Memoirs of Mehri Hajinejad from “The Last Laughter of Leila”— Part Fourteen
In the previous installment of Mehri Hajinejad’s prison memoirs, published in the book The Last Laughter of Leila, the author, who was a teenage student at the time, recounted an episode in which she herself stood just one step away from execution by firing squad. In this installment, we follow the continuation of that harrowing and unforgettable memory:
I did not know what my own fate would be that night. Since I was not standing in the line opposite the wall, I was overcome with doubt and uncertainty. Yet, despite everything, I felt both relieved and devastated that I had at least been able to see some of my comrades one last time in their final moments.
I felt proud of the Mojahedin,[1] because I saw how they stood row after row with such composure and dignity, chests out, unafraid of anything. It was as though they were crushing these executioners beneath their feet, executioners whose only weapons were torture and death; and as if this path, paved with blood and steadfastness, was continuing day after day through their sacrifice.
But I was also deeply saddened, by the knowledge that they would no longer be among us, and by the fact that I myself was not standing among them, watching as my comrades were taken away one by one.
That night remains one of the most unforgettable nights of my life. It was a night that embodied the innocence of captured Mojahedin fighters. I wished desperately for the chance to speak with every one of them.
During this time, the guards kept coming and going, each one saying some piece of nonsense meant to torment me. Several times, one of them stood beside me and suddenly slammed a container onto the floor from above my head, trying to frighten me. Another guard yanked my chador and dragged me through several rooms, finally taking me into a room where, from beneath my blindfold, I could see a bed, cables, and a blood-soaked floor. It was as if he wanted me to understand that this was the torture room of Branch 7,[2] a place I already knew all too well.
I kept asking myself why they had brought me there.
After that, they took me back into the corridor, but this time it was empty. There was no sign of the prisoners who had been awaiting execution. They had been taken away.
I was frantic. Were they still alive? Had they been moved to another corridor? Had they already been executed?
I wanted, somehow, to get out of that hellhole and find out what had happened. I heard the voice of a female guard and asked her to take me to the restroom. I hoped I might find someone there who could tell me what was going on.
But there was no one there either.
I decided that no matter what, I had to get back to the ward, even if it meant being beaten the next day for escaping interrogation. I thought that if I could return to the ward, at least I could be with the others if the sounds of executions began.
When I came out of the restroom, I stopped and said that I was supposed to return to the ward. The female guard moved me along and placed me next to a group standing outside the door. She said, “Stand here until Uncle Jalil[3] comes and takes you back.”
It was past midnight when they finally sent us back to the ward. When I arrived, Zahra, Aghdas, and Jalileh were still awake, worried about what had happened to me. As soon as I entered, we embraced each other. They said they had been praying nonstop for my return. One of them said, “I told myself Mahboubeh is gone too.”
I told them everything I had seen and experienced that night. I asked whether they had heard anything, gunfire, sounds of execution. They said no.
That was when I became certain that during the past six months, when we had heard no sounds of firing squads and believed executions had stopped, that belief had been false. The executions had not stopped; only the location had changed.
After hearing my account, one of the women, who had more experience, said it was likely that the interrogators had mistaken me for someone else due to a similarity in name or appearance. That, she said, was why they had even carried out the identification inside the torture room: if I had been the person they were looking for, they would have proceeded immediately, without questions, according to their routine.
By routine, she explained, we meant the routine in Branch 7: first torture the victim, then begin questioning.
Another woman suggested that they had taken me deliberately, to subject me to psychological torture, to remind me of execution, and to show me the torture room once again.
I never found out which of these scenarios was true. But what stayed with me from that night was the enduring image of the fierce yet inspiring struggle of the iron-willed Mojahedin against the inhuman regime of Khomeini,[4] especially the image I saw that night of Lajevardi.[5]
Until February 1983, when I was retried, I was repeatedly summoned for interrogation in Ward 209 [6] and Branch 7. In every interrogation, they demanded information about my brothers, and each time my answer was the same: I had nothing to give. I told them my interrogation was finished, I had already been to court, and I was awaiting a verdict; why was I still being interrogated?
In late January 1983, I was taken to court once again. The same two- or three-minute “trial” was repeated, but this time the charges were fewer than in the summer. Accusations such as weapons procurement were removed. Once again, I was not asked to sign anything. They simply read the charges and asked whether I would give a televised interview.[7] I said no. Without any further discussion, they sent me back to the ward.
I felt that my death sentence was no longer in effect, and that I would likely receive a long prison term instead. Still, nothing was certain. We had seen many cases where a single renewed interrogation completely changed someone’s sentence. And so I remained suspended, without a verdict, without clarity.
Between March 1983 and May 1983, a new cycle of interrogations began, this time in Ward 209. I did not understand why I had been taken there. My earlier interrogations had taken place first in Branch 1, then Branch 7, followed by court. Now, without a final ruling, I had been transferred to Ward 209, which was under the control of the IRGC.[8]
There, I was confronted with several broken prisoners, now collaborating with the regime, named Shirin, Haleh, Keyvan, and others. They were the ones interrogating me. These were the most intense interrogations I can remember. When the executioners themselves conducted interrogations, the enemy was clear. But here, the contradiction was deeper. On the one hand, these people were themselves victims of the regime; on the other, they understood our organizational culture and language far better than the regime’s official interrogators. Deflecting them was far more difficult.
All they wanted was for me to say what I knew about the fate of my comrades in the student organization, even to list the names of those I knew had been killed. It was clear they were trying to dismantle the student network entirely. My only response was to repeat the names that had already been officially announced on state television as executed.
During those days, the pressure became unbearable. I could not sleep. I could not eat. I grew weaker every day. The pressure was not only from interrogation; daily, I was confronted with lists of comrades, each either executed or completely disappeared. Remembering them made my blood boil, while seeing those collaborators day after day, constantly scrutinizing me, left me mentally shattered.
In early May 1983, under the weight of this pressure, I suffered stomach hemorrhaging. In less than twenty days, I experienced two severe internal bleedings and lost thirteen kilograms in under a month. There was no medication available except stomach syrup. The food was the same prison food. My physical condition deteriorated severely even though I was only nineteen years old at the time and otherwise healthy and strong. Because my condition became critical, the interrogations were finally stopped, and they ceased calling me in.
[1] The People’s Mojahedin Organization of Iran (Mujahedin-e Khalq, PMOI/MEK): An Iranian opposition organization that opposed both the Shah and later the Islamic Republic; its members were heavily persecuted and executed in the 1980s.
[2] Branch 7: One of the interrogation and torture units within Iran’s prison system, notorious for brutal methods.
[3] “Uncle Jalil”: A nickname commonly used by prisoners for a guard responsible for transporting detainees between wards.
[4] Khomeini: Ruhollah Khomeini, founder and first Supreme Leader of the clerical regime in Iran.
[5] Asadollah Lajevardi: Prosecutor of Evin Prison in the 1980s, widely known as the “Butcher of Evin” for his role in torture and executions.
[6] Ward 209: A high-security interrogation ward in Evin Prison, controlled by intelligence and security forces.
[7] Televised interview: A forced confession or denunciation broadcast on state television, often under coercion or torture.
[8] IRGC (Revolutionary Guard Corps): A powerful military and intelligence force established after the 1979 revolution, deeply involved in repression of political opponents.
