After Tehran Page 16

  I heard a rustle of fabric and then footsteps, and a hand hung on to my chador from the back. It was the woman from the other cell. Like me, she was blindfolded. I grabbed the end of the stick the guard placed in my hand, and we followed her.

  The woman who was following me to the showers was the only Baha’i I met in the prison, even though there were many others.

  At the door of the shower room, the guard made sure we understood that we had only five minutes.

  “If you take longer, I’ll drag you out naked!” she barked.

  The other prisoner and I stepped in and closed the door behind us. Hastily, we both started to undress. Once we had removed our chadors, we turned our backs to each other to give us each some privacy.

  “My name is Marina,” I said, pulling off my shirt and putting it in the bottom of the plastic bag that contained my towel.

  “Minoo,” she said.

  “You Baha’i?” I asked.

  “Yeah. You Christian?”

  “Yeah.” I slid off my pants and put them in my bag.

  “I heard what she said to you,” Minoo told me.

  I didn’t react.

  I took off my bra and panties and stepped into a shower stall. Minoo did the same. The cement floor was rough under my feet, but it seemed relatively clean. The water was lukewarm. At least it was not freezing cold.

  “The guard said … you … you married your interrogator … Is it true?” Minoo asked.

  I soaped my hair and body as quickly as I could.

  “I heard a woman scream last night. Was it you?” Minoo wanted to know.

  I rinsed off the soap, stepped out of the stall, and wrapped myself in my towel.

  “You might want to hurry up,” I advised. “I don’t think the guard was kidding when she said she would drag us out of here naked.”

  Water was dripping from my hair as I donned my clothes. Minoo was now drying herself. She was in her late twenties.

  “I wasn’t screaming,” I said. “I don’t anymore.”

  “I haven’t been able to sleep,” Minoo said. “All night, I think someone will rape me.” Tears were falling down her cheeks.

  “Are you married?” I asked her.

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t worry. They won’t touch you.”

  “Is this how it works?”

  “People don’t talk about these things … but I think you’re safe.”

  “Is anyone else from your family here?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Lucky you. My parents and my husband are here, too.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “Dear God! A child!”

  “How long have you been here?” I asked. She must have been arrested recently if she was surprised to see a seventeen-year-old in Evin.

  “Three days.”

  “I hope they let you go soon.”

  The shower-room door was kicked open, and the woman guard barged in.

  “Didn’t I tell you not to talk to each other? Move!”

  When the guard let Minoo into her cell, I heard some strange noises. Minoo moaned. I guessed that the guard had pushed and hit her.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” I said when the guard closed the door of Minoo’s cell.

  “I do what I want! I’ll beat you to death!”

  She didn’t, probably because she was afraid of Ali. She just locked me up and left. I never saw Minoo again.

  Even though Ahl al-Ketab (People of the Book: Christians, Jews, and Zoroastrians) are recognized religious minorities in Iran, according to some—but not all—Shia religious leaders, they are considered kafar and as a result are categorized as najess, or “unclean.” A kafar is a person who has denied God and the prophet-hood of Muhammad. Ayatollah Khomeini discussed the nejasat—“uncleanliness”—issue in detail. When asked what the status of Ahl al-Ketab was in relation to purity, he said, “Non-Muslims of any religion or creed are najess.”*

  Most of my friends are Muslim, and they do not at all consider those who follow other religions unclean. Even Ali didn’t believe that I was najess and did not agree with Khomeini on this matter.

  According to the Islamic law that governs Iran, Ahl al-Ketab are supposed to be protected and have the right to practise their religion. However, the Baha’i, who are the largest religious minority in Iran, remain “non-recognized” and do not have legal status. The authorities have declared them “unprotected infidels.” According to the laws of the Islamic Republic, everyone must belong to one of the four officially recognized religions. For example, in order to apply for the general examination to enter any university in Iran or to apply for any job in the government, the applicant has to answer a multiple-choice question about his or her religion. This question has four possible answers: Muslim, Zoroastrian, Jewish, or Christian.**

  As I walked to the podium of the RCMP seminar in Ottawa in 2007, I did not feel nervous. Since the publication of Prisoner of Tehran, I had had a great deal of practice in public speaking, and I was used to the anticipating silence of the audience. They had their mindsets, perspectives, and expectations, but I didn’t think about that as I looked at the crowd. I had learned to take myself out of the space I was in physically. I entered a state of mind where I was alone with only one other person, an imaginary friend who had finally asked me the question I had long yearned to hear: “What happened to you?” I always started at the beginning. I spoke about my childhood, our apartment in downtown Tehran, our neighbourhood, and our cottage by the Caspian Sea … I painted a vivid picture, and as I went on, I could see the colours, smell the scents, and hear the sounds of my homeland. So many years had gone by since Evin, and this gap had made it possible for me to feel safe enough to enter the world that had caused me great suffering. But the passage of time had not made me immune to pain. My talks were always a balancing act over an abyss of devastating sadness. However, as I felt the dark heavy grief rise toward me like a huge wave, I also felt a sense of peace, which became a life jacket keeping me afloat. I was finally bearing witness.

  I am always in control when I talk about how they tortured me. As I speak about the lash landing on the bare soles of my feet, I never flinch. My heartbeat always quickens and my hands become icy, but that is all. I always admit that I would have sold my soul to escape the torture. Even though I felt abandoned, frightened, alone, forgotten, and ashamed as they were beating me, and I wondered what I had done to deserve it, now I know that my torturers were afraid of me. I had threatened them in such a manner that they wanted me to die in a horribly painful way. They wanted to wipe me out of existence. Now I understand that I shouldn’t have felt ashamed under torture even when I felt broken, because there was a part of me that they never managed to destroy.

  What always makes me emotional and brings tears to my eyes is talking about my prison friends. They know how it feels to be in prison instead of high school. They know what it means to be like a piece of glass that has fallen from a tremendous height and, upon impact, has turned not into shards but dust. They know the pain of trying to put oneself back together.

  I HAVE THOUGHT a great deal about what I heard during the RCMP seminar in Ottawa, and I have tried to connect it to dilemmas of the post–9/11 world. We know that the RCMP shared unreliable information with American authorities and played a role in events that led to the torture of four Canadian citizens: Maher Arar, Abdullah al-Maliki, Ahmad el-Maati, and Muayyed Nureddin. They were arrested and tortured in countries where torture is common practice. In Arar’s case, this false information led to his arrest while he was in transit in New York’s JFK Airport when returning home from a vacation. U.S. officials detained him and interrogated him about alleged links to al Qaeda. Then they sent him to Syria, where he was tortured and beaten and sentenced to months in a grave-like cell. He was finally released and returned to Canada in October 2003. On January 28, 2004, under pressure from Canadian human-rights o
rganizations and a growing number of citizens, the Canadian government announced a Commission of Inquiry into the Actions of Canadian Officials in Relation to Maher Arar. In September 2006, the commissioner of the inquiry, Justice Dennis O’Connor, cleared Mr. Arar of all terrorism allegations, stating that he was able to say categorically that there was no evidence that Mr. Arar had committed any offence or that his activities constituted a threat to the security of Canada.

  In October 2008, former Supreme Court of Canada justice Frank Iacobucci, who had conducted a closed-door inquiry into the events leading to the detentions of Abdullah al-Maliki, Ahmad el-Maati, and Muayyed Nureddin, released a public version of a confidential report. It concluded that all three men were detained and suffered mistreatment that amounted to torture as defined in the United Nations convention banning torture. In all three cases, Mr. Iacobucci stipulated that the initial detentions were not directly the result of the actions of Canadian officials. However, Canadian officials indirectly contributed to the detentions and mistreatment of Mr. el-Maati and Mr. Nureddin. In Mr. al-Maliki’s case, Mr. Iacobucci said he was unable to determine on the record available to him, whether the actions of Canadian officials likely contributed to Mr. al-Maliki’s detention in Syria.

  I am very proud to be Canadian, and I believe that even though not perfect, Canada is a democratic country with the potential of leading the world in the fight against human-rights violations. However, after 9/11, we fell prey to the fear-mongering policies of the Bush administration. In the name of fighting terror, basic human rights became a casualty, and we forgot that our laws, which are the result of a democratic process and are supposed to protect all Canadian citizens against injustice, are the heart of who we are. These laws define our way of life—a way of life the U.S. government declared was in danger because of terrorists. What we failed to see is that a few fanatic men with bombs are less dangerous to us than the violation of the laws that have made Canada a democratic and free country.

  There is no doubt that the RCMP has made terrible mistakes and those responsible must be held accountable. But accountability is not synonymous with revenge. Justice isn’t only about forcing a few officials to resign; it is about making sure that what happened to Maher Arar never happens to anyone again. The real issue isn’t whether Arar had connections to terrorist organizations. It is that he should not have been sent to Syria, where undoubtedly he would be tortured.

  But how can we make sure that things like that never happen again? The first step is for the Canadian government to apologize to all those who, as a result of the sharing of false and/or unreliable information by CISIS or the RCMP, were tortured and/or imprisoned.

  The second step is for the Canadian government to compensate the victims for their ordeals. As a Canadian taxpayer, I feel responsible for what happened to those men, and I have to take a stand. I was tortured in Iran and I know I will never receive an apology from the Iranian government; they refuse even to acknowledge that they have ever tortured anybody. Not only have I never been compensated for my ordeal, but when I decided to leave Iran, I had to pay a large sum of money to get a passport and guarantee my return. I have a receipt for the money, yet I do not imagine, not even for a moment, that I will get the money back. However, when I heard on the radio that Maher Arar had received an apology and ten million dollars, it felt like a victory to me. Even though money can never make up for the agony victims of torture endure, it helps them put their lives back together and take care of their families.

  The third step is for the Canadian government to conduct an independent and impartial criminal investigation of the Canadian officials responsible.

  The fourth step is for the RCMP to make sure that all its officers are properly trained and understand that torture is wrong not only in Canada but anywhere in the world. They need to be aware that sharing information with countries that use torture can have serious consequences.

  A fifth step is necessary: dialogue between the victims and the RCMP and the Canadian government. Victims need to be heard and their experiences have to be shared and understood in a human, personal way. This step might prove to be the most difficult one, since victims are not likely to trust the RCMP or the government enough to sit at a table with them. Yes, there are many obstacles along the way. However, dialogue needs to begin, and if I can do anything to help create awareness about torture and what it does to people, I will do it to the best of my abilities. The RCMP, CISIS, and the Canadian government must all understand that under any circumstances, the rule of law, itself the result of a democratic process, has to come before everything else. Because of the possibility of a terrorist attack on American or Canadian soil, we cannot deport people to countries that use torture; we have to deal with the threat according to our own laws. Once we begin to ignore our values, we risk sliding down a slippery slope that will lead to nothing but disaster.

  The last—but not the least—step is to lay charges against the officials who have tortured Canadians in Syria, Egypt, or any other country. Torture will continue to exist as long as governments and individuals can get away with it.

  I have given many talks in high schools, and I sometimes speak to students about the Holocaust, a well-documented example of how countries can go completely mad. I sometimes read short passages from books about the Holocaust, including Fatelessness. I love speaking to young people. They are always open-minded and inquisitive and pose wonderfully unfiltered questions. At different schools, students have asked me exactly the same questions: “But, Miss, how is it possible that the police go to your neighbours, people you have been friends with forever, and take them away to kill them for no good reason? How is it possible not to protest something like that and not do anything about it? How can it happen?”

  I have told these young people that if I had not lived through the Iranian revolution, I would not have had an answer for their question. “In history,” I have explained, “horror doesn’t usually happen overnight, but it unfolds little by little. We see danger signs popping up around us, but because we notice only one sign here and one there, we dismiss it as insignificant, and by the time we realize that something terrible has happened, it’s too late. If we speak out at this point, we will be arrested, tortured, even killed. To give your life for your friend or neighbour is noble, but it’s not easy, and even though a few people are willing to risk their lives for others, the majority of us usually remain silent.”

  After 9/11, I watched danger signs appear in Canada and the United States. The invasion of Iraq based on lies and deceit was the biggest of them, and of course there was the deportation of a few Muslims to countries like Syria and Egypt to be interrogated under torture. Paranoia and fear took over the world. The Guantanamo Bay detainment camp emblemizes that fear. And I find it terribly disturbing that in many ways Guantanamo is very much like Evin: a black hole into which people disappear, many without real evidence against them; a place where there is no access to due process, and prisoners can be terribly mistreated and humiliated and kept indefinitely for reasons that supposedly have to do with national security. The government of Iran imprisoned me because it thought I was a danger to Iran’s national security. I was sixteen, but this didn’t mean anything to Iranian officials.

  As I write these lines, a young Canadian languishes in the Guantanamo Bay prison camp. His name is Omar Khadr. He was shot and captured in Afghanistan at the age of fifteen. For three months, he was held at the U.S. prison in Bagram. Sedated and shackled, he was taken to his first interrogation hours after being discharged from a military hospital. In October 2002, he was transferred to Guantanamo Bay prison camp, and he has been rotting in that horrible place for more than eight years. Unlike him, I have never participated in an armed conflict and have never touched a gun in my life, but this doesn’t mean that it is okay to imprison a fifteen-year-old boy, who, like everyone else, is supposed to be assumed innocent until proven guilty. In fact, international law demands that because he was a child soldier, he
should not be prosecuted but that every effort be made to rehabilitate him. Omar needs help and compassion, not intimidation and punishment. He was in Afghanistan because his family had taken him there, where, allegedly, he killed an American medic. He needs a fair trial, not a military tribunal. Injustice is injustice, no matter if it is committed in the East or the West. The Canadian government has refused to ask that Omar be returned to this country, even though he is a Canadian citizen. To me, this is a disgrace—and another warning sign that human rights are being ignored even in Canada.

  *Eliz Sanasarian, Religious Minorities in Iran, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 85.

  **Page 6 of “Discrimination against Religious Minorities in Iran,” a report presented by the FIDH (Fédération Internationale des Ligues des Droits de l’Homme) and the Ligue de Défense des Droits de l’Homme en Iran, 63rd Session of the Committee on the Elimination of Racial Discrimination, August 2003 (www.fidh.org/IMG/pdf/ir0108a.pdf).

  My Rosary

  In December 2007, when I was leaving home to go to Italy to receive the Human Dignity Prize from the European Parliament, Andre warned me—as he did each time that I went on a trip—to be careful. I couldn’t understand how he had found the courage to let me continue what I had begun. Writing a memoir is one thing; travelling the world and constantly testifying against the Islamic Republic of Iran is another. Had our positions been reversed, I probably would have done everything in my power to stop him. He had married a quiet, shy young woman who just wanted to live a normal life with him and raise a family. This was the person I had been for the first seventeen years of our marriage. I seemed to have forgotten my two years in Evin. But then they resurfaced—and completely redefined me. The real Marina who had been buried somewhere inside me was a stranger to Andre. He had never truly known her, because even though Andre and I had met before my incarceration, the arrest of my friends had already affected me and I had withdrawn from the world. Living with me after Prisoner of Tehran was like living with someone who had recovered from extreme amnesia.