From a book by Hengameh Haj Hassan, Part 2
Face to Face with the Beast: In the previous installment of Hengameh Haj Hassan’s prison memoirs—she was a nurse at Sina Hospital in Tehran in 1981—we read about her arrest on the street in the chaotic aftermath of the June 20th mass protests, when half a million Iranians marched against the newly formed clerical regim. We followed her transfer to Evin Prison.
In this section, we pick up her story and witness her first interrogation in Evin.
Evin Prison – The First Interrogation
While I sat waiting, I kept hearing muffled screams from different directions—distant, strangled cries—and a repetitive thumping noise, like a heavy stick hitting a carpet.
It reminded me exactly of the sound my mother used to make during our New Year cleaning rituals before Nowruz—when she’d hang the rug and beat the dust out of it with all her might. That same dull, rhythmic thud.
But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t figure out what this noise was now.
My heart was pounding so hard it felt like it would burst out of my chest—I could feel its beat in my throat. What were these sounds? What were they going to do with me?
I had already prepared myself for execution—especially after they took down my name and found out I was the fugitive nurse from Sina Hospital. But what if they didn’t want to execute me? Then what?
Torture, definitely.
I didn’t know what torture actually entailed, but I was absolutely terrified of it.
During the search, they found a list in my bag—first names only—of people who had given us financial help, along with a handwritten flyer from the Organization (PMOI).
Thankfully, I’d only written down first names, and they couldn’t really trace them. Right there and then, I made a decision: I would resist to the end. No matter the cost.
But things didn’t go how I expected.
A man came and sat across from me. He leaned in so close that I could feel his breath on my face—foul, clinging breath that made me feel contaminated just by inhaling it.
My eyes were still blindfolded, and I instinctively pulled my head back.
I asked, “What do you want?”
He spoke softly:
“Look, we already know everything. There’s no reason for you to put yourself or us through any trouble. Just tell us everything and you’ll be done with it. We don’t want to hurt you. You’re a good girl, and we know that. I’ll try to help you.”
The fool thought he could trick me with his gentle tone—like I was some naïve child.
I tried to stay focused, to keep my mind sharp, and said:
“If you already know everything, then what exactly am I supposed to say? Why are you even asking me if you already have all the answers?”
I made sure to mimic his casual, unthreatening way of speaking—trying to sound like a regular, non-political person. My hope was that if I could plant that image in their minds, I could buy some time—time for Tahmineh and the others to realize I’d been arrested and to flee from any locations I might have known about.
Then the man asked, “Do you know Shahnaz?”
I did.
Months ago, Shahnaz had been my team lead and a fellow nurse at Bank Melli Hospital in Tehran. Two months prior, she’d been arrested along with someone named Firoozeh.
I replied, “I don’t know anyone by that name.”
He said, “But she knows you.”
I answered, “A lot of people know me. Maybe she saw me somewhere. But I don’t know anyone named that, certainly not someone I worked with.”
He said, “Fine. Wait here.”
A few minutes later, he returned.
“When I tell you to, take off your blindfold and don’t look anywhere but straight ahead.”
He stood behind me—I could feel it. He didn’t want me to see his face, to be able to identify him later.
That’s when I realized something: these interrogators were terrified of being recognized. Later on, I’d see them wear white hoods with cut-out holes for their eyes, like the Ku Klux Klan, even though we were blindfolded most of the time.
They never took off their masks.
I removed my blindfold.
In front of me stood Shahnaz.
She wore a black chador—the full-body cloak many Iranian women wear—and stared at me with a cold, vacant look.
Trying to stay calm, I smiled and said casually, “So you’re Shahnaz? What are you doing here?”
I even gave her a little wink, hoping to remind her to play along.
But to my shock, she said flatly, “No, Hengameh. I’ve already told them everything. You don’t need to signal anything.”
It felt like someone had smashed a sledgehammer over my skull.
She had broken.
She’d given in.
And I hadn’t prepared myself to face something like that—especially not in front of the enemy.
It was like being plunged into boiling water.
My whole body burned.
My head spun and my mouth went dry.
But I pulled myself together. I had to.
I forced my mind to start working again.
I quickly tried to remember what information she might have had about me.
No—she knew nothing.
It had been nearly a year since we’d last had contact.
She had no idea what I’d been doing.
So she was bluffing.
Trying to trap me.
I said, “It doesn’t matter to me what you’ve said or what you think you know. I’ve got nothing to say. Especially not to these people—the same ones who’ve executed all of my friends.”
Then I added, “You’d best get back to whatever it is you’re doing.”
I said it deliberately, to make it seem like I held a personal grudge—like this wasn’t about politics.
She kept trying to talk to me.
She started naming others who’d been arrested and were now in the prison, trying to both win my trust and shake my resolve.
I said, “Whoever’s here, that’s their business. Not mine.”
Then suddenly she said, “Tahmineh is here too.”
My heart dropped.
How did they know about Tahmineh?
There had never been any mention of her in any of my things.
Then it occurred to me—maybe because we both worked at Sina Hospital, they were using that connection to fish for a reaction.
I said, “I haven’t seen Tahmineh in months. I don’t know where she is.”
