Read Online Prisoner of Tehran: A Memoir (No Series) by Marina Nemat - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marina Nemat
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took me a great deal of effort to reach it without stepping on anyone. No one had reacted to my arrival. There wasn’t enough space to lie down, so I sat, folded my knees to my chest, leaned against the wall, and cried.
After awhile, a man yelled out about ten names, including mine.
“All the people I’ve called pull their blindfolds up just a little so they can see where they’re going and line up in front of the door here. Each of you has to hang on to the chador of the person ahead of you. Don’t forget; raise the blindfold just a little. If I see anyone peeping around too much, they’ll be sorry, and once you’ve found your place in the line, fix your blindfolds and make sure they’re tight.”
I grasped the chador of the girl in front of me, and the person behind me grabbed my shawl. We went through a couple of corridors and were soon outside. It was cold. I prayed for us to arrive at our destination soon because I was close to collapsing. All I could see were the gray pavement and the chador and the feet of the girl ahead of me. Her feet were not swollen, but she had rubber slippers on, which were similar to mine and at least two sizes too big for her. I wondered what had happened to my shoes. We entered a building, followed a hallway, and climbed a couple of flights of stairs. Then the guard told us to stop, called my name, and told me to step out of the line.
“Grab this rope and follow me,” he said.
I took the rope and followed him through a doorway.
“ Salam aleikom, Sister. Good morning. I have a new one for you: Marina Moradi-Bakht. Here’re the papers.”
“Good morning to you, too, Brother. Thank you,” said a woman.
The door closed with a small click. The room was filled with the scent of freshly brewed tea. I realized I was starving.
“Marina, take off your blindfold,” the woman said with a demanding voice, and I obeyed. She was about twenty-five years old and ten inches taller than I, with large dark eyes, a large nose, and narrow lips; features that had come together to create a very serious face. She was wearing a black chador. I wondered if she had ever smiled in her life.
The room we were in was an office of some sort. It was about fourteen by twelve feet with a desk, four metal chairs, and a plain metal desk covered with piles of paper. Through the barred window, the morning’s yellow sunlight reached across the floor.
“Marina, I’m Sister Maryam,” the woman said. “Brother Ali has told me about you.” She explained that the building we were in, 246, had two floors, the first floor with six rooms and the second with seven. I was to stay in room 7 on the second floor. Then she called a name over the loudspeaker. Within a few minutes, a girl about my age entered the office. Sister Maryam introduced her as Soheila. She was a prisoner and the representative of room 7.
Soheila had short brown hair and was wearing a blue sweater and black pants, and her hair wasn’t covered. I guessed that since 246 was a women’s building, we didn’t have to wear the hejab all the time. The office doors opened into an empty foyer, which was about twenty-five feet long and nine feet wide, and, as we crossed it, I noticed the stairs that led downstairs. I limped after Soheila and fell behind. She stopped, turned around, and stared at my feet.
“I’m sorry…I didn’t realize…Here, put your arm around my shoulder. I’ll help you.”
We came to a barred metal door, Soheila pushed it open, and we stepped into a narrow hallway. There were girls everywhere. We passed by three doors and followed the hallway as it turned at a ninety-degree angle. Three more doors, and then we entered the one at the very end: room 7. I looked around. The room was about twenty-five by seventeen feet, and the floor was covered with a worn brown carpet. A little above my eye level, a metal shelf ran across the wall; plastic bags filled with clothes sat on top of it and smaller bags hung from hooks beneath
After awhile, a man yelled out about ten names, including mine.
“All the people I’ve called pull their blindfolds up just a little so they can see where they’re going and line up in front of the door here. Each of you has to hang on to the chador of the person ahead of you. Don’t forget; raise the blindfold just a little. If I see anyone peeping around too much, they’ll be sorry, and once you’ve found your place in the line, fix your blindfolds and make sure they’re tight.”
I grasped the chador of the girl in front of me, and the person behind me grabbed my shawl. We went through a couple of corridors and were soon outside. It was cold. I prayed for us to arrive at our destination soon because I was close to collapsing. All I could see were the gray pavement and the chador and the feet of the girl ahead of me. Her feet were not swollen, but she had rubber slippers on, which were similar to mine and at least two sizes too big for her. I wondered what had happened to my shoes. We entered a building, followed a hallway, and climbed a couple of flights of stairs. Then the guard told us to stop, called my name, and told me to step out of the line.
“Grab this rope and follow me,” he said.
I took the rope and followed him through a doorway.
“ Salam aleikom, Sister. Good morning. I have a new one for you: Marina Moradi-Bakht. Here’re the papers.”
“Good morning to you, too, Brother. Thank you,” said a woman.
The door closed with a small click. The room was filled with the scent of freshly brewed tea. I realized I was starving.
“Marina, take off your blindfold,” the woman said with a demanding voice, and I obeyed. She was about twenty-five years old and ten inches taller than I, with large dark eyes, a large nose, and narrow lips; features that had come together to create a very serious face. She was wearing a black chador. I wondered if she had ever smiled in her life.
The room we were in was an office of some sort. It was about fourteen by twelve feet with a desk, four metal chairs, and a plain metal desk covered with piles of paper. Through the barred window, the morning’s yellow sunlight reached across the floor.
“Marina, I’m Sister Maryam,” the woman said. “Brother Ali has told me about you.” She explained that the building we were in, 246, had two floors, the first floor with six rooms and the second with seven. I was to stay in room 7 on the second floor. Then she called a name over the loudspeaker. Within a few minutes, a girl about my age entered the office. Sister Maryam introduced her as Soheila. She was a prisoner and the representative of room 7.
Soheila had short brown hair and was wearing a blue sweater and black pants, and her hair wasn’t covered. I guessed that since 246 was a women’s building, we didn’t have to wear the hejab all the time. The office doors opened into an empty foyer, which was about twenty-five feet long and nine feet wide, and, as we crossed it, I noticed the stairs that led downstairs. I limped after Soheila and fell behind. She stopped, turned around, and stared at my feet.
“I’m sorry…I didn’t realize…Here, put your arm around my shoulder. I’ll help you.”
We came to a barred metal door, Soheila pushed it open, and we stepped into a narrow hallway. There were girls everywhere. We passed by three doors and followed the hallway as it turned at a ninety-degree angle. Three more doors, and then we entered the one at the very end: room 7. I looked around. The room was about twenty-five by seventeen feet, and the floor was covered with a worn brown carpet. A little above my eye level, a metal shelf ran across the wall; plastic bags filled with clothes sat on top of it and smaller bags hung from hooks beneath
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