Prison Memoirs “The Last Laughter of Leila” by Mehri Hajinejad – Part Seventeen
In the previous part of these prison memoirs, Mehri Hajinejad recounted scenes of brutality and psychological destruction inflicted on women prisoners. In this installment, she turns to the other side of that same reality: collective life inside prison, the relationships in prison and among imprisoned members and supporters of the PMOI, and the deep bonds of love, solidarity, and shared responsibility that sustained them in the face of constant threat.
Relationships in Prison
Prison is the ultimate arena where humanity and inhumanity confront one another at their most extreme. On one side stands cruelty, crime, callousness, hatred, faithlessness, and profoundly anti-human traits. On the other side shines the full spectrum of revolutionary and human values: sacrifice, kindness, compassion, love, faith, commitment, and loyalty to one’s pledge to the people and the homeland whose freedom is every committed fighter’s goal.
The most radiant and defining element in the relationships in prison among imprisoned PMOI members was love, pure and unwavering love. In contrast, between us and the prison guards, IRGC members, and collaborators, nothing flowed but rage and hatred.
In prison, the lines are sharp, clear, and absolute. A merciless enemy, driven by vengeance, uses the harshest torture, physical pressure, and relentless humiliation to break the prisoner psychologically, to strip them of all human and revolutionary values and turn them into tools of inhumane objectives.
In this confrontation, because the prisoner is constantly grappling directly with a brutal enemy, there is not even a moment of doubt. In every encounter, one of two sacred emotions immediately asserts itself: hatred for the executioners of humanity, and love for one’s fellow fighter and cellmate.
More than twenty years later, the sweetness and purity of the love my comrades gave me, and that I gave them, remains rooted deep within me. Even now, when I think of any one of them, my heart becomes restless.
I have never again met people as light-hearted and unattached as those comrades I knew in prison. It was as if they belonged to nothing. I remember Azar Nour-Ali fondly.[1] She would often repeat a saying attributed to Imam Ali:[2] Live as if you will die tomorrow and work as if you will live a hundred years. In prison, where we lived constantly under the shadow of execution and solitary confinement, we cherished every moment of collective life. We tried not to waste a single instant.
We were so deeply intertwined that we truly thought alike, looked alike, laughed alike, rose in anger alike, and even anticipated events alike. Our emotions had become identical; one soul in hundreds of bodies.
To break these bonds, the regime exerted relentless pressure around so-called “disciplinary” and daily issues, trying to drag us into personal disputes and turn us against one another. We, on the contrary, understood that everything we had come from our unity. Every pressure point had to be transformed into a front of resistance against the clerical regime.
Joy, laughter, and liveliness were part of our struggle. Withdrawal, complaining, or surrendering to pressure were alien to us, not because contradictions didn’t exist, but because we knew that was exactly what the regime wanted. So, we consciously acted 180 degrees in the opposite direction, and this itself became a shared value. Even something as mundane as access to the bath turned into an act of resistance.
Collective Life
Once a month, we had ten-minute visits behind glass. Some prisoners never had visits throughout their years of imprisonment; others were permanently denied visits. Yet the collective life inside prison never allowed anyone to feel deprived.
On visiting days, the ward was full of excitement. When a group returned from visits, everyone gathered around them to hear news from outside and to learn what had happened during the meetings.
During those ten minutes, we always spent part of the time greeting other parents, mothers and fathers of fellow prisoners. If guards noticed, we were threatened and insulted, but it was worth it. They were all our parents. Many of them we knew from the time when we were allowed freedom of speech. These interactions created warm, supportive relationships among families outside prison as well, turning them into one another’s companions and helpers.
Families coming from other cities to visit their children were often hosted by families in Tehran. This reduced their exhaustion and loneliness and deepened their bonds.
The moments when clothing packages arrived were among the happiest. We spread all the clothes on a sheet in the middle of the room, and everyone could take whatever they liked.
The guards often confiscated coats or mantos, calling them “PMOI clothing.” They preferred us to wear colorful, home-style garments. So, whenever a tunic-like outfit or ones that resembled military styles slipped through, it instantly became a favorite.
Perfume was forbidden, so our mothers poured it directly into the clothing bags. When we opened them, the entire ward filled with fragrance.
Families usually sent a small amount of money, around 250 tomans or less per month. During all five years of my imprisonment, none of us had a personal wallet. We made a large bag from the plastic of bread and kept extra clothes inside it. All our money went into that same bag, which we called the elephant. Anyone who received money simply put it inside. No one counted it, and no one claimed any share as personal property.
The reality was that at any moment, each of us expected to be summoned for interrogation, torture, or execution by firing squad. That is why we formed no attachment to such things. Whatever we had, we had together.
From 1984 onward, when prisoners were occasionally released, we gave them money from our shared fund to help them leave Iran and reconnect with the organization. These were some of our happiest moments. Sometimes, during visits, we discreetly passed this money to our families to support the organization.
What made the horrific conditions of the clerical regime’s torture chambers ineffective against us was our faith and hope in the dawn of freedom for our homeland. Many times, even my non-religious friends, who stood firmly by their beliefs, asked me: What do the PMOI have that makes their bonds so deep and their love for one another so strong?
Among other prisoners, love usually formed between two or three people. Among the PMOI, it was collective, everyone was one. At the level of understanding I had at the time, I saw the answer in our leadership, our organization, and our belief that even if all of us were martyred, the organization would endure, and victory would be assured. This was the capital and blessing that powered our resistance against the clerical regime.
No one understood this better than the executioner Lajevardi. One day, when he came to the ward to intimidate us, a mother asked him why they wouldn’t release a thirteen-year-old girl who had done nothing wrong. She was referring to Fatemeh, a rural girl, who knew nothing about politics and had been arrested simply for helping someone who had visited her father’s workshop.
Lajevardi replied: The spirit of Massoud Rajavi lives in every one of you. Even your defectors can’t be trusted. Anyone who leaves here will rejoin the organization—I see it in your eyes. Don’t look me in the eye. I can smell and recognize the PMOI—what I call “hypocrites.” Over eighty percent of your central cadres are still active outside. None of you will leave Evin. Don’t imagine that one day the “heroic people” will welcome you with flowers. That day will never come. You will all rot here.
He was right about one thing: that spirit, the spirit of resistance and freedom, was alive in every one of us.
[1] Azar Nour-Ali was a university student and supporter of the PMOI. She was arrested in early 1982 and spent six of the best years of her life—from ages 21 to 27—in the prisons of the clerical regime. Upon her release in 1987, she immediately joined the National Liberation Army and was killed in 1988 while fighting for a free Iran.
[2] A saying attributed to Imam Ali, a central figure in Islamic history whose words are frequently cited in Shi‘a culture and literature.
