Memoirs of Mehri Hajinejad from “The Last Laughter of Leila”— Part Eleven
In the previous part, we followed Mehri Hajinejad as she described the suffocating fear inside the prosecutor’s wing, the constant pressure of interrogations, and the betrayal of a former comrade who had turned collaborator.
Here, in Part Eleven, Mehri takes us into one of the most terrifying practices inside the prisons of the 1980s: nighttime interrogations, sessions designed less to ask questions and more to break prisoners psychologically through fear, exhaustion, and violence.
Bloodshot, Animal Eyes
On the night of May 1, 1982, they called my name for interrogation.
Nighttime interrogations weren’t really interrogations; they were a tactic. At night, they mostly tortured; the questioning was an excuse to terrorize us.
The moment they read my name, I knew the interrogator must have something new to throw at me. I could tell they no longer saw me as the high-school girl who had dropped out in 1979 and briefly supported the movement. They were sure I had been involved organizationally right up until my arrest.
Walking down the hallway toward the interrogation rooms, my stomach twisted. One fear kept circling in my head: Would they bring me face-to-face with Zahra, the traitor? What would she do? Outside prison, during that short month we worked together, she’d grown so close to me, how could she now stand in front of me as an interrogator?
That thought weighed heavier than anything they could do to my body.
But by then, I had made up my mind.
Whatever happened, I would resist.
If she dared to show her face, she should be the one ashamed—not me. She was the one who had broken, who had betrayed. Maybe—just maybe—seeing me would make her feel even a flicker of shame. Maybe she’d step away from the path she’d fallen into.
Maybe.
Resistance at Any Cost
At some point, my resolve solidified completely: I would not acknowledge her presence.
To me, she was worse than the torturers themselves. To escape the lash of the cable, God knows how many others she had dragged to the interrogation table in her place.
By the time we reached the prosecutor’s wing, they left me waiting outside the interrogation room. It was quieter than usual; most prisoners had already been sent back from their sessions. I guessed the interrogator finally had time on his hands and wanted to “deal with me properly.”
About half an hour later, someone stood beside me.
It was her, the traitor.
In an overly sweet, grating voice, she asked:
“When were you arrested?”
I didn’t answer.
She went on: “Do you recognize me?”
Silence.
I clenched my teeth so tightly my jaw ached. If I opened my mouth, I would have screamed at her, so instead, I stayed quiet. Seeing my coldness, she went inside, then came back out, tugged on the corner of my chador, and said:
“Come sit here.”
She sat me on a chair facing the wall and ordered:
“Write everything. I’ve already told them everything about you; you don’t need to think.”
I thought:
Am I really supposed to be interrogated by a collaborator who used to be my comrade?
Without thinking, I stood up and demanded, “Who is my interrogator?”
A rough male voice answered:
“I am. But do whatever she tells you.”
I said, “I still don’t even know your name. Why am I in this section? What am I supposed to respond to? She says she’s already written everything, so what’s the point of me writing anything? Do your job with what she’s given you. I have nothing beyond that.”
That was when the beating began.
They kicked and punched me back and forth like a football between several men. I don’t know how many there were. Six? Seven? It happened over and over until nearly 2 a.m.
It was clear the interrogator already knew I had nothing more to give. He simply wanted to show me he “knew everything” and use me to vent his rage.
It was the first time this particular interrogator, an average-built, vicious man, handled my case. At one point, when I instinctively turned and saw him, his eyes were bloodshot like a feral animal, full of hatred. For that accidental glance, I paid dearly; he assumed I was trying to identify him.
He and his assistant were the exact stereotype of the regime’s thugs: uncivilized, violent, and crude to the core.
He kept threatening me: “Your time is running out. Either answer our questions or sign your death warrant tonight.”
He tried to break me with disgusting, humiliating tactics, but with the strength I drew from my identity as a member of the PMOI, I answered him in a way that made it clear he was dealing with a woman of the resistance.
Frustrated, he tore up my written pages several times saying, “Start over!”
I finally wrote: “Whatever Zahra has written about me, I confirm. I have nothing more.”
By the end, exhausted, he snapped: “Fine! Write whatever you want; just make it at least twenty pages.”
I wrote two or three pages about my activities at school and ended with the same sentence:
“I confirm what Zahra has written.”
A Night of Chaos in the Prosecutor’s Wing
A little after 2 a.m., the entire atmosphere suddenly shifted.
Doors slamming.
Guards running.
Raised voices.
It was clear a major operation had taken place; someone had been arrested alive, and they were beating him to extract information and track the rest.
My blindfold was on, and I was still in the interrogation room, so I couldn’t see anything. But the commotion terrified me. I prayed desperately for the organization. I feared one of the PMOI officials might have been captured.
The pain from the lashes was nothing compared to the dread of another catastrophe like what happened on February 8, 1982.
The News of Nosrat Ramezani’s Martyrdom
At dawn, during prayers, Sa’adati, the female IRGC guard, came into the room and asked,
“Have you prayed?”
I said no. She took me for ablution; I used the chance to ask what had happened.
She said casually, “They arrested a lot of people last night.”
After praying, I decided I wasn’t returning to the interrogation room.
I slipped back with the group heading to the ward; I didn’t care what would happen. I was bruised and exhausted and desperately needed to be among the girls again.
Around 10 a.m., after pretending to sleep in the prayer area, I heard a group being sent back to the ward and joined them.
Later that afternoon, we heard the regime’s radio announce the names of those killed in the attack the night before: Mohammad Zabeti and Tahereh (Nosrat Ramezani), my mentor during the PMOI’s youth training period.
No wonder my heart had been restless all night.
The interrogator must have been so overwhelmed by the chaos that he forgot he had left me mid-interrogation.
