Prison memoirs of Mehri Hajinejad from the book The Last Laughter of Leila – Last Part
In the final 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 recounts the moment of her freedom from prison.
Take Me Away, My Gentle Hope
One spring day in 1986, they read out the names of twenty prisoners, mine among them, and ordered us to prepare for transfer to Evin Prison. When we asked why, they said it was because we were nearing the end of our sentences and would be taken to Evin to overgo our freedom process.
That day was one of the hardest days of my life. It was around four or five in the afternoon when I had to say goodbye to all those I loved. I felt as though I was suspended in a limbo between life and death. I kept asking myself: If I’m released but cannot reconnect with the Organization, what will I do? At least in prison, I was among my comrades, facing the enemy directly. But outside, what awaited me there?
The moments of farewell were unbearably painful. I felt like a fish thrown out of water, struggling desperately to find its way back to the sea. As I said goodbye to each of the women, only one sentence passed between us. I would say, “I’m not staying. I’ll soon go beyond the white mountains.”
This was the phrase we used for those who managed to cross the border.
Each of them had her own message, her own request. One gave me a code and asked me to keep it as her radio identification, adding, “Maybe one day I’ll manage to make it outside too.” Another said, “Send my greetings to the others.” One urged me not to waste a single moment once I was free. Another insisted, “If you end up staying in Evin, somehow let us know.”
As I turned my face, I saw the girls’ eyes, filled with affection and brimming with the joy of freedom, and I felt that every single glance placed a heavier burden of responsibility on my shoulders. How many days and nights we had lived through together. But in the end, the moment of separation from my companions arrived.
Along with prisoners from other wards, we were put on a bus. I cried the entire way. The innocent faces of my comrades never left my sight for a moment: the mischievous, restless eyes of Forouzan; the warm, affectionate gaze of Shekar Mohammadzadeh; Azam’s firm and serious encouragement; Firoozeh’s radio code and her hope of reunion; and the poem that Soheila Mokhtarzadeh[1] recited to me in our final moments together:
When you cross this desert of terror,
And pass through it safely,
To the blossoms, to the rain,
Carry our greetings.
We arrived at Evin at nine o’clock at night. At first, they took us to Ward 209, but the next day we were transferred downstairs to Ward 4. When we entered the ward, no one else was there. This was the very ward that had once held more than six hundred prisoners, now completely empty. Its inmates had been transferred to Ward 1, to the newly built cells of Section 325, and to Gohardasht Prison.
On the morning of April 26, 1986, at ten o’clock, a guard named Rahimi called my name and a few others over the loudspeaker and ordered us to come to the ward entrance. When we arrived, he said, “Take your belongings and come.” Even then, he did not tell us we were being released, so that we would not dare to feel happy.
We said goodbye to the girls, gathered our few belongings, and set off. They blindfolded us. A female guard took the hand of the first person, and the rest of us followed in a line behind her. In Ward 216, they searched us and all our belongings once again. Little by little, we began to believe that we were truly being released.
Around two in the afternoon, in the prosecutor’s office building, my name was called. Guard Sa’adati grabbed the edge of my chador and pulled me into a room filled with papers and files. There, I heard a rough voice say, “Lift your blindfold just enough to see the paper.”
I saw a document signed by three people as my guarantors. One was my uncle, another an acquaintance, and the third a man named Mohsen whom I did not know. In addition to the three guarantors, they had taken three million tomans as bail.
My poor mom must have gone from door to door, exhausting herself, to secure these guarantors and gather the money and collateral.
I signed the release paper. They also took another signature, obligating me to report to the local committee once every two weeks, and warning that the slightest misstep would send me back to prison.
At four o’clock in the afternoon, they put us on a bus and drove us out through the gates of Evin. As we passed through the massive iron gate, the final gate of the prison, a regime henchman who had opened it sneered, “Go ahead. In a little while, you’ll all be back. You’re all hypocrites.”
Instinctively and with absolute certainty, I replied, “Impossible. We will never return here.”
The moments after leaving Evin were strange and unsettling. A deep sense of alienation took over my entire being. I felt intensely alone and had no idea what to do next. As I walked, it felt as though hundreds of waiting eyes (the eyes I had left behind in Ghezel Hesar and Evin) were now facing me, urging me on with their gaze: Mahboubeh, don’t stop! Go! This is not where you belong.
Hundreds of inspirational whispers echoed in my ears: No matter what, you must make it. Remember, you represent us as well…
A pounding headache brought me waves of nausea, and I could barely walk. The bus dropped us off at Luna Park.
Wearing only a pair of slippers, draped in a black chador, and carrying a coarse cloth bag filled with a few clothes, odds and ends, and prison keepsakes, I stood by the side of the street, wondering which direction to take. I was confused, having lost even my sense of direction. Everything around me felt unfamiliar, distanced.
The alleyways and streets, the people, the walls, the noise, everything was there. Yet amid all of it, one thing remained closest to my eyes and mind: the images of prison and the memories of the girls.
Lost in these thoughts, I suddenly saw, almost in disbelief, ten or fifteen people walking toward me. They were there to welcome me.
Among them, I recognized only my mom and my dear uncle. The others were neighbors and friends who had come out of respect and affection for the Mojahedin to take me. I embraced them all with affection. Mohsen, our neighbor, had brought his minibus, and we all got in.
What a clash of emotions I felt. Everyone was happy. I was happy to see them too, but inside me, a storm was raging. I was under overwhelming pressure.
The city felt lifeless and cold. There was no trace left of the vibrant presence of the local young PMOI men and women who, like dew upon flowers, had once given freshness to Tehran’s streets. For that reason, I had no desire to look at the city at all.
It was seven in the evening when we arrived at our memory-filled home, a house I had last left before June, and now, upon my return, none of my loved ones were there. I was completely alone.
Along the way, I decided that the moment I reached home, I would first listen to the Voice of Mojahed Radio. This way, at least, I could reconnect myself and find my path. When I tuned the radio to the right frequency, the very first thing I heard was this song:
Take me away, take me away, my gentle hope,
Take me to the city of poems and passions,
We are drawn onto a star-filled path,
We are carried beyond the stars…
I felt as though my entire being were a thirsty desert, drinking this gentle voice drop by drop, yet growing thirstier with every sip.
After years, I was finally hearing the Voice of Mojahed again. Despite all the noise that distorted the signal, I could still hear it, like a parched traveler who, after miles upon miles, finally reached water. It was a voice intertwined with all my hopes and longings.
Once more, I felt the presence of the watchful eyes of my imprisoned comrades all around me. Their final words of advice echoed in my mind, and Soheila’s voice resonated in my ears:
When you cross this desert of terror,
And pass through it safely,
To the blossoms, to the rain,
Carry our greetings.
[1] Soheila Mokhtarzadeh was arrested in Tehran before June 20, 1981, solely for supporting the People’s Mojahedin Organization of Iran (PMOI/MEK). She was released from prison in 1986, but while attempting to leave Iran, she was arrested once again. This time, she was subjected to far more brutal torture.
Soheila was ultimately executed on January 28, 1987, at the age of just 23. Before her, her heroic sister Sara Mokhtarzadeh had also been killed under torture on November 22, 1981.
