Evin Prison’s Downhill Road

Whenever someone asks me how long my husband was kept in prison, I tell them six years, two weeks and some hours. Why do I respond in such precise detail? The answer may be simple, but understanding it is not. You must have a prisoner among yourself, have had him or her freed, s/he must have told you what they did to her/him, cried with her/him and even returned her/him yourself to prison on a gloomy evening, such as Evin prison, to understand what the families of Iranians who have prisoners behind bars are going through these days.

My husband was released in 1988 along with a few hundred other prisoners, who were the left-overs of thousands who had not been as lucky as they were and who had been executed. But release is not the right word for those who left Evin. It would be more appropriate to say that Evin was an assembly line where after its bloody operators were quenched with the blood of its residents, let go of what was left of the human beings it held. And at the last stop of this assembly line each person who took the next step out was stamped. “Released”.

They called me late into the night telling me to bring a guarantee or a form of bail early the next morning.

We asked why the call this late into the night?  Their answer was that this is how it was.

I will make the story of our search for an acceptable bail for the next day is the subject of another story. To cut the story short here, I will say that they took our guarantee or bail not the next morning but two weeks and a few hours later. Our prisoner of course was released just for a few hours the next day, as a public relations stint to demonstrate that he was part of the much advertised “general amnesty.” He had to return to prison at night, as had all the others until the “administrative work” was complete.

They told us that this administrative work would take just a few hours, but it exactly those two weeks that I mention above.

During this two week period, my husband came home every morning and returned to Evin in the evening. In the morning we lived but as evening approached, the weight of the whole world would return on our shoulders. In the evening, we gradually but reluctantly would begin putting on our clothes. We delayed the event by doing so many little meaningless things like going from one to the next in our little apartment. We were both together and separated. Each was in his or her own world with hundreds of questions on our minds: Would he return to us tomorrow? What would happen if the gentlemen made a different decision? Is this the last drop of freedom?

No matter what we did and how we did things, we would eventually start our journey towards Evin prison. On the way, we would talk with each other simply for the sake of talking and communicating and feeling out each other. We would even laugh inadvertently without any cause. We would make hypothetical plans. But as we approached the last leg of the ride to the top of the hill at the end of which was the gate, silence would prevail over everybody. There was only one thought: Is this the beginning of another round of torture? We would not know and moved to the slaughter house like sheep and then after “delivery” would turn around and drive back in complete incapacitation.

We would feel completely empty the moment the gate of Evin was shut. That image of him bending into the building will haunt me for the rest of my life. His drooping shoulders, and his last look into my eyes, like the pigeon who dreams of its last drop of water before it is beheaded. I would sit behind wheel of the car, immobilized, as I stared into nothingness. Until the night arrived. Then I would turn the car and start the uphill ride, which was an endless effort that would even take the breath of the car away.

These days, the returns to Evin prison appear to be very different. In those days we had to be alone. No one was allowed to accompany us, unlike today where dear ones line up to greet or say farewell. There was no candy to celebrate, no sweets to share. But still, the story is the same. What is Abdollah Momeni’s wife thinking as she drives home after dropping off her husband at Evin? How did Momeni look as he crossed that line from street to prison? What was on his mind as they drove to the prison? What was on her mind?

Oh prison guards, you have not changed. You are doing exactly what you were doing thirty years ago. Late night telephone calls; heavy bails; rejection of bails; short prison leaves; etc. But also the same prison and the same agents and the same security tactics.

But we have changed. We have learned not to abandon each other. Today, Abdollah Momeni’s wife is as sad as we were in 1988 when we “returned” our loved one to Evin. Today she gets energy from the empathy of a nation which has walked through minefield created by these “gentlemen” and while they have lost Neda, Sohrab, Kianoosh and others, it has regained its confidence and hope. Yes, we have changed. But you remain the butchers of Evin. You now have more stars and stripes on your shoulders, or even wear plain clothes to disguise yourself.

So, my sister Fatemeh, do not be sad. Abdollah will not be sacrificed like the prisoners of 1988 were. In those days we were alone, today we are countless.