Then They Came for Me_ A Family's Story of Love, Captivity, and Survival - Maziar Bahari [106]
After he hung up, he slapped me on the back of my head a few times. “Zendegi baraam nazashti,” he screamed. “You’ve ruined my personal life. You little Jew lover! Why didn’t you tell me that you made films about the Jews?!” Rosewater roared as he repeatedly punched me in the head. He placed a printout of my interview with the International Documentary Festival Amsterdam on my chair. “Why didn’t you tell us that you’ve cooperated with the Jews? Who gave you the money?! Tell me!”
Rosewater continued to slap and punch my head. It was as if by doing that he could rid me of my sympathies for Jewish people. He finally pushed me to the floor and kicked my back and legs.
“Tell me which agency you work for! If you don’t tell me, I will let you rot here. I will put your bones in a bag and throw it at your mother’s doorstep. You Zionist spy!”
· · ·
In my cell that night, I woke up with my head pounding. I reached for the three sleeping pills and four migraine tablets I’d hidden under the green carpet. We could see the prison doctor twice a week. He had allowed me to take a migraine pill only when I was in pain, but sometimes I pretended to be suffering so that I would have enough pills for when I needed them. I knew it was dangerous to take them all at the same time, but the pain was so bad it felt like my head was going to explode. So what if it was dangerous? I wanted to end the pain. I’d do anything to end the pain.
I went to sleep immediately, but within minutes a prison guard woke me up so I could use the toilet before morning prayers. After he led me back to my cell, I lay down and tried to go back to sleep. I pushed the carpet aside and put my throbbing temple on the cold tiles. I fell asleep within a few seconds.
Two women approached me. Their skin was tanned and smooth, their faces kind and beautiful. They were smiling at me the same way Maryam often had. They came to me from an endless white background. We were in an open space with no horizon. I watched their long dark hair blowing around their faces. I could feel the cool breeze on my skin. I was floating just above the ground, still suffering from my migraine, but their smiles soothed my anguish and pain.
Then they were at my side, lovingly touching my forehead with their cool, soft hands. After months with no human contact other than Rosewater’s beatings, their touch felt like balm on my skin. They helped me stand and led me gently toward a white bed in the endless white background. I was floating in the air. Their hands remained on my forehead and soothed my pain. I felt safe on the bed because I had them at my side.
“Who are you?” I asked the women.
“Sisters of mercy,” they answered.
“Like Leonard Cohen’s ‘Sisters of Mercy’?” I asked with a smile.
As I said those words, I heard a voice. It was Leonard Cohen singing one of the most beautiful songs ever written.
Oh the sisters of mercy, they are not departed or gone.
They were waiting for me when I thought that I just can’t go on.
And they brought me their comfort and later they brought me this song.
I don’t know how long the dream lasted, but I didn’t want it to end. I knew what emotions awaited me when I woke up—the fear, the shame, the hatred—and I wanted this feeling to last forever. I felt better. I felt safe. And, though only in my dream, I once again felt free.
· · ·
One day, I overheard a conversation between a female guard and a woman who sounded American.
“Roosari, roosari,” the guard kept telling the prisoner. “Head scarf, head scarf.”
Later on, I heard a male American voice in the hallway. “Can I use the bathroom?” the American prisoner asked in English.
“Yes, yes, yes,” the guard answered, clearly not understanding what the prisoner was saying.
“Sir, I need to use the bathroom,” the prisoner repeated desperately.