five months before. No words were exchanged during this walk. In silence, a guard passed me a plastic bag. It contained the pyjamas I had been arrested in. I was on the move – but where to, God only knew.
A guard led me through the yard and, for the first time in months, I briefly felt the sun on my face. We walked across the yard to a black Mercedes and I was pushed into the back seat. To one side sat a guard, cradling a Kalashnikov in his lap and onthe other was someone I could not quite see. The passenger seat in the front next to our heavily bearded driver was not in my limited line of vision either.
A guard outside shouted, ‘Do you have your guns and all your prisoners?’ The guard beside me grunted confirmation. ‘God be with you!’ came the reply. ‘Open the door and let them out’. Iron screeched on iron as the gate swung open. Once we were moving and swinging round the bends in the road, I took the opportunity to look at the person beside me. To my surprise I saw that it was Farhad, the man who I had sat next to the morning of my arrest, and who had been my reluctant accuser in my initial interrogation. He was wearing the same shirt, with a distinctive green stripe, that he had on when we used to meet. Then I caught sight of a woman in an Islamic black veil sitting in the front passenger seat. At one point she turned around enough for me to see that she wore a blindfold under her veil, so I assumed that it was Mariam, Farhad’s wife. I was relieved to see them both alive.
I began to believe that we had left the brutal interrogations behind us. It was my understanding – or at least my hope – that they were taking us to the Islamic court. My mind was racing, but I kept thinking that whatever the outcome of the court proceedings, at least I would not have face torture again.
The side and rear windows of the vehicle we were in had been blacked out, so it was only possible to see what was directly in our path through the windscreen. I drank in the familiar sights of Tehran rushing by. Women, hidden under black veils and with children hanging from their necks, asked for money from passers-by in the street. Some even tried to run after the cars during the journey. At busy junctions, when cars were forced to stop, women, old men and small children begging would swarm around them.
Our driver drove like he owned the road, like everyone else should be subservient to him. I swear he tried to overtake everysingle car. It came as no real surprise when we had an accident, colliding with the back of a truck. Immediately, two escort vehicles accompanying us screeched to a halt. Our driver got out, approached the elderly driver of the truck and landed a swift punch on his nose. The old man staggered back, ran to the cab of his truck and pulled out an iron bar. A fight began and the guard inside our car leapt out and joined in.
I could hardly believe it: here was the opportunity I’d been waiting for and I turned to speak to Farhad. I was so frail and had lost so much weight through torture and my stroke that I only just had time enough to explain who I was before the guards returned. The poor old truck driver had worked out who his attackers were and had got away.
After another hour of driving through thick traffic in the streets of central Tehran, we reached the north of the city. We went through a large iron door and all three of us were hauled out of the car and handed over to a new set of guards. They were armed. Whatever this place was, it did not have the feel of a court. I could hear the voice of the muezzin from a loudspeaker in the building followed by the echo of evening prayers. Farhad and I were marched to the top of a staircase and they took his wife to the next landing.
‘Don’t move your head!’ a guard shouted. ‘Don’t touch your blindfold, and keep quiet.’
They put me on one side of the landing and Farhad on the other, both facing the wall. After waiting around 15 minutes I guessed we
A guard led me through the yard and, for the first time in months, I briefly felt the sun on my face. We walked across the yard to a black Mercedes and I was pushed into the back seat. To one side sat a guard, cradling a Kalashnikov in his lap and onthe other was someone I could not quite see. The passenger seat in the front next to our heavily bearded driver was not in my limited line of vision either.
A guard outside shouted, ‘Do you have your guns and all your prisoners?’ The guard beside me grunted confirmation. ‘God be with you!’ came the reply. ‘Open the door and let them out’. Iron screeched on iron as the gate swung open. Once we were moving and swinging round the bends in the road, I took the opportunity to look at the person beside me. To my surprise I saw that it was Farhad, the man who I had sat next to the morning of my arrest, and who had been my reluctant accuser in my initial interrogation. He was wearing the same shirt, with a distinctive green stripe, that he had on when we used to meet. Then I caught sight of a woman in an Islamic black veil sitting in the front passenger seat. At one point she turned around enough for me to see that she wore a blindfold under her veil, so I assumed that it was Mariam, Farhad’s wife. I was relieved to see them both alive.
I began to believe that we had left the brutal interrogations behind us. It was my understanding – or at least my hope – that they were taking us to the Islamic court. My mind was racing, but I kept thinking that whatever the outcome of the court proceedings, at least I would not have face torture again.
The side and rear windows of the vehicle we were in had been blacked out, so it was only possible to see what was directly in our path through the windscreen. I drank in the familiar sights of Tehran rushing by. Women, hidden under black veils and with children hanging from their necks, asked for money from passers-by in the street. Some even tried to run after the cars during the journey. At busy junctions, when cars were forced to stop, women, old men and small children begging would swarm around them.
Our driver drove like he owned the road, like everyone else should be subservient to him. I swear he tried to overtake everysingle car. It came as no real surprise when we had an accident, colliding with the back of a truck. Immediately, two escort vehicles accompanying us screeched to a halt. Our driver got out, approached the elderly driver of the truck and landed a swift punch on his nose. The old man staggered back, ran to the cab of his truck and pulled out an iron bar. A fight began and the guard inside our car leapt out and joined in.
I could hardly believe it: here was the opportunity I’d been waiting for and I turned to speak to Farhad. I was so frail and had lost so much weight through torture and my stroke that I only just had time enough to explain who I was before the guards returned. The poor old truck driver had worked out who his attackers were and had got away.
After another hour of driving through thick traffic in the streets of central Tehran, we reached the north of the city. We went through a large iron door and all three of us were hauled out of the car and handed over to a new set of guards. They were armed. Whatever this place was, it did not have the feel of a court. I could hear the voice of the muezzin from a loudspeaker in the building followed by the echo of evening prayers. Farhad and I were marched to the top of a staircase and they took his wife to the next landing.
‘Don’t move your head!’ a guard shouted. ‘Don’t touch your blindfold, and keep quiet.’
They put me on one side of the landing and Farhad on the other, both facing the wall. After waiting around 15 minutes I guessed we
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