From the memoir “The Last Laughter of Leila” by Mehri Hajinejad – Part six
In this part of Mehri Hajinejad’s prison memoirs, as recorded in “The Last Laughter of Leila,” we read of the author’s farewell to Asef and her other comrades who were taken away for execution. We also encounter the faces of brave and defiant women who mocked death and remained faithful to their pledge for freedom until the very end.
Content advisory: contains eyewitness descriptions of executions, violence, and grief.
She slipped away from my hands like a bird taking flight
That year, 1981, was the height of the executions. In Evin, night after night, groups of young men and women, many barely adults, were led before the firing squads. After the first burst of gunfire the ward would fall into absolute silence, and we’d count silently: 1, 2, 3, 4… 50, 60… that counting became the rhythm of the shots. Each volley was like seeing myself standing beside my comrades, and then the sequence would continue: 70, 80, 90…
During executions the ward would remain for a long time in a quiet that trembled with pain and anger; the jailers, terrified of our reaction, would withdraw and lock the doors, hiding from our eyes.
From four in the afternoon onward we waited to hear that first volley. Our ward sat closest to the execution ground; the firing line was literally behind us.
The memories of that December are unbearably heavy. The guards had lately started opening the cell doors, and we could see, all over the ward, faces we’d last seen on the street, at a meeting, or at a demonstration, and then never again. Now, strangely, we were reunited for a last time. We hugged and asked quickly, as if there wasn’t time: what’s your name? What’s your case like?
Most of us used aliases, so we had to learn each other’s names on the spot. Often that was all we knew about one another.
One December day, just as we’d started clearing away the lunch dishes, the ward loudspeaker emitted that hideous voice of the female guard calling out about fifteen names and asking those people to report to the ward office. Hearts leapt. This public reading of a list was a new practice; were they going to move them? Were they going to send them away for execution without our knowing?
Those called were almost all from our ward. I saw Asef,[1] Zahra, Farah and others, smiling, lively, heading toward the door. We watched them go, still unwilling to say goodbye; deep down we hoped they’d return. A few minutes later they were back. The guard had called them early by mistake and told them: pack your things; come at four in the afternoon.
By then it was clear to everyone that these were the last hours we’d spend with our dear comrades. We clustered around them; some kissed them, some asked them to send greetings to the others, to those already shot, and we kept wondering if this was a nightmare we’d wake from. But it was all too real.
The prisoners packed small keepsakes to leave with mothers or sisters; some handed items to roommates for safekeeping. Those leaving were calm, even cheerful. It was we who carried the choking grief. Trying to change the mood, we began to sing:
“Sing — this long road
at last will end.
Winter will pass, yes,
and spring will come at last…”
I can still hear that song twenty-two years later. Along with the chorus, Asef’s whistle rang clearly; she always added her whistle to the singing. From three in the afternoon we formed two long, tight lines along the dark, narrow corridor — a compact, ordered farewell to the light-footed travelers.
Those faces and that look of faith in the future — I will never forget them. I wanted to be the last to say goodbye. I could not tire of watching them: a caravan of iron-willed heroes.
Asef, a name whose true identity I never learned while I was there, marched like a commander at the front. She’d shout: “Hurry up, kids! The plane is about to fly.” When she reached the door, she whistled the farewell song. I will never forget that last look.
Her dark eyes, restless like a fish in a bowl. When I hugged her for the last time and kissed her, I felt her give me all her strength; then, like a dove, she slipped from my hands and was gone.
Next came Zahra, walking behind Asef. I never learned her real name; because of her small frame we had nicknamed her “Mouse” — a lion in a mouse’s body. We had sung pledges and freedom songs together in the ward corridor countless times.
Her last words to me were: “My dear Mahboubeh, be strong… When you reach the organization again give Massoud my greeting, and tell him I didn’t even give my name. Just know I was from Semnan; my family doesn’t even know what happened to me.”
When we parted, she began to sing aloud:
“O Freedom, I passed through your path from these prisons,
I scattered my heart like a flower in the squares
so your anthem might bloom on people’s lips…”
Then it was Farah’s turn. Her face flushed and pale in the same instant, and her sea-blue eyes met mine. She was in a hurry; she said she had little time and did not look back as she said goodbye.
The line flowed like a river, each one pushing through the crowd toward the door. I did not want that line to reach the end, did not want to hear the final shots and count. I wanted time to stop. I wanted to go with them; I wanted to do something, though I did not know what.
When they left, a heavy silence fell over the ward; a ward used to the noise of 600 prisoners now kept silent; each of us wept inside and vowed to carry on their work.
At about 19:00 we heard the terrible sound of a fusillade, mingled with two different cries: one chorus shouting “Death to the hypocrites!” (the regime’s slur for the PMOI) and beneath that, a strong countercry: “Hail the Mojahed… Hail…” Then the fusillade filled the air and single shots followed. With every shot a face rose before my eyes and I pictured their last stand.
That night the number was 65; some said 67, but most agreed on 65. After the last volley, our song rose again. The ward remained so still that even until midnight the female guards did not appear; they had cowered away like foxes, terrified of our angry cries of “Death to the oppressors.”
[1] Fatemeh Mahmoud Hakimi (known as Asef) was executed by firing squad in Evin prison at the age of 21 for her support of the PMOI. Asef refused to give the executioner her real name; she was known by the surname of her mother, who loved her dearly. In a brief courtroom statement, after being sentenced (the record says the judge imposed a 15-year sentence), Fatemeh boldly told the clerical judge: “I am a PMOI fighter and my leader is Rajavi — 15 years is nothing; even if I spend a hundred years in prison, I will never stop my fight.”