Prison Memoirs of Azam Haj Heydari from the book “The Price of Being Human” – Part Five
Blood Ties Turned Weapons: Inside Evin Under a Family of Interrogators
In this installment of Azam Haj Heydari’s prison memoir, she recounts her transfer to Evin Prison, the brutal conditions inside, and the shocking reality of facing her own relatives—now serving as Guards and interrogators.
At the time, Azam was a young teacher in her early twenties who had chosen the path of resistance. She would ultimately spend five years imprisoned in various facilities, including Judiciary Detention, Evin, Qezel Hesar, and Gohardasht, enduring severe torture at the hands of the Guards.
Transfer to Evin
In the early days of September, my sister Mahin, who was in very poor physical condition, and I were taken from the detention center and thrown into a vehicle. They covered our heads and bodies with blankets so we couldn’t see anything outside. In this way, they transferred us to Evin and took us straight to the interrogation unit.
We were kept there waiting until midnight. After hours of delay, they conducted a brief initial interrogation, recorded our identities, and then transferred us to Ward 240.
This ward consisted of three rooms. One of them was reserved for monarchists, who enjoyed every possible privilege available to prisoners. They were on friendly terms with the Guards and were provided with whatever they wanted.
The other two rooms held the rest of us, about 70% students and 30% from other professions: teachers, doctors, nurses, office workers. Each room, measuring roughly 5 by 3 meters, held between 50 and 70 people, packed tightly together. Despite the overcrowding, no one was relocated.
Among us were three very young girls: Farzaneh, 11; Forough, 12; and Zahra, 15. Their “crime” was supporting the Mojahedin. In reality, they were hostages, held to pressure their families into surrender.
Farzaneh and Forough were so young that they would fall asleep during interrogations. At times, when the Guards locked the room as punishment and denied us access to the toilet, these children couldn’t hold themselves.
On October 5, word spread through the prison that demonstrators had attacked Evin. In response, the prison authorities sealed all the doors. For three days, no one was allowed out—not even to use the toilet or perform ablutions.
In a 5-by-3 room crammed with 55 people, what could we possibly do for those children?
We lifted a corner of the carpet and placed a tin container—once used for cheese—for them to use. Eventually, others had no choice but to use it as well. After three days, the stench became unbearable. Only after repeated pleas, paid for with beatings and interrogations, did they finally open the doors.
A female Guard named Alizadeh, who oversaw the ward, had a deep hatred for Mojahedin supporters. She subjected even these young girls to the most degrading insults and beatings. She would say: “You deserve this. The Imam (Khomeini) said your lives, your property, your honor are all permissible. I don’t care what happens to you. All of you should be executed. You’re living extra lives.”
This was the mindset they had been trained to believe.
Zahra, only 15, was executed after six months of torture because she refused to renounce her beliefs. She would not repeat the phrase they demanded: “I am a hypocrite.” She was executed at dawn on September 12, 1981. The news was broadcast on the radio that same morning.
I never learned what happened to Farzaneh and Forough after they were transferred elsewhere. But given what we witnessed, it would not be surprising if they too were executed. One of the regime’s officials had openly stated on television that girls as young as nine and boys of fifteen could be executed.
Illness and Neglect
By the time I arrived at Evin, I was suffering severely from a fungal infection. My cellmates tried to help me bathe at least once a day, even with cold water, to prevent it from worsening.
Hot water was available only once a week, for about ten minutes. We usually prioritized those whose injuries from torture were severe, since cold water would worsen their condition. The rest of us had to wash ourselves in freezing water in Evin’s cold mountain air.
When we raised this issue with “Hosseini,” the prison official, he replied: “Be grateful you have this much. Complain more and we’ll cut even that off.”
A Family of Interrogators
Now that I’ve mentioned “Hosseini,” I should explain: his real name is Abolfazl Haj Heydari—my cousin.
He was related to powerful figures and had been imprisoned before the revolution alongside others who later rose to positions of authority. After their release, they publicly pledged loyalty and later became deeply embedded in the system.
Abolfazl brought his own brother Aziz Haj Heydari and my older brother Mohammad Haj Heydari into the prosecutor’s office and Evin Prison. While he operated openly as the face of the prison, Aziz and Mohammad worked as interrogators and torturers under aliases.
Whenever I was taken for interrogation, I could tell when one of them was present. The questions revealed intimate knowledge of my family.
One time, I lifted my blindfold just enough to see, and I recognized Aziz. He saw me too.
For that moment, I was flogged and tortured for an entire week.
Overcrowding and Recognition
From September onward, arrests increased dramatically. Evin was overflowing far beyond capacity. We were suffocating in the overcrowded wards.
Eventually, they moved us to another ward—also called 240. Like all wards in Evin, it had two floors. I was placed upstairs; my sister Mahin was sent downstairs. We were separated.
Each floor had six rooms. To give a sense of the overcrowding: prisoners from a three-room ward were now packed into all twelve rooms of this new space. Our former ward was turned into an infirmary.
One day, we were told a delegation of officials would visit. We sat in our rooms waiting.
I was in Room One when Hosseini entered.
At that moment, any doubt I had vanished. I knew for certain: he was my cousin, Abolfazl.
Seeing him, I felt a jolt, and a deep sense of disgust that I shared a name with him. I had never felt any connection to that side of the family. Even before my political involvement, I had distanced myself from their corrupt and backward values.
He looked straight at me and asked, “Who are you?”
I didn’t answer.
He asked again.
I said: “Azam Haj Heydari.”
He scanned me with a smirk and asked, “What do you do?”
I remained silent.
He repeated the question several times. I stared back at him and refused to respond.
The others spoke up, complaining about the lack of hot water and basic hygiene.
He laughed mockingly and said: “Be grateful you even have water.”
And just like that, he dismissed every concern, turning even the most basic human needs into something to ridicule.
To be continued…
