A State of Fear

by Dr Reza Ghaffari

  Discontent erupted during the first ten days of Ramadan in 1987. There was resistance in almost every block. In some, inmates from left groups would gather at the doors and demand to see the prison authorities. In block 1, 20 to 30 inmates maintained a continuous presence at the door. We did not want to go out on a limb or be left behind so we kept a careful eye on what was happening elsewhere in the prison.

  In our block, about 120 men took part in this resistance, with the Mojahedin and the hermits looking on. After a long debate, it was decided to boycott the early morning prison rations. We handed back the vats of food untouched, except for those who were not taking part in the boycott.

  This tactic was adopted by other blocks and other prisons, as word was spread via our families and prisoners. As a result food supplies went back to normal throughout Ramadan. The mullahs had given up on our souls, and been forced to pay a little more attention to our stomachs.

  Our victory was all the more remarkable when you consider that throughout the country restaurants were closed outside restricted hours at this time, and anyone seen eating in the street could be arrested. Our fight upset the sensibilities of none other than Haji Mortazavi, who came to our block at the height of this affair. ‘How can you infidels demand warm food?’ he asked. ‘Our Islamic soldiers are fasting on the front line against imperialism, even while they fight, while you want injured veterans to play the chef for you. It is impossible!’ Impossible it may have been, but we got it.

  Group exercise was another flashpoint. On this issue, the regime had the Mojahedin in its sights. They took exercise in the yard, about 30 from our block grouping at a time, going through light exercise or sometimes with one among them giving instruction in karate or the like, which would often attract members of other groups.

  Then a directive was issued banning group exercise. The left joined the Mojahedin in resisting this. More than 70 prisoners took part in a jogging group, round and round the exercise yard. We did this each day from 9 to 9.30am. A couple of older prisoners, who had been jailed under the Shah, acted as pacesetters, to make sure the younger, more energetic prisoners did not leave the pack behind. One was a Tudeh Party central committee member, and the other was from Rahe Kargar. They were at the front, and no one was to pass them. The rest followed along behind – sometimes as many as 100, sending clouds of dust from our heels as we pounded round and round.

  If the regime could stop us organising sport, we knew it could stop us doing everything under the sun. It was necessary to stick together and repulse this attack with all our might. The old and frail joined in – me included – and it gave confidence to the younger comrades to see those weak with injuries and illness in the line alongside them. There had not been such a united struggle from the blocks up until this point.

  Unprepared for a head-on confrontation, the authorities looked on and the head guard threatened us with a 24-hour lock-up if we persisted. We were not deterred and the run continued every day. But the threat was real. One day there was no run round the yard – we could not get out of our cells. We talked it through. What would be the consequences should we carry on? Would it get those who did not run with us – the quitters – locked up with us as a result?

  Discussion continued for several weeks, and most of us agreed to continue the runs as soon as we were allowed back in the yard. We heard that other blocks had got the same treatment; locked up en masse, or runners picked off, beaten and held in darkened solitary or the steam room. The steam room was a small room where 40 or 50 prisoners were crammed in so tight they couldn’t breath properly. Steam was pumped in and the men would sweat like hell, dropping like flies from the humidity after one or two hours. When all were totally exhausted, the guards would burst in with fists, clubs and cables. But clubs and steam were not enough to make us concede the fight and so it went on.

  We were told that if word of our fight got out, the offenders would be put in solitary. Whole blocks defied this order by ensuring that each and every one passed the message on during visits, making it impossible for the authorities to deal with all the offenders. Word spread and resistance consolidated. Throughout Gohardasht, ‘to be or not to be’ in the solidarity jog became the main question, overshadowing political differences inside and contradictory developments outside.

  When guards came to the cell, we would encircle them, insisting on our right to exercise, arguing that it was necessary for our health. We also pointed out that if we did not run together, then we would get in each others’ way as 200 prisoners milled around in the confined space of the yard. It would be chaos.

  One day we were visited by the head of prison security and riot squad, Haji Davoud Lashgari. We clustered round, badgering him. He screamed back, ‘I’ll open the gate but I’ll break the neck of anyone that runs together!’

  The gate opened at 8am the next morning. Men went to the yard to hang their clothes, stretch their legs, chat and mill around. At 9am sharp the solidarity jog was back pounding around the yard. The guards on the roof immediately reported this disturbance. We completed the run – tired, breathless but happy. To run or not was a political question, rather than simply a dispute over recreational amenities, and would determine the next phase of our struggle within the prison system. We carried on for two more days under the eyes of the rooftop guards.

  Day three was sunny, and we filed into the bright and warm yard on the stroke of 9am. Five minutes from the end, when we were sweating and panting our way through the last four or five laps, a small gate leading to the main corridor opened on one side of the yard. Out stormed Haji Davoud Lashgari, leading 30 members of the riot squad, smack into the front of the column of joggers. Each one down the line was bundled through the gate. The remaining members of the riot squad pinned down those further away, ensuring no one got away.

  As each man was pushed through the gate, he was flanked by two lines of guards, in the narrow landing and up the staircase – the only way out. One by one, we were forced to run a continuous gauntlet of baying, vicious guards, up three landings. It was the most horrendous beating I have ever been through, from Komiteh, Evin and the Golden Fortress. It felt like the worst of all of them rolled into one.

  Some of us didn’t make it to the second floor, and had to be dragged, semi-conscious there. We were now on another block, blindfolded, and forced to stand facing the wall on either side of the corridor. The guards lined up behind us. Anyone that fell had all hell beaten out of him until he got back on his feet. We were then beaten mercilessly for an hour. Anyone who cried out got beaten worse.

  I shouted, ‘How can you treat people like this for just running?’ I could hear them really laying into our elderly pacesetter and shouted for them to leave him alone. I heard Haji Davoud Lashgari just behind me: ‘You dare to question our brothers? I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll never forget, you bastard!’ He began to chop at me from all sides. One hand struck my floating ribs on the right side and I blacked out.

  I came to in an infirmary bed. Two guards stood over me, alongside them two Mojahedin prisoners from my block, looking at me anxiously. I could feel an oxygen mask over my mouth, and that my left arm was attached to a drip. Night had fallen. All around us was dark.

  I found my tongue and yelled with as much strength as I could muster – it was probably more of a croak – ‘Why don’t you leave us alone? What sort of Islamic justice is this? Why don’t you shoot me, so I can end this day-to-day torture?’

  It seemed that I had been taken back to the cells by my fellow joggers. But when my cell mates could not revive me, they hammered on the door until the chief guard came and decided I should be taken to the infirmary. The two comrades from the Mojahedin had volunteered to carry me.

  When I was fully conscious, I was jacked full of pain-killers, and the two Mojahedin were told to haul me back to the cells. My return was greeted by prisoners from across the political spectrum. The Mojahedin had spread the word of how I had challenged the guards in the infirmary, and this seemed
to have gone down well. Two of my cellmates looked after me. For two nights, groups of prisoners came to see me, to wish me well and check on my recovery. It was a much appreciated sign of solidarity.

  Those painful days and nights passed quickly. We had to make a decision about how to counter this latest attack. We decided to refuse to leave our cells, all but a handful of prisoners who went into the yard to exercise alone. Others went to play football: solitary figures kicking a ball with half a guilty eye on those watching them from inside. We also told our families about the horrendous beating.

  The prison was divided over our next step. Some argued that group exercise was not our problem but the Mojahedin’s, and that we should not put our necks on the line for them. Most felt that how we exercised affected all of us.

  In the meantime, struggles broke out elsewhere. Some feared the return of doomsday and quarantine. News came that a left prisoner who had been in solitary for a long period because of his resistance had managed to prise apart the thick steel slats that covered his cell window, like heavyweight Venetian blinds, to squeeze through and hurl himself from the third-story window to die on hitting the yard below.

  In another block, occupied mainly by the Mojahedin, one mentally disturbed prisoner had found a quiet moment in the bathroom and hanged himself from the door frame. In block 3, which faced ours, one Mojahedin prisoner had managed to save enough petrol from his commune’s heating and cooking ration – the amount of food we received from the jail was never enough, so food was bought from the guards’ shop whenever we could afford it – and had set himself alight. We heard the horrified cries of his comrades as they ran to put out the flames… too late.

  These were not isolated incidents but charted a drift back to despair by many who had suffered so much. In our own block was Hassan Sedighi. He was an experienced prison militant who had come through the torture rooms of Savak never even giving his name. As a former Mojahad he joined the nucleus of Rahe Kargar in its formation in prison and spent almost half of his life, 14 years, in the prisons of the Shah and Khomeini. He killed himself late one night in the shower. There he could swallow cleaning fluid without disturbance. He then returned to his cell as if he’d just paid a visit to the toilet like any other night. I was unable to sleep because of pains from my injuries and saw him sitting in front of his cell with a book on his lap.

  I sat down to talk to him, asking him about his book. ‘I’m not interested in it, really,’ he answered, ‘It’s just there’s nothing else to do’.

  His face was dark, and he looked unwell. ‘Are you sick?’ I asked.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with me’, he said.

  When I got up the next morning I was told that he was extremely ill, that he could not even breathe properly. We tried to get the guard to take him to the infirmary but this was refused. We persisted in this all day: within hours he was vomiting blood. Eventually he was carried to the infirmary. By the time he got there he was unconscious. The doctors tried to force him to vomit but were unable to help him.

  Upon hearing of Hassan’s death, several friends and comrades met to discuss what could be done as a mark of respect. The concept of some sort of ceremony took shape. Not only to commemorate Hassan but also as a show of defiance to the authorities for allowing him to die and as an opportunity for prisoners to gather in solidarity.

  This was our proposal: a short speech about Hassan’s political struggle and his opposition to the authorities within the prison system, followed by some songs and poems. And then perhaps messages from individuals and organisations. We would hold the ceremony in the prison block’s prayer room which could hold up to 200 people at around 3pm – at this time most guards would be asleep after a hefty afternoon meal and so security would be at its laxest.

  Some comrades were asked to contact the other political groups, cell by cell, to explain the need for such an occasion and to win support for it. I was to obtain support from the Mojahedin and Tudeh prisoners. In all I had to speak to 18 cells – eight Mojahedin, five Tudeh and five Majority members.

  I first approached the cell representative, asking for an opportunity to put forward a proposal. They would then give me a time to return to put my proposal, as each cell would have its own agenda for discussion each evening. I would then talk briefly about our comrade Hassan and our plans to commemorate his death. I was then asked to leave the cell while the prisoners discussed the proposal. The discussion was thorough and intense. They would debate the proposal, hearing arguments both for and against. Each cell would then vote on the proposal and then tell me the outcome.

  At the end of this week-long period of consultation, out of 22 cells, 20 had voted in favour of our proposal. In each of these 20 cells, the great majority of prisoners were in favour. One cell, that of the passives, was not approached as their non-participation was anticipated. The last cell, made up of Minority and some other leftists including Maoists, voted against the proposal. Ironically, Hassan was from this very cell. We were given a brief summary of the debates from each cell by the cell representative, but we were especially interested in the arguments in this last cell. They felt participation in such a large scale event would allow the prison authorities to identify prisoners who were prepared to take part in acts of resistance and defiance. Prisoners would thus be at a personal risk of identification and punishment – this they considered too dangerous.

  This argument was put forward in other cells, but was mostly defeated by the Mojahedin who argued, incorrectly as it happened, that such a ceremony or commemoration would have religious overtones and would not annoy the authorities or unduly attract their attention. This issue continued to be a topic of debate throughout the block even after cells had made their decision.

  The ceremony was held, as planned, in the block prayer room. Of 200 prisoners within the block, 170 attended as requested. The ceremony was held promptly at 3pm on a sunny afternoon, exactly two weeks after Hassan’s death. His family had already collected his body and, under orders from the prison authorities, arranged for a discreet burial with no ceremony. Some of our families had been made aware of Hassan’s death so the prison authorities knew that they had to be careful or there would be an international ruckus about his death inside the prison. With this in mind, we knew that we could push our luck a little bit further than usual with the authorities with our daring commemoration.

  The prayer room was a large square room with a stone floor which rarely fulfilled its intended purpose of Islamic prayer. On this occasion, the room would again not be used for prayer. Everybody filed into the room and sat on the floor in one large circle. The ceremony started with a call for a minute’s silence for Hassan. In order to avoid being seen from outside, we remained seated.

  I had prepared a short statement on Hassan’s life and death entitled ‘A Prisoner of Two Regimes’. I described Hassan’s life, of which 14 years had been spent in the prisons of the two regimes – seven under the Shah, seven more during the Islamic regime.

  Hassan had been captured while a member of the Mojahedin by Savak just as he had entered the University of Tehran as an engineering student and been put through the most vile torture. He was said to have been the most resistant captive that Savak had ever known. His refusal to even identify himself for a long period had brought upon him the most savage torture methods.

  This bravery had become widely recognised among opposition groups inside the prison. During the revolutionary upheaval he was released from prison by thousands of people who stormed through the walls of Evin and other prisons to free the Shah’s political prisoners.

  Hassan then joined the nucleus of Rahe Kargar upon its formation. He was given responsibility for organising among students at the university. Shortly after the Islamic ‘cultural revolution’ he was again arrested. He was brought to Evin for a second time, after again suffering a period of severe torture. To his amazement, he found that some of his interrogators and torturers had been his fellow prisoners under the Shah! He was
given ‘special’ treatment as he was not only an opponent of the regime but had also turned his back on Islam on leaving the Mojahedin. He had become at once an unbeliever and an apostate. He was, in fact, lucky not to have been shot while in Evin.

  We had assembled to commemorate Hassan’s murder by the prison regime and to remind ourselves that Hassan took his life as the prison authorities had given him nothing to live for. He had become a martyr because the Islamic regime would not respond for a full 24 hours to treat him to save his life. For this reason, we held the Islamic regime responsible for his murder in Gohardasht.

  I read this tribute in a loud, clear and emotional manner. The meeting was taut with restrained emotion. Some comrades began to weep. There then followed a revolutionary poetry recital by Karim, a young Mojehad who had been jailed when aged just 15. During a six-year period of torture and interrogation he had become a Tavab (under Haji Davoud’s Golden Fortress prison regime) but since the period of increased resistance and the demise of the Tavab system, he had once again become an active member of the Mojahedin.

  Upon hearing of the proposal for the ceremony, he had asked me to allow him to recite poetry. I consulted with others before answering him. Some were concerned about his past Tavab activities, but the commemoration organising committee was prepared to accept my recommendation to allow him to recite his poetry. It was possible that more Mojahedin would be attracted as a result. In security terms, he would be jeopardising his own rather than ours.