Letters to My Torturer

by Houshang Asadi

  Your interrogator watches every tiny movement you make. Anything you think shows in a movement somewhere in your body. Even the rhythm of your feet translates into something meaningful. When you’re blindfolded, you’re unable to see the impact of your lies in the eyes of your interrogator, to catch in his movements something that might be useful or to your advantage.

  On this battlefield, where the struggle between life and death is being played out, the blindfold removes all advantage from the prisoner. The interrogator has all the weapons at his disposal. He can see you and he can beat you. The prisoner doesn’t even know from which direction the next blow will come. Watching an approaching blow, the body automatically prepares for defence. Blinded, you are defenceless. The blindfolded prisoner is deprived of the ability to sense the moment that is vital in all interrogations, and so takes part in a ghastly, one-sided chess game in which the interrogator controls all the pieces. He scrutinizes the prisoner’s slightest movements. He watches the impact of his words and whips, and is well placed to move a fresh piece to break the prisoner. His opponent, of course, blindfolded, doesn’t even know which piece he has moved.

  Someone grabs at the corner of my jumper. I’m not yet familiar with the meaning of this action. During the Shah’s time, in this same prison, the guards would grab hold of our hands to lead us away. The blindfold is tight and I can’t see a thing. I, who have never had good hearing, am losing all sense of direction in the darkness. I suddenly fall over and hit the floor. I stand up again with difficulty. My guard says: “Pull up your blindfold just so you can see what’s under your feet.”

  I do as I’m told. We are now walking again and I see what’s under my feet – that is, with as much sight as I can conjure up without my glasses. I lift up my head and see the vague contours of the landing. He hands me over to another guard. We enter the Under the Eight. We pass through a metal door and enter the detention centre. I’m expecting them to take me into a cell, but we stop by a blanket that has been thrown onto the floor just a few steps ahead of us.

  “Stay on the blanket,” the guard barks. “Lift your hand anytime you need something.”

  Then he walks away. I take off the slippers and stand on the blanket. Then, I sit down. I lift up the blindfold and look at the wall . The cream coloured wall is familiar. I have no doubt that I’m in Moshtarek prison. I want to be sure. I lift my hand. The guard comes.

  “What’s up?”

  “Toilet.”

  “Stand up.”

  I stand up. The guard tightens my blindfold, tugs at the corner of my jumper and takes me with him. The toilets in Moshtarek prison are at the end of a corridor. They’re a filthy green colour. We arrive and enter.

  “Take off your blindfold. When you finish your business, knock on the door.”

  I take off my blindfold. I put on my glasses. I spot several large rats, which make a run for it. I look at the toilet door, the window and the sink. Yes, I’m seeing Moshtarek prison for the umpteenth time. Three arrests during the Shah’s time, once the day the crowds overran it during the revolution, and now. I wash my face. I dry it with the corner of my shirt. I put on my glasses.

  At that moment, the door opens and I see the guard. He’s a boy, very young, with plump red cheeks. I ask: “Where are we?”

  He says: “Block 2000, Evin ...”

  I laugh: “When did Evin prison move from the outskirts into the centre of Tehran?”

  The guard becomes irritated and shouts: “Shut your mouth. Put on your blindfold.”

  I put on the blindfold and we return to the detention area. I hear the muezzin’s voice as we walk back and I see, from beneath my blindfold, that the entire floor of the detention area has been covered with blankets. All the blankets are occupied. I discover later that the arrests had started at four in the morning. It is now afternoon and all the cells and blankets of Moshtarek prison’s block 1 are occupied. I sit down and hold my head between my hands. I have to collect my thoughts.

  The call to prayer and the prayer finishes. I hear the voice of one of the other prisoners shouting loudly: “We are not spies!”

  There’s a smell of food and they bring in the first meal. It’s very tasty, rice with chicken, served in a plastic container, accompanied by a red plastic spoon and cup. As always, when I’m angry, I start eating fiercely. I sit down, facing the wall. I lift up my blindfold and demolish the food.

  There’s a sound. I tighten the blindfold. It’s the sound of boots. Not the shuffling noise of slippers. The two sounds have not yet developed different meanings for me. Later on, I will always be hoping for the sound of boots. The sound of boots meant something else, it was only the shuffling that meant the torture chamber: the twodoor cells with blood-splattered walls and a rope hanging from the ceiling.

  “Stand up.”

  It’s the guard.

  I stand up. He pulls at the corner of my jumper and takes me away. We walk down the stairs; we turn left. We pass a door. The air is freezing cold. We pass through a triangular courtyard. By the two steps.

  “Be careful.”

  How kind they are. They make sure I don’t fall. I, who am still dizzy, with stars circling inside my head and burning cheeks. I, who am still hopeful in my heart of hearts.

  “The Party’s take on the situation ... The Party’s analysis of the situation ...”

  We enter the Under the Eight. The guard in charge takes over. He pulls on the corner of my jumper and leads me away.

  “If you need the toilet, go now. There’ll be no toilet time until tomorrow morning.”

  I shake my head to say no. He leaves me beside the blanket and walks out. I take off the slippers. I sit down on the blanket. The tight blindfold is making my eyes ache. I turn towards the wall and pull up the blindfold.

  Where’s my wife right now? Is she on one of these blankets?

  But she’s never been a Party member.

  When Americans carry out a coup, they arrest everybody.

  I recall Chile. Those films. The stadium massacres. Victor Jara.

  Everywhere that the coarse blindfold has touched is burning. I rub the area with my hands and close my eyes. I must try to sleep. I make a pile with my jumper and slippers, put my head on the pile and close my eyes. Clinging to a faint hope, and imagining my wife’s smile, I remember:

  “If they’ve told the truth and these men belong to the Revolutionary Guards Corps, they’ll free us tomorrow. They’re our allies in the struggle against imperialism. The Corps ... our allies ... the revolutionary democrats ... release ... my wife’s smile ...”

  Something is playing with my earlobe. I twist and turn, half-way between sleep and wakefulness. It feels like my earlobe is being chewed. I jump up. A huge rat is nibbling my ear. Another rat is about to walk over me. I shout out. The rats run away. I hear the guard’s voice. A hand hits my shoulder. I’m thrown from dream into reality.

  “Tighten your blindfold.”

  I tighten my blindfold and sit up.

  “Stand up. Go to the bathroom. Hurry up if you don’t want to miss the prayer time.”

  It must be morning. I put on my jumper and go to the bathroom. I wash my face and dry it with the corner of my shirt. I take off my glasses. I put on the blindfold and exit. The guard says:

  “So, you’re not into praying.”

  I don’t answer. We walk towards the blanket. I’ve just reached the blanket and am about to take off the slippers when someone grabs my jumper and pulls me after him. In the years to come, I will have no choice but to walk back and forth on this path.

  A metal barrier. Under the Eight. The second metal barrier. Courtyard. Icy winter. My feet freeze. My heart sinks. Two stairs. All the Brothers are worried about these two stairs: “Be careful.”

  I’m being careful. A metal door. Left turn. The stairs. Right turn. Door. A large room.

  “Go, sit down and wait for your interrogator.”

  I lift up the blindfold. I’ve not yet seated myself when I hear the shuff
ling of slippers. I sit down and put on the blindfold. The door opens. And in you come, you, Brother Hamid: “Ready?”

  I say: “Hello.”

  You answer: “Hello and fuck you. You must have slept well.”

  You don’t wait for my answer.

  “I didn’t sleep a wink. I spent the whole night reading your file and waiting for you.”

  You put a pile of paper and a blue biro on the arm of the chair. I’ve never liked writing with a blue biro.

  “You are going to write about everything, from the day you were born. Don’t leave out any details. We know everything, but you still have to write it down yourself.”

  You walk to stand behind me. You place your hand on my shoulder. I have not yet seen you and I’m trying to imagine you. You take your hand away. There’s the shuffling sound of slippers. The door opens. The door closes. You have left. I take off my blindfold. Put on my glasses. Once again, there’s me and a pile of paper that I have to fill.

  “As to who you are, that’s obvious. From the day you were born ...”

  That was the first and also the last time that you told the truth, Brother Hamid. “Who I am” is clear, as clear as daylight. I was one of the millions of young people who had grown up under a dictatorship. We wanted freedom, but didn’t know that we were sacrificing our lives only to replace one dictator with another. Like the rest, I wanted freedom, but there were only two options open to me in the monarchist dictatorship that was the Iran of my youth: Soviet-style Marxism, or religion. Iran shared its long border in the north with Russia, a country that for decades radiated with Tsarist dictatorial ideology. But the 1917 October Revolution changed all that. Like millions of other young people around the world, we were hungry for freedom and justice, and for us that revolution seemed to carry a beautiful message of hope for humanity. A message that reached the farthest corners of the world.

  Yet all that we knew about this Marxist-Leninist ideal of human society was that one day a world order would emerge in which there would be no hunger, no one would be homeless, discrimination would be a thing of the past, and human beings would be in charge of their collective destiny. Censorship didn’t allow us to know what went on behind the Iron Curtain. We had a road map that we thought would liberate our country, but we actually knew very little about it. We didn’t know then that the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics only seemed ideal from a distance.

  And the religion that the progressive religious people spoke of was another idealized world filled with beautiful sentiments of equality, brotherhood, freedom and purpose. And all of us – the communist and the religious – believed that the main barrier to our arrival at this Promised Land was imperialism and the governments that promoted it.

  So it was that by the late 1970s the Iranians living under the dictatorial regime of the Shah (who was supported by the West) chose to stand alongside those who opposed the West and the key Western powers. We were all victims of this battle, both religious and Marxists. We who didn’t have the right to know either what went on in Russia, or the true nature of the Islamic Republic that we were called upon to embrace.

  Chapter 2

  Iran of Those Days: The Age of Compassion

  Dear Brother Hamid. This is my second letter to you. I am sitting down, going through the story of my life. It’s a good opportunity to review all the things that I still remember. Who knows, maybe one day I might get trapped in your claws again, with you forcing me to confess that Sonia, who looked so like my childhood sweetheart Angie, had been a Mossad agent, or that the rest of our neighbours were spying for this or that country.

  Iran, 1958

  “Abgie! Abgie!”11

  We called her Abgie. It would piss her off and she would chase us around the pool, saying: “I’m Angie, not Abgie!”

  The house in Tehran where my father rented a room for us was spacious, like Iran. It had two storeys, and in the courtyard there was a pool filled with goldfish. They would come up to the surface of the water and nudge the overhanging geranium leaves and brush past our bare feet dangling in the water, and then dive deep into the water again for fear of cats. The cold water, which arrived in the middle of the night, was accompanied by the neighbours’ excited shouts. It filled up the terrifying, ancient reservoir and spilled into the pool. The edges around the pool were slippery and I didn’t understand how the neighbour’s daughter, thinner and smaller than me, could slide into the water like a fish on moonlit nights. I’d slide towards the edge of the flat rooftop where we all slept on hot summer nights to watch out for her. Lying on the coolness of the mattress surface, I’d look up at the stars, and wait for her to arrive. First I would smell her. Jasmine, accompanied by the rattling of a chubak12 branch. I’d smell her scent even when asleep, and would wake up. I’d be careful not wake up Aqa Sayyed, one of our neighbours. Both his wives’ mattresses were placed right next to ours. Aqa Sayyed, whom people said went begging in the nearby Armenian fort during the daytime, would wrap himself up in a green shawl, throw on a cloak and go to the minaret when the religious mourning season arrived. They said that every night his wives fought over whom he was going to spend the night with. The victorious wife would display a pair of underpants above her bed, so all the occupants of the house could see that she was the chosen one.

  The water surface shimmered with stars. Angie would slide naked into the cool water and become a fish. I would try to figure out her colouring in the moonlight, but she was colourless. Maybe she was the colour of the moon and I had failed to understand it. Maybe she was the colour of the fish, and she merged with them, becoming one with them. The rooftops were jam-packed with sleeping people and the lights were off. I was worried that someone might wake up and see me and notice her. She who was different from everyone else; she whose name was unlike anyone else’s name.

  When the rooster crowed at daybreak, the young watchman, who used to sit in the corner of the courtyard, would squat by the pool in his underpants and perform the ablution. The water must have smelled of fish. His father, dressed in a baggy suit with his shirt always buttoned-up to his neck, was the first to leave the house. He never raised his head. Next, it would be the guard’s turn. And as if following a strict hierarchical order, the poet, who limped on one leg, would make a round of the courtyard before reaching the gate. It was said that he used to be a communist and that after leaving prison, he had taken a job in a cafe to pay for his son to study in America. And Monsieur, well he would leave around midday; he had a liquor store somewhere. Last of all, my father would leave the house, cutting a dash, wearing a tie. He would shout “Ya Allah!” and polish his shoes against the side of the pool.

  The men would leave and the women would stay behind in the house. My mother always sat next to Afaq Khanum, her uncle’s wife. Together they would wash the dishes beside the well. Once, when one of the neighbourhood women objected to their friendship, because Afaq Khanum was a Baha’i, my mother tied her chador around her waist, and making sure that everyone could hear her, she shouted: “To Jesus his faith, and to Moses his. We are all Iranians – whether Baha’i, Jew or Shaykhi, it doesn’t matter.”

  The two of them giggled and whispered conspiratorially together. They would grab hold of the lapis-coloured quilts, shake them out and throw them over the washing line. I would set off, running into the scented wetness.

  The house was big and was like Iran. Every time visitors came to see the poet who lived in one of the neighbouring rooms, he would shout out loud: “This house may not have the grandeur of a palace, but what it does have is purity of heart.”

  Everybody had become accustomed to Monsieur’s sudden appearances in the middle of the afternoon. He never bothered to say “Ya Allah” to warn the household about his intention to step out of his room. So the women would shriek, pull their outer skirts over their heads to hide their faces from him, and make a run for it. And I would notice that the women used thin and colourful fabrics to cover themselves down there.

  Come sunset, wo
oden platforms would be brought out and placed next to the pool. My father would turn up the radio. The presenter would abuse the “Russians”. The poet would leave for his room. The presenter’s shouting made you feel sick in the pit of your stomach. The canaries would fall silent. The grapevines would shake, releasing bunches of grapes. Everybody would be listening and shaking their heads. My family spent seven years living in this house.

  My mother, Fatimeh, was the only daughter of a major landowner in the village of Hesar. She came from the Torbat-e Haidariya region, in the Khorasan province, where apparently a walnut tree at the head of a spring still bears my name. A place located in the realm of dreams, the kind that one is not allowed to see close up in the real world.

  Khorasan, which means “where the sun rises”, was a province in the east of Iran, now divided into three separate provinces. It was the size of France and bordered three countries: Afghanistan and Turkmenistan, which used to be part of Iran until a hundred years ago, and Pakistan, which, when it was part of India, had been conquered three hundred years ago by Nadir Shah, the last of Iran’s world conquerors. My mother’s birthplace is located in the southernmost part of Khorasan, the place where the pleasant gardens of Khorasan end and one of the world’s largest arid regions begins.

  A split had taken place in my maternal grandfather’s household. One of his brothers (my mother’s uncle) had joined the Baha’i faith, and changed his family name. His eldest son later became a prominent member of the Baha’i community, and was one of the first people to be sent to the gallows by the Islamic Republic after the revolution. I haven’t even seen a photograph of my grandfather, but he had a free spirit and a lover’s reputation, being something of a Casanova. And so it was that one day, right in the middle of work, he grabbed my grandmother (his wife) by the hand and took her to the threshing floor, covering her with a thin, cotton sheet. My mother, their only daughter, was the result of this passionate tryst. She learned basic literacy from her father, as the village had no school for girls in those days. She loved poetry, and often recited poems that she had memorized. Poetry was her way of reasoning, especially the poetry of Iran’s three great poets, Ferdowsi, Khayyam and Hafez.13