A State of Fear Read Free Page A

have never met any of these people.’
    ‘You are lying,’ the interrogator snapped. A fist connected squarely with my head. I heard Farhad being taken away. The torture was about to begin again. From under the blindfold, I glimpsed a deep pile of dried scraps of flesh and pools of blood. The macabre remains of those who had been tortured before me, who had died or were imprisoned in this hellhole. I knew that some of these ‘untouchables’ would have been no more than children: only 12 years old, boys and girls. Some would have been as old as 80. Yet the flesh was not so much revoltingas inspiring: a testimony to those who, in the name of justice, had refused to break.
    ‘I must make a decision,’ I thought. ‘Should I give up all the values of democracy, freedom and justice that I have held for so long? Or should my blood join that of the others who resisted and remained firm in their commitment?’ I knew then that I would not jeopardise the lives or activities of my comrades. I would not be helping myself even if I did talk. Anyone brought in because of my confession would only be tortured until they produced more evidence against me. But would my silence protect me? Perhaps. Only if Farhad had not disclosed anything else about me and no other comrades from our organisation – especially those from the Rahe Kargar newspaper – were arrested.
    The interrogators worked for Savama, the Ministry of Intelligence and National Security. This was the secret police and they were experienced. Some had been employed in the time of the Shah and when he was overthrown in the Islamic revolution of 1979 they discovered their skills were still much in demand. The one the others called Haji Rahman shouted at me: ‘Motherfucker, we caught you red-handed in one big net. We’ll hang you all.’
    ‘Give this motherfucker to me,’ screamed another. ‘I will kill him and send him to hell right now.’
    ‘Hey, let’s hear from your own fucking mouth which counter-revolutionary group you belong to,’ said one more.
    ‘Brothers,’ I said, ‘I swear by Imam Khomeini, there is a mistake here. I have never been a member of any organisation.’
    Someone punched me again. Haji Rahman shouted, ‘I swear by Imam Khomeini’s glorious spirit that if any of the information is withheld and if any of them get away, I will kill you with my own hands.’
    ‘We don’t just want details of your underground activities, we need passwords too.’
    ‘I swear I have no information or passwords to give!’
    ‘We won’t let you out of here alive. We have no time for heroes,’ Haji Rahman said. ‘Brothers, teach him how to talk.’
    The torture began. With each blow I screamed clear and loud. I blacked out and awoke to find myself in an infirmary, tubes attached to my body. The doctor – a prisoner from the Blaoch region – came to my bedside when he saw that my eyes were open. ‘God has had mercy upon you. You have had a stroke due to the trauma to your head. You’ve been unconscious for three days, very close to death. The right side of your body has been affected.’
    My first thought was that they could not push me further. I was relieved. They didn’t want to kill me… not yet, anyway. I was in the infirmary for days. I began to feel a little better and my wounds began to heal but I knew that it was only a matter of time before the interrogators returned. They still wanted information. Sure enough, at about three o’clock in the afternoon, the one they called Haji Samad, the chief interrogator, returned me to the cells. ‘The original information we wanted from you is useless. All the meetings will have taken place by now, and they’ll know that we have you,’ he said coldly. He threatened to take me to Lanat-Abad, the infamous mass graves for communist victims, where he would finish me ‘with one shot’.
    ‘Haji,’ I cried, ‘I beg you to kill me. What you’ve done to me is unbearable. I’m blind in my right eye, my