials in charge, dressed
in civilian clothing, run up and down the queue, swearing and sometimes hitting us to make us turn our faces towards the photographers’ lenses.

A speech is delivered in front of the United Nations office. We get back on the buses and this time we set off in the direction of the Rudaki Hall. Rudaki is the name of the first Iranian poet. They could not handle the name of this hall, which used to serve as an opera house during the Shah’s time, and have now changed it. I have many memories of this place; the first time I held the hand of my future wife was in that hall. She’s now waiting for me, like the rest of the families.

We are taken into the hall. I take a seat in the back row. One or two people give speeches. Then it’s Kianuri’s turn. He walks up to the microphone, limping, his back bent. The prisoners applaud him. He pulls out a text he has already prepared. He coughs a bit. I don’t know what is going through his mind, but he puts the paper back into his pocket and says:

Our Party has achieved a great deal, and has made many mistakes. I take full responsibility for the mistakes. I have been the main decision-maker in the Party and have single-handedly made decisions about some issues. I am offering you all my apologies. I apologize to all those members of the Party who have been killed ...

And suddenly he starts crying, loudly:

None of my colleagues is to blame. None of you are to blame.

And the sound of his crying permeates the hall. I’ve seen the Swan Lake ballet on this stage and Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony and Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. And now, I am watching Nurrudin Kianuri.

And the show still goes on.

We get back in the buses and are driven to the front of the parliament building. The parliament, which looks like the one in Paris,
used to be a senate before the revolution. From the bus windows we see all our families, their arms filled with bouquets of flowers, waiting to greet us. When the buses arrive, they start a commotion from behind the barriers that are holding them back.

The survivors of this decade of intense horror, those who have escaped death, at last return to the arms of their mothers, fathers, wives, husbands and children. When we get out of the buses, children squeeze themselves through the bars and run past the guards, and disappear in their fathers’ arms.

They make us sit down on the asphalt in front of the marble steps leading to the parliament. My mind goes back to fifty years ago, and the house of my childhood. In my mind, they’ve killed the fish in the pool and destroyed the pots of geraniums. The stairs to the ancient cellar are covered in mud. No one is sleeping on the roof any more. The house of freedom has been occupied by clerics. Sitting on beds and smoking hookah have been banned. My eyes search for Abgie. The scent of jasmine and chubak shrub is in the air. A woman wrapped up in a white chador is brought out and made to stand in front of the stairs. Led by a cleric, a group of women dressed in thick black chadors turn up and clear a path. My mother is not there to call my name from behind the bars. But my father is behind the bars, crying and swearing. The cleric moves to the front. I think he’s Aqa Seyyed, who’s become Parliamentary Chief. What a fat belly he now has. The chadorwrapped women are running after him. They pick out someone from the middle of the crowd, take him, and place him next to the woman in the white chador. It’s Babak Zahraei. I think he’s the son of a poet who had studied abroad and then had returned to Iran.

I am reminded of Afaq Khanum, my mother’s Baha’i aunt. Some leaders of the Baha’i community had also been imprisoned in Evin. They were waiting for their turn to be hanged. One of them knew Afaq Khanum. He told me that her husband had been killed in the early days of the revolution and she and her children had become homeless.

Aqa Seyyed reaches the steps. Kianuri is made to stand up in respect. The grandson of Sheikh Fazlollah Noori, now in his seventies, bent and holding his side with his hand, is facing a follower of his own grandfather. Aqa Seyyed speaks in praise of liberty. He says Iran is one of the freest countries in the world. The followers of all religions and sects are free to practice their faith.

You could see the whole of Iran’s contemporary history summarized in that scene on that sunny afternoon. We stand up and return to the buses. The buses set off in the direction of Azadi (Liberty) Square.
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We were coming to the end of the show. They had made sure that the main roads were lined with crowds. The buses took us via side streets and then they made us disembark. We were still standing in a line, surrounded by prison directors and officials. We were still waiting for them to let us go.

Haj Mojtaba seeks me out and tells me to talk to the prison director. My heart sinks. On the way, I ask myself a thousand questions. Then I reach him. The prison director says: “You need to come to the prison tomorrow, at six in the evening. Haj Aqa wants to see you.”

A shiver goes up my spine. Haj Aqa is the head of Evin’s Intelligence Office. I ask him in a shaky voice: “But have I not been released?”

He says: “Of course you have been freed. But Haj Aqa has some unfinished business with you.”

The timing of this smells of you, Brother Hamid. So far, no one has confirmed that my file has been closed. I hear your voice, which is coming from the depths of the torture chamber: “I would like to shoot the final bullet myself.”

And it mingles with the mockery of the cultural events’ official: “It’s not like the Shah’s time when you could leave prison as heroes. You’ll leave either dead or with your reputation in ruins.”

I try one last time: “My family is waiting for me, they are anxious.”

Haj Mojtaba talks into a walkie-talkie and says: “Alright. Go ahead. But be at Evin tomorrow at six.”

I feel like I have grown wings. I run in the direction of the place where the families are gathered. In the middle of the Islamic Republic’s tenth anniversary, the freed prisoners are losing themselves in the arms of their families, shedding tears of happiness.

I cannot see my wife anywhere. I turn around, looking. I’m standing in the shade in Azadi Square. Someone inside me is saying: “You have been in prison for six years but now you are free. Be happy!”

Someone else is responding: “You are not free. You have left freedom behind forever inside the prison blocks, the torture chambers, and with the voices of the companions who walked to the gallows ...”

The sound of my wife’s voice, which is the sound of happiness and freedom, rises above all the noise and commotion. I turn in her direction; she’s moving towards me, like a swan with open wings. For a moment, we lose ourselves in each other’s embrace.

Oh the warmth of love. The scent of life.

We walk, then run, and get into our car, a car we had bought back in the days when life was like a dream. My wife is driving through familiar streets. Tehran, my city. Its streets have now begun to resemble the streets in Pakistan. Its cinemas are either burned down or in ruins. Its women have disappeared under the obligatory hijab. Its guards are all bearded.