There were 34 of us thrown into a 20-meter cell. Cell no 4 in block 5 of the Amuzeshgah [1]. Doors opened four times every 24 hours for us to rush towards the wash basins and toilets. Even here we had to watch our behaviour since any misbehaviour was punished.
Outside the cell on every wall, door, corridor, and even in the toilet and washroom of the block were pictures of government leaders and their slogans. But on the cell walls there was no place for government propaganda. This is where we hung our sacks and belongings.
Despite the lack of space our hearts were big. We pooled the money given by our relatives during visiting time and bought fruit and medicines for everyone to use, depending on their needs. The regulation for eating, sleeping and sitting, with all its limitations was tolerable, and even full of quite jokes and half swallowed laughter. The cell was like an island in a swamp. A small island from which 34 persons were taken for interrogation, tortured, whipped and then returned to the same place.
At night after supper we organised classes. Four persons here, five there, seven on that side and another three in this corner. Some learnt English, some mathematics, some economics, and others French. Although we had neither pencil or paper we wanted to share our knowledge amongst ourselves. Anyone with any hoarded knowledge became a teacher for those who had none.
On Fridays the interrogators were off. We had the use of the courtyard three times a week, each time for 20 minutes. We were thrilled at the chance to breathe fresh air, watch the sky and see the sun. Play and exercise also reduced the fatigue, exhaustion and the pain.
We also had out own special rules, and among these was that when a newcomer arrived we sat around the cell and introduced ourselves. Twice a week after supper we could also recount our own tale or a story for cellmates.
We were in the courtyard when they brought him to our cell. A tall thin man, sitting in a corner and eating an apple from a fruit bowel. We took our places around the cell and introduced ourselves one by one. When it was his turned he said: “The interrogator calls me Yusef, but my name is Joseph. I am a Christian. But Lajevardi [2] has said that I must accept that Khomeini is my imam and that of all the Christians of Iran”.
The entire cell burst out laughing. But he did not laugh. Once in a while he glanced sadly at the lads [3] when the cell door opened and an angry pasdar [revolutionary guard] appeared on the threshold and demanded the cause for the laughter. No one spoke and after a few seconds he left locking the door behind him. One of the lads, who we had chosen as spokesman, reassured Joseph that here we will call him by his own name and will respect whatever religion or school he belongs to. He calmed down and said “The main thing is God, and there is only one. We don’t have hundreds, do we? Anyway our prophet and that of Muslims are compatriots. One should not start a fight over religion.”
That is how Joseph joined our 34-strong group, and as soon as he had learnt of our rules for life in prison, put his hand in his pocket and put all his belongings which was 250 tomans into the kitty and joined one of the groups for “municipality” duty [4].
On our first Friday with Joseph we were deprived of our airing. At 3 o’clock a pasdar opened the door “because you laughed aloud the other day there is no airing today!” We all became annoyed, especially Joseph who was pining for 3 pm to get some fresh air. I cannot recall what we did till supper. When after supper it was time for storytelling Joseph was the first to volunteer. The account he told us I have not forgotten to this day. This is the story I will recount for you. He told it to us slowly and quietly:
I had no intention of recounting my tale. I thought they would release me. I have been captive for two years. Sometimes in solitary, others in the general cell-block. Hoping for release I have never opened my heart to anyone. Never told a soul why I was arrested. What trials I have had to endure in the last two years. Your friendship, kindness and bravery have made me trust you and tell you my story.
We lived in Nosrat Street, South Amirabad [Teheran]. My father, my grandfather and me, we all grew up in this house. We had a turnery near Gomrok square. I learnt lathing from my father and am fairly skilled. After my high school diploma I began work as a lathe operator in the same shop. We earned well. That is why we decided to build another floor on top of our house so that I could marry. We finished it in five or six months. I went to the 24th Esfand Square – now called Revolution Square – to get two labourers to dig up and tidy the garden. At that time the square was where unemployed labourers gathered. As soon as they realised I needed a worker more than 40 gathered round me. Each tried to push themselves forward. In the end I chose two who pleaded most and took them home. It took three days to tidy up the garden and during this time our family got to know Khalil and Hossein. Thereafter, whenever we needed a helping hand we called one or both. They had arived from one of villages near Qom and were pretty badly off. Sometimes they laboured, at other times they were hawkers. They lived in Halabi-Abad, a shanty town near the airport.
That year I married. One day when me and my wife were passing the 24th Esfand square we saw Khalil. We asked him how he is. He complained of not having work or money. I wrote down the address of our shop and said he could come over for a couple of days to clean the place up. When I finished talking he said:
“Yes of course, if Hossein Aqa [Mr] permits”.
Surprised I asked what had this to do with Hossein Aqa? Khalil shook his head and said: “Circumstances sir. Mr Hossein is now chief. He runs the square. Without his permission no one can take on a job. Anyone who wants a labourer must pay up to him.”
I could not believe what I was hearing. For this reason I assured him that I won’t tell anyone and he could come over and work for us for a couple of days without anyone knowing. But Khalil was adamant:
“I can’t. If he finds out his gang will beat me up. He won’t let me come here ever again to find work.” I asked “where is Hossein?”
“He hasn’t arrived yet”
“What are you afraid of then?”
“His gang are here”
“So come tomorrow if you can” and I said goodbye. At 8.30 next morning a motorbike stopped outside the shop. Khalil and Hossein had come together. They came in. Hossein greeted me and shook hand in the manner of the Gomrok square yobs: “Brother Joseph look underneath your feet as well, you know that we are dust beneath your shoes”.
While exchanging greetings with him I showed Khalil what needs to be done. After a while Hossein said goodbye, again in the manner of yobs. In the afternoon I gave Khalil his pay and said I expected him next morning at the same time. Khalil, as he was putting away his pay into his pocket, said: “Hossein Aqa has asked that you pay him 20 tomans to buy some cigarettes. Reluctantly I gave another 20 tomans for Hossein. Next day Khalil returned alone and when he was collecting his pay he asked for another 20 tomans for Hossein. I replied that I has paid twenty tomans cigarette money yesterday. “That was for yesterday” he replied. “For each days work Hossein takes 20 tomans for himself. If he can, he also takes 20 tomans from the employer.” I said this is pure extortion. Extortion is not a good thing. I am against extortions. I don’t pay tributes. Khalai said:
“This is not our old Hossein. He has his own gang. He even uses little kids. It is better not to tackle with him!”
I said “if Hossein asks for his 20 tomans from you just tell him Joseph pays no extortion fee”. He left worried and agitated. A week later a group of 8-9 year old children broke our shop window with stones and scuttled before we could gather ourselves.
A month passed and one day Hossein turned up at the shop before lunch. He greeted and laughed like a yob, spoke of this and that and finally asked me for 200 tomans. Both my father and I were really enraged. But instead of quarrelling we advised him to stop extortions and find a decent job. After Hossein had left, our neighbour across the road, who sold Opel car spares, came over to enquire what was up. After he heard that we had not paid Hossein he said:
“This bully has recently turned up in Gomrok square. He has approached shopkeepers and the prostitutes working in Shahre-No. He has gathered 10-20 people around him the worst of which are eight or nine-year-olds. It was these same kids who smashed the shop window of the Mazda spares seller at the corner of the square. Last night they cracked the skull of a prostitute with a stone before running off.”
What our neighbour had said began to make me and my father anxious. Fearful, I went to Khalil’s house that same night in Halabi-Abad and gave him 200 tomans to pass on to Hossein. From then on Hossein would turn up each week, potter around the shop a while, collected his dues and leave.
Then one day in November 1978 he came into the shop with a totally new look: black trousers and jacket, black shirt, unshaved, a long rosary with small beads in hand. He greeted me, sent a greeting to the Prophet, and asked for 2000 tomans for the family of those who had been killed by the [Shah’s] army. There was no way out and we gave Hossein 2000 tomans. The next day was a demonstration. A huge crowd had gathered in Gomrok Square and marched towards Pasteur Street shouting slogans. In front of the procession were a few mullahs, and right behind them the extortionists of Gomrok Square and Shahre-No. Hossein was smack in the middle of the extortionists.
It was the spring of 1979 when father and I decided to sell the shop and with the capital buy three apartments in Arya Shahr. The apartments were attached and on the street. So we joined the ground floor of all three into a shop to sell car spares and tyres. We had barely begun when a jeep stopped in front of the shop and a couple of pasdars entered the shop and said: “Hajji Aqa has asked that you might come over to the Komite for half an hour. [5]” “Which Hajji Aqa?” I asked the pasdar. “Hajji Aqa Hossein” he replied.
I went to the Komite that same day and asked for Hajji Aqa Hossein. They took me to the room of the head of the Komite. I was terrified through and through. I tried to keep my poise. I greeted. Hossein motioned me to sit down. I sat on the chair opposite his desk. There was silence for some seconds. Hossein began to speak Farsi with an Arabic accent. I don’t know why but here and there he kept greeting the Prophet. Finally he asked me to give him 1000 tomans a week to distribute among the family of the martyrs of the revolution.
I had barely opened the shop and had no idea of any profit of loss and said we just don’t have that kind of money. Hossein got up angrily and came and stood in front of me with his long rosary and eyes that were bloodshot: “you are gulping down rent from three flats and still pretend that it is beyond you? You will find out who runs the show once I have confiscated your shop and apartment as a counter-revolutionary.” Frightened, I haggled. Until Hossein said his last word and walked back to his desk: “There is no way I will take less than 700 tomans.”
I paid up 700 tomans ever week. Regular. Until the Iran-Iraq war started. Again Hajji Aqa Hossein send word for me to go to the Komite. This time he wanted more money on the excuse of helping the war fronts. All my pleas that our earnings are not like they were before fell of deaf ears. He insisted that the rent of two of the apartments should be handed to him for the war fronts. I had no choice but accept, and for a whole year handed him huge sums monthly.
It was spring of 1981 when a friend asked “are you getting receipts for all this help you give to the fronts?” No, I said. He then told me that it would be better to deposit the money into the special war bank account and keep the receipts which will come in useful for getting car spares. From then on I paid in 8000 tomans monthly to the war account and let Hajji Aqa Hossein know. In October he summoned me to the Komite. In a friendly way he asked me to pass on the money to him rather than putting it into the bank account. Cash. I refused and left his room. On October 23 the shop phone rang around noon. It was Hajji Aqa Hossein who wanted me in the Komite urgently. I wanted to ignore him but my father made me go and I did. When I entered his room I saw my wife wearing a black chador [6], slumped limp and listless on a chair. Hajji Aqa Hossein was holding a Qur’an in hand and murmuring something under breath. As soon as he saw me he began to swear: “Have you no honour? How do you allow your wife to walk the streets without hejab [Islamic covering]? Have you no shame?” And words to this effect. In the end he threatened to lock her up a few nights to teach her a lesson and “whip her because of she had flouted the hejab rules.”
I was going mad from anger, but in front of armed pasdars could do nothing. I went over and sat next to my wife and held my head in my hands. After a few minutes my wife said “Hajji Aga fine me on this occasion. If I did it again then whip me”. Hajji Aqa Hossein raised his head. His face was covered by a smile “That’s fine, but I want it in cash – 10,000 tomans. There is no bargaining”.
I agreed and it was decided that I hand it over in a few days. He also took a written undertaking from my wife that she will obey the Islamic dress code.
Two months after this I heard that the Komite had changed heads and the new chief was a mullah called Safari, who had lost a son in the war, had taken over from Hajji Aqa Hossein. I was delighted that we had seen the last of him. But this happiness lasted only a few days. Mullah Safari called together all the neighbourhood shopkeepers and at the end of a long speech asked of them all either to go to the fronts or give financial donations. He then pointed to me and said “Just like Mr Joseph, who although he is a Christian, has volunteered to send 20,000 tomans a month to the fronts”.
As soon as I heard this I got up and said “Hajji Aga the entire wealth of me and my father is three apartments and a shop. The rent of the three apartments is 12,000 and the shop earns at best 15,000. Our family combined is eight. With the cost of living being what it is even now our earnings and spending do not fit. How then can we pay 20,000 to the fronts? And anyway who told you I had volunteered this sum? I have been paying regularly 8,000 tomans to the war fronts. Where am I to get the extra?
Hajji Aqa Safari ignored me and began speaking with the other shopkeepers. Slowly they all dispersed. At around 10 next morning a group of hezbollahis gathered outside my shop shouting: Down with Israel. Some even leant over into the shop and told us we are Israeli spies.
That day my father rang the Komite many times until he got hold of Hajji Aga Safari and find out the reason for this disturbance. Hajji Aqa Safari told him the only and sole solution is to pay up the 20,000 tomans to the war fronts. Helpless, we closed shop and went to the Komite. Our pleading merely led to the agreement that we pay 8000 monthly to the war account and 4000 to the person of Hajji Aqa Safari. When we got back the hezbolahis had vanished.
Some months passed. Inflation was galloping like a horse. Our earnings could not meet our simple lifestyle. We decided to sell the flats and shop. One day I was waiting for a taxi in the Revolution Square, when I heard the familiar voice of Khalil. We shook hands and exchanged greetings. He was still a labourer and came regularly to the Revolution Square for work. I asked about Hajji Aqa Hossein. He shook his head sad and dejected saying “These are bad times dear Joseph. Did you know that Hossein has got an important post in the Revolutionary Court. His older brother is busy in the ministry of commerce. And his younger brother heads the motorised hezbollahis of Nazi Abad.”
On hearing this news I began to shiver with fear. I said goodbye to Khalil and got home by taxi. I told the news to my father and wife. They too became extremely agitated. My father believed that we should sell the property as soon as possible and move house.
It was the afternoon of 23 March [7] 1982 I was strolling in Laleh Park with my wife when four pasdars came towards us and without any explanation ordered us to the patrol car nearby. We had no choice. When we got to the car I immediately recognised Hajji Aqa Hossein who was sitting in the patrol car in pasdar uniform. On his breast was the insignia of the Revolutionary Court. He got out of the car and ordered the pasdars to make a round of the park and came over to us. First he asked about our wellbeing. I complained of the inflation and low income when he interrupted: “I have heard from your local estate agent that you plan to sell the flats and shop.” What can we do, I said, when income and expenditure are at odds there is no choice. He said it is best to sell the flat and shops in one go to him. I said we are not in a hurry. He said don’t worry, whenever you want to sell it you must sell it to me. You are not permitted to sell it to anyone else. Fifty fifty.
“What does fifty fifty mean?” I asked.
He replied
“It means that I pay you 50 percent of its price. In return, however, you get my permission to sell them!”
I lost patience and said “Hajji Aqa until when do you want to milk us” Until when do we have to pay you tributes? There is a limit to injustice and tyranny. Daylight robbery! Oppression! We are tired of this, fed up. We are at out wits end. Extortion no extortion!”
Just then the patrol car with the pasdars arrived. Hajji Aqa who was furious turned to the pasdars and pointing to my wife shouted: “take this whore to the Revolutionary Prosecutors to sample the taste of not obeying the hejab!”
I rushed over panicking to the pasdars saiding: “Look at her. She has a long manteau, a scarf, not even a strand of hair is showing. The Hajji Aga is lying. He is just an extortionist. He wants tribute from me.”
I had not finished speaking when one of the pasdars punched me hard on the mouth. The blow was such that I fell to the floor and my mouth filled with blood. Hajji Aqa Hossein went towards my wife and tried to push her into the patrol car. I lost all control and got up with all my might and rushed at the Hajji Aqa and held him tight from behind. But the pasdars fell on me and beat me senseless with fists and boots. I span so many times that I swooned to the ground. They threw me into the patrol car and took my half dead body to the Zanjan Komite. Luckily my wife managed to run away in this confusion. They fabricated a case against me. The head of Zanjan Komite himself asked me questions and handed me over to Evin prison with the accusation of spying for Israel, insulting the imam [Khomeini], co-operation with the counter-revolution and carrying illegal arms.
All 2002 and 2003 I was under interrogation. Two months ago my interrogator was changed. The new one says if I learn the Qur’an and become a Muslim, and agreed to be circumcised and do a television interview I will be freed. Only a few days ago he wanted me to recite “we are all your soldiers, Khomeini” one hundred times. I did it out of fear. I implored that I am a Christian, my father, mother, ancestors were all Christian. We too believe in god. We have a holy book. Our holy book is recognised by Islam. Our prophet is recognised by the prophet Mohammad. Why are you doing this to us? But my arguments and implorings has no effect on him. He fell on me with a cable and the result is what you see.
Joseph went quiet. He held his head low. He put his hands on his swollen injured and bruised feet. He slowly began to massage his wounded toes.
It was time to sleep. We all had to lie in our places. Minutes later 35 prisoners, crushed together, were deep in thought, silent and sad. From behind the wire mesh, from the small window next to the ceiling, the moon sent in its silver rays as a present to the cell.
From The Book of Prison: An anthology of prison life in the Islamic Republic Of Iran, Edited Nasser Mohajer, Noghteh Books, Paris 1998. Translated by Mehdi Kia
Footnotes
1. Amuzeshgah = “education block” is one of Teheran Evin Prison’s buildings
2. Evin’s feared chief prosecutor/interrogator. He was later assassinated.
3. It is customary to talk of fellow inmates as bacheha translated here as lads.
4. Shahrdari = literally municipal worker – self selected groups of prisoners who took turns to serve their cell mates.
5. Hajji Aqa is a man who has been to the Hajj pilgrimage in Mecca. The Komite were the post-revolutionary committees that ran the neighbourhoods. They were under the control of the local Mosque.
6. A shapeless cloth covering head to toe.
7. Iranian new year starts 21st March.