Read Online Letters to My Torturer: Love, Revolution, and Imprisonment in Iran by Houshang Asadi - Free Book Online Page B
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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swim with the fish.
Khamenei laughed loudly.
“Stop, what was the girl’s religion?”
“What do you mean?”
Khamenei shook his head. He said: “But you are a Muslim. I can see God in your heart. Even when you talk about atheism, your breath smells of God.”
When the time arrived for our weekly bath, the guards banged on the cell door with their fists: “Bath time!”
The door opened and fresh shirts and trousers were thrown into the cell. We picked them up, never knowing if they would fit us, and got ourselves ready. That meant standing behind the door and throwing our prison shirt over our heads and leaving the cell as soon as the door opened. The people who shared a cell were not supposed to lose sight of each other. So we placed our hands on each other’s shoulders, formed a line, and were led to the bathroom enclosure. We were separated cell by cell. We would stand in front of a black curtain that enclosed the shower area and as soon as the guard shouted go, we would run into the shower. We had two minutes to take off our clothes and get under the shower. There was no showerhead, so the water gushed out as if from a hosepipe. A piece of coarse soap made in Qazvin would be placed in the middle of the shower floor. We were supposed to pick it up and wash ourselves and our underwear with it and as soon as we heard the guard’s signal, run out of the shower and get dressed again. Any dawdling would be punished with a whipping on bare flesh or a blast of freezing water straight into one’s face.
The two minutes were allocated to solitary confinement cells, but in reality it didn’t make any difference whether you were alone orfour of you shared a cell. Prisoners were expected to manage whatever time was allocated to them. We were supposed to undress quickly, nip in and out in no time, get dressed and dash back out. There was no time or inclination to look at others.
But the situation was more complicated with my new cellmate. They made us run almost all the way to the showers. We stood in front of the black curtain. We ran when the guards shouted. I undressed quickly, and went under the shower. I picked up the soap and rapidly rubbed my head with it and when I passed it on to Khamenei, I saw that he was showering, dressed in his underpants. Then our time was up. We ran out of the shower; got dressed and returned. When we reached the cell, I saw that my cell companion’s trousers were wet. I turned to face the wall so he could undress. But he had no trousers left. Forced by necessity, he wrapped himself up in a blanket. I kept joking, and while drying myself with my prison shirt, I kept repeating: “Hey, I am not looking. Seriously ...”
The following week, the incident was repeated and this time round, we were given even less time. We both returned to our cell, having barely managed to wash ourselves, Khamenei still dripping in his wet underwear. My cellmate insisted that it was a sin for a man to see the private parts of another man. Having showered many times in male-only bathrooms with fellow footballers or prison inmates without thinking twice about it, I used to tease him. I finally joked: “Sir. It’s not like it’s a special gift, all wrapped up, that one isn’t supposed to open. After all, I myself possess a specimen – a superior specimen.”
Eventually the predicament was resolved with me promising to turn my back to him as soon as we entered the shower and for us not to look at each other until we were fully dressed. The following time, we did just that but for a second, when I turned to hand him the soap I saw that for the first time Khamenei had taken off his underwear. He quickly covered his private parts with his hand, using the free hand to wash his hair. I didn’t know whether to laugh or to carry on washing myself.
When I look back at that scene, which took place several decades ago, I realize that behind what I saw as a joke, a subject of youthful mockery, lay two separate
Khamenei laughed loudly.
“Stop, what was the girl’s religion?”
“What do you mean?”
Khamenei shook his head. He said: “But you are a Muslim. I can see God in your heart. Even when you talk about atheism, your breath smells of God.”
When the time arrived for our weekly bath, the guards banged on the cell door with their fists: “Bath time!”
The door opened and fresh shirts and trousers were thrown into the cell. We picked them up, never knowing if they would fit us, and got ourselves ready. That meant standing behind the door and throwing our prison shirt over our heads and leaving the cell as soon as the door opened. The people who shared a cell were not supposed to lose sight of each other. So we placed our hands on each other’s shoulders, formed a line, and were led to the bathroom enclosure. We were separated cell by cell. We would stand in front of a black curtain that enclosed the shower area and as soon as the guard shouted go, we would run into the shower. We had two minutes to take off our clothes and get under the shower. There was no showerhead, so the water gushed out as if from a hosepipe. A piece of coarse soap made in Qazvin would be placed in the middle of the shower floor. We were supposed to pick it up and wash ourselves and our underwear with it and as soon as we heard the guard’s signal, run out of the shower and get dressed again. Any dawdling would be punished with a whipping on bare flesh or a blast of freezing water straight into one’s face.
The two minutes were allocated to solitary confinement cells, but in reality it didn’t make any difference whether you were alone orfour of you shared a cell. Prisoners were expected to manage whatever time was allocated to them. We were supposed to undress quickly, nip in and out in no time, get dressed and dash back out. There was no time or inclination to look at others.
But the situation was more complicated with my new cellmate. They made us run almost all the way to the showers. We stood in front of the black curtain. We ran when the guards shouted. I undressed quickly, and went under the shower. I picked up the soap and rapidly rubbed my head with it and when I passed it on to Khamenei, I saw that he was showering, dressed in his underpants. Then our time was up. We ran out of the shower; got dressed and returned. When we reached the cell, I saw that my cell companion’s trousers were wet. I turned to face the wall so he could undress. But he had no trousers left. Forced by necessity, he wrapped himself up in a blanket. I kept joking, and while drying myself with my prison shirt, I kept repeating: “Hey, I am not looking. Seriously ...”
The following week, the incident was repeated and this time round, we were given even less time. We both returned to our cell, having barely managed to wash ourselves, Khamenei still dripping in his wet underwear. My cellmate insisted that it was a sin for a man to see the private parts of another man. Having showered many times in male-only bathrooms with fellow footballers or prison inmates without thinking twice about it, I used to tease him. I finally joked: “Sir. It’s not like it’s a special gift, all wrapped up, that one isn’t supposed to open. After all, I myself possess a specimen – a superior specimen.”
Eventually the predicament was resolved with me promising to turn my back to him as soon as we entered the shower and for us not to look at each other until we were fully dressed. The following time, we did just that but for a second, when I turned to hand him the soap I saw that for the first time Khamenei had taken off his underwear. He quickly covered his private parts with his hand, using the free hand to wash his hair. I didn’t know whether to laugh or to carry on washing myself.
When I look back at that scene, which took place several decades ago, I realize that behind what I saw as a joke, a subject of youthful mockery, lay two separate
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