Oriana Fallaci and the Substandard Prison

And I was determined from the start to be the Oriana Fallaci of Iran (Oriana Fallaci is the famed Italian journalist who interviewed many world leaders and is known for her outspoken manner.)
This was not just a pipe dream. I studied journalism in college and became a journalist. When the Shah was in power, I wrote what people wanted. When the revolutionary movement of the late 1970s gathered momentum, I followed “news” around the country. I went to Paris and interviewed ayatollah Khomeini. That is when I asked him, out of concern for the future: Will Iran go from the dictatorship of the boot to the dictatorship of the sandal (the clerics in Iran are famous for wearing sandals)? He of course replied in the negative. But we faced a different outcome.
A few months after ayatollah Khomeini returned to Iran, newspapers were shut and we were turned away from our newspapers and homes on charges of being affiliated with the oppressors. Just one year later my husband was imprisoned and spent the next six years and two weeks in the very prisons that Mr. Khomeini had promised to shut and turn into ‘universities.’ In the prison of the Islamic republic of Iran, he ‘confessed’ to be being a ‘spy’ for the ‘West’ and being connected to a coup d’état. Prior to being subjected to these ‘confessions’, he spent much time simply barking. Yes I mean barking like a dog. His interrogators treated him like a dog: a prisoner who was obliged to see his friends everyday in coffins that had been created for them by the interrogators. They were forced to lie flat, in complete darkness. In those days, nobody was concerned about prisons and torture. In those days there were no investigative committees, and mothers did their mourning at home.
And  for me, myself there was no choice left but to remain incognito. I stayed under the radar. In those days, people like me either had to die, or stay out of sight. This was the situation for many years. But the Oriana that had settled somewhere in my soul and heart  always brought me back inspiration that one day I would speak of nothing but life. (In Iran, Oriana’s book, Nothing, and So Be It, was a hit with Iranian intellectuals, and this is a reference to that.)
When the 1997 reformist movement in Iran picked up momentum, my inner Fallaci took over my being and pushed me forward. I again worked as journalist; I could breathe and exist once again. I even forgot the imposed scarf that I was wearing as my homeland took a more human color.
Alas this period was short. Soon I had to reply to questions raised by a prosecutor who is dear to the Islamic republic, Mr. Saeed Mortezavi. I had to wear a black chador which smelled of despotism, and of prison. Interrogators in his office would ask me:
-    Who said you are a journalist? You were affiliated with the Shah’s regime, and are a mercenary of the West.
I wept under the chador, hidden to the eyes of the prosecutor. But Fallaci’s brave voice would come out of me:
 - I am a journalist and not a mercenary. And I love my country.
But the prosecutor was not listening to me; he was on the phone. He was receiving instructions which would seal my fate, and those of other ‘suspects’.
-    You are an agent of the West, a spy, a mercenary, a whore.
Soon after that I was taken to the basement of the morality police headquarters (where more than 400 journalists, political and civil activists, film-makers, and writers were interrogated illegally. In reality, they were practicing the ways that would eventually become standard operating procedures at  Kahrizak prison, which was shut last week on orders of Mr. Khamenei because of its ‘substandard’ conditions) where I had to reply questions raised by a short man who always had a clenched fist. ‘With whom did you plan the cultural invasion? Which countries are supporting you in the velvet revolution?’ he would ask.
And so once again I was barred from working as a  journalist, and even from my voice-over work where I imitated bugs, mice etc. And then they raided my house and searched it without a warrant, taking away my personal belongings, including the seven thousand books that I had collected in my personal library.
This is how I ended up one day at Paris’ Orly airport, a political refugee.
I was one in thousands, a person without a name. I was now in a society where I neither had a name nor a job, nor a future. My inner Oriana was very sad once again.
Oriana Fallachi was struggling with cancer, but it was me who was in fact dying. So I reverted to my inner Oriana and rose. With the help of my husband and my friends who also had a similar plight as me, I resurrected myself. We launched the Rooz Online electronic newspaper. And it became a success. From a suburb of Paris, I interviewed ayatollah Montazeri (the most senior dissident cleric in Iran) and Ahmad Batebi (a student activist who was jailed and then fled Iran to live in exile). Once again I felt a smile on my face which sat well with the Oriana inside me.
No! We will not surrender. Iran is our country, our home. It is our right and we shall reclaim it.
As soon as the election season arrived, people came out and voted again. I saw from afar how the children of my home country put on a green attire and in unison called for freedom. While seeing all this from such a distance was painful, it also brought hope and energy. I wrote in my diary then: We shall return to Iran. The green Iran, the free Iran.
But again the dream did not happen. This time there was a coup d’état. A midget politician, a liar, with a dirty and nasty smile was announced the winner. People couldn’t take any longer. They poured into the streets in protest. They came in silence and with green headbands. We all cried out: Where is my vote? We heartened each other by chanting, “Don’t be afraid, we stand united.” But the response to our calls was nothing but lead bullets. Bullets that aimed only at heads and hearts. And so once again, we have death everyday but still continue our struggle. In the open eyes of Neda, in the blood of Sohrab and in the chest of Ashkan where three bullets reside, in the cries of Saeed Hajjarian, and in the inured bodies and humiliated souls of hundreds of students from my homeland who were beaten up while sleeping in their college dormitories and who received daily beatings as stipends in the basements of the Ministry of Interior while being deprived of water.
And now, Mr. Khamenei orders the closure of Kahrizak den for its “substandard’ conditions while he lays the groundwork for his - and that of his son’s - permanent rule. But are these desperate measures sufficient for the painful hearts of mothers whose children died at Kahrizak prison?
No Sir! The so-called leader of the Muslim world, the absolute religious ruler. To satisfy us today, you have to shut the den of those who perpetrated the coup d’état. Those who forced our children to “lick” the bathrooms of Kahrizak prison must be brought before the law and punished so that we can feel that justice has been served. Mr. Khamenei, we will not abandon our struggle and go home with such orders (the closure of Kahrizak prison). We will stay and fight so long as you are here. We shall continue our struggle so long as Ahmadinejad, Mortezavi, Haddad and your other colorful commanders are here. We have not tolerated this pain just to hear your orders to close the Islamic Guantanamo for its ‘substandard’ conditions and to thank you for it. Our battle has passed this phase.
Yes, the Italian journalist Oriana Fallaci died and her body was buried in her home country. And with respect. But I who carry the living Oriana in my heart live, write, fight and die, and return to life in this French little town on a daily basis along with my fellow countrymen in Iran. I write and shed tears. We are right and we shall continue our struggle.