Read Online Letters to My Torturer: Love, Revolution, and Imprisonment in Iran by Houshang Asadi - Free Book Online
Authors: Houshang Asadi
Tags: General, History, Personal Memoirs, Biography & Autobiography, Editors; Journalists; Publishers, 20th Century, Political Science, Modern, middle east, Human Rights
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know everything about you.”
And he said: “After the first slap, your heroic friend even told us about the colour of his aunt’s panties, so you’d better watch out.”
On the way to Moshtarek Prison, the thought that kept going round and round in my head was that Sonia must have grassed on me, and that was why I had been picked up. I had no idea why that would be the case, but it didn’t upset me particularly. I had no real relationship with her. Now I realized that one of my work colleagues, who had worried that he was being watched and had recently given me a parcel for safekeeping, must have been the one to grass on me. During interrogations after his arrest, he had given the names of several of his Marxist and communist friends, and as a result we had all been arrested. I wrote down what had happened. I explained that I had reluctantly accepted the package out of politeness, and that it was still in my drawer, unopened. The interrogator read it and said: “This had better not be a lie.”
He called for the guard: “Take him to his cell and bring in that hooker.”
The guard said: “Put your jacket over your head and follow me.”
I did as I was told. The guard took me with him. He opened the door to a cell and threw me in. The door closed behind me. I made myself stand up, removed the jacket from my head and put on my glasses. And I saw a man, extremely thin, bespectacled, with a long black beard. He was seated on a pile of black blankets. I realized that he was a cleric because he was wearing a cloak, which he had made out of his prison uniform. He stood up, he smiled a pleasant smile, he stretched out his hand and introduced himself: “Sayyed Ali Khamenei. Welcome!”
For the first time in my life, I found myself in close contact with a cleric. Up until then, I had only known the Sayyed from back home who had spent his days begging in the nearby Armenian fort and come the mourning season, would go up the minaret and make people cry with his sermons. He was always happy to receive an envelope filled with money from my father and would kiss my father’s hand in return. The clerics were about a thousand light years from me. I have no idea at what point in my life the stubborn infidel had taken root in me or which ancestor I had to thank this trait for. I held out my hand and burst out: “I am a leftist. My name is ...”
My cell companion laughed a sweet laugh and invited me to sit beside him on the pile of blankets. Since then I have read the story of his life on the internet, so I know that he is exactly a decade older than me. At the time I was twenty-six and he had just turned thirtyseven years of age.
We divided the blankets between us. Usually, prisoners had no more than two blankets, one to put underneath them and one to go on top. I have no idea why so many blankets had ended up in our cell, but to Khamenei, each one of the blankets represented an unexpected treasure, though we ended up losing them almost immediately. One day, when we went to the bathroom one of the guards took away all the spare blankets.
Khamenei, always cheerful and up for a joke, had given each of the guards a nickname.
Dog Fart Number One.
Dog Fart Number Two.
The guards regarded us as political detainees, meaning we were considered dangerous but respectable. Those old guards have now been replaced by guards who work for the government under my former cellmate Ayatollah Khamenei’s leadership – these guards regard us as traitors, spies and polluted untouchables. I keep asking myself: had Khamenei been in this cell, what kind of nickname would he have given these brothers?
He used to perform his ablution in the bathroom, in a very serious, solemn manner. But most of his time, and particularly around sunset, was spent standing by the window. He would recite the Qur’an quietly, he would pray, and then he would weep, sobbing loudly. He would lose himself completely in God. There was something about this type of
And he said: “After the first slap, your heroic friend even told us about the colour of his aunt’s panties, so you’d better watch out.”
On the way to Moshtarek Prison, the thought that kept going round and round in my head was that Sonia must have grassed on me, and that was why I had been picked up. I had no idea why that would be the case, but it didn’t upset me particularly. I had no real relationship with her. Now I realized that one of my work colleagues, who had worried that he was being watched and had recently given me a parcel for safekeeping, must have been the one to grass on me. During interrogations after his arrest, he had given the names of several of his Marxist and communist friends, and as a result we had all been arrested. I wrote down what had happened. I explained that I had reluctantly accepted the package out of politeness, and that it was still in my drawer, unopened. The interrogator read it and said: “This had better not be a lie.”
He called for the guard: “Take him to his cell and bring in that hooker.”
The guard said: “Put your jacket over your head and follow me.”
I did as I was told. The guard took me with him. He opened the door to a cell and threw me in. The door closed behind me. I made myself stand up, removed the jacket from my head and put on my glasses. And I saw a man, extremely thin, bespectacled, with a long black beard. He was seated on a pile of black blankets. I realized that he was a cleric because he was wearing a cloak, which he had made out of his prison uniform. He stood up, he smiled a pleasant smile, he stretched out his hand and introduced himself: “Sayyed Ali Khamenei. Welcome!”
For the first time in my life, I found myself in close contact with a cleric. Up until then, I had only known the Sayyed from back home who had spent his days begging in the nearby Armenian fort and come the mourning season, would go up the minaret and make people cry with his sermons. He was always happy to receive an envelope filled with money from my father and would kiss my father’s hand in return. The clerics were about a thousand light years from me. I have no idea at what point in my life the stubborn infidel had taken root in me or which ancestor I had to thank this trait for. I held out my hand and burst out: “I am a leftist. My name is ...”
My cell companion laughed a sweet laugh and invited me to sit beside him on the pile of blankets. Since then I have read the story of his life on the internet, so I know that he is exactly a decade older than me. At the time I was twenty-six and he had just turned thirtyseven years of age.
We divided the blankets between us. Usually, prisoners had no more than two blankets, one to put underneath them and one to go on top. I have no idea why so many blankets had ended up in our cell, but to Khamenei, each one of the blankets represented an unexpected treasure, though we ended up losing them almost immediately. One day, when we went to the bathroom one of the guards took away all the spare blankets.
Khamenei, always cheerful and up for a joke, had given each of the guards a nickname.
Dog Fart Number One.
Dog Fart Number Two.
The guards regarded us as political detainees, meaning we were considered dangerous but respectable. Those old guards have now been replaced by guards who work for the government under my former cellmate Ayatollah Khamenei’s leadership – these guards regard us as traitors, spies and polluted untouchables. I keep asking myself: had Khamenei been in this cell, what kind of nickname would he have given these brothers?
He used to perform his ablution in the bathroom, in a very serious, solemn manner. But most of his time, and particularly around sunset, was spent standing by the window. He would recite the Qur’an quietly, he would pray, and then he would weep, sobbing loudly. He would lose himself completely in God. There was something about this type of
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