From a book by Hengameh Haj Hassan, Part 1
Face to Face with the Beast : After the half-a-million-strong protest in Tehran on June 20, 1981—organized by the People’s Mojahedin Organization of Iran (PMOI/MEK) and answered with bullets by Khomeini’s regime—the Iranian regime launched an open campaign of repression, arresting large numbers of PMOI supporters and activists. The Revolutionary Guards raided homes and workplaces, or randomly snatched people off the streets and dragged them into prison.
Hengameh Haj Hassan, a nurse at Tehran’s Sina Hospital, was among those arrested—a political prisoner and a witness to the monstrous dungeons of Khomeini and the notorious women’s wards of the 1980s. She was born in Tehran in 1956 and graduated from Tehran University’s School of Nursing in 1979.
It was during the anti-monarchic revolution that she became familiar with the ideals of the Mojahedin. Along with her friend and classmate Shekar Mohammadzadeh, and others like Tahmineh Rastegar Moghadam, Tuba Rajabi-Sani, Kobra Alizadeh, and Akram Bahador, she came to see the Mojahedin as the only flicker of hope against the reactionary clerics. Since 1979, they had thrown themselves into the struggle as supporters of the organization.
Hengameh Haj Hassan endured three years of imprisonment and torture under Khomeini’s regime. She has dedicated her prison memoir to her comrade Shekar Mohammadzadeh and to her fellow Mojahedin—those unnamed standard-bearers of freedom who stood tall before the misogynistic, inhuman monster ruling over Iran, who stared it in the eye and upheld the dignity of humanity and the essence of freedom.
What follows is the beginning of her prison memoir, adapted from her book, Face to Face with the Beast, that has been slightly edited for publication on the website.
Arrested in the Street
It was a fall day—November 8, 1981. I went with Khadijeh (Tahmineh Rastegar Moghadam) to the home of the parents of our friend, Shekar Mohammadzadeh, to ask about her. Shekar had already been arrested and imprisoned. On my way back, as I stepped out of a taxi in Kennedy Square, the street was deserted. I didn’t feel safe, so I stepped into a fabric store. Inside were two women—one of them holding a child.
Suddenly, a car pulled up outside. Two armed men got out and stormed into the shop, guns drawn. “All of you, get in the car!” they ordered.
The women burst into tears. The child was terrified. I quickly tried to assess the situation and escape, but it was impossible—there were two more agents stationed outside. I had no choice. I was arrested.
At first, I thought I’d been identified. But I soon realized this was a sweep—they were roaming the streets arresting anyone who looked between the ages of 15 and 30. “Suspicious,” they called us. They would figure out what our crime was after we were in custody.
Inside the vehicle, the women cried and pleaded. Because I wasn’t crying—and had clearly been looking for a way to escape—they handcuffed me. One of them turned and sneered, “We’ll take you in and fix your attitude. Then you’ll understand what your precious Massoud[1] has done to you.”
I snapped back, “Who the hell do you think you are? Burning with so much hatred for Massoud that you think breaking me will bring you peace? Who gave you the right to even utter his name with your filthy mouth?”
He cursed at me, raised his hand to strike, and threatened me. I swore back. “You’re too stupid to realize you’re saying all this in front of civilians you’ve arrested and have to release. You’re exposing your filth without us even needing to. No need for revelations—you’re doing the job yourself.”
Another guard, clearly their superior, barked, “Both of you, shut up!”
I said, “Both of you shut up,” and fell silent. He growled, “You’ll pay for that sharp tongue.”
They took us to a committee building on Azadi Street, not far from Kennedy Square, and threw us into a dark, empty basement room. I don’t know how long we were there—hours, maybe. It was night. Slowly, I began to feel the terror of being completely alone. It was a strange fear—maybe the fear of death. I’d seen patients die. But to be the subject of death myself… I’d never thought of that before. Now, it was all I could think about.
Then the door opened. The guards returned. We were shoved back into the vehicle and taken elsewhere. The women were still crying, begging, repeatedly giving their home addresses. It was clear they had been investigated beforehand—they were all released.
As the vehicle passed through the Parkway, I caught a glimpse of our street from a distance. I thought of my mother—what was she thinking at that moment? She surely had no idea where I was. But soon she would know I was gone, and like so many others, she would begin the heartbreaking search through prisons and graveyards. If only I could tell her where I was going.
When they separated me from the others, they blindfolded me tightly. Then came the punches, the kicks, the shouting—all while I lay on the floor of the van. We were heading, as I later found out, to Evin Prison.
The dread was overwhelming. Where were they taking me? What would they do to me? What if they asked me about Tahmineh—what would I say? What if they demanded to know where I’d been, which houses I’d visited? My mind was on fire with questions. I tried to focus on just one thought, but I couldn’t—especially with their constant blows and insults breaking any chance at concentration.
Eventually, we arrived. They took me to Branch 2 of Evin. I was placed on a chair in a bare room, facing the wall. I wanted to know where I was, what they were going to do to me. I was worried about Tahmineh. Would she find out I’d been arrested? What would happen to her? She, too, was out on the streets—and with the regime snatching people at random, the chances of her getting caught were high.
I wished there were some way I could warn her—not to go out, not to take the risk—but my thoughts led nowhere. I was in the grip of wild beasts who understood nothing of reason or humanity. What could I possibly do?
To be continued…
[1] Massoud Rajavi, the Secretary General of the People’s Mojahedin Organization of Iran at the time
