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By Root 457 0

told him like a sponge. In prison, he forged many friendships that would last throughout his life. These men were like uncles to me. It was not unusual for me to come home from school and find a famous Iranian singer or writer sitting at our dining table. There was Mr. Hosseinpour, a poet whose long hair and thick mustache reminded me of a Soviet intellectual; he and my father had shared a cell for many months. My father and Mr. Banki, an engineer whose big cheeks shook whenever he remembered his torturers, recited poetry together during their daily walks in prison. Mr. Abdollah, an industrialist, shared a room with my father, once they were both out of prison, in an apartment given to them by the party.

Whenever three or four of them got together, they would tell stories. These aging men looked at their time in prison with pride and would talk about the torture they endured, and their near-death situations, the way some people talk about a culinary tour of France or a hiking trip in Peru. To a stranger—or to a son—the stories could be both fascinating and horrifying. As a young boy, I was also enthralled by the language my father and his friends used to describe their prison experiences. It was as if talking about a painful past gave them permission to use obscenities. “The motherfuckers punched my head as if it were a boxing bag,” Mr. Banki would say.

“The bastards had no mercy,” Mr. Abdollah would add.

“The prison was a shithole and stank like a pigsty,” Mr. Hosseinpour would interject.

Eventually my father would conclude, “Those thugs tried to break us, but what they did just made us stronger.”

These men, and many others who were not lucky enough to survive, endured imprisonment and torture because they stood for freedom. What was happening in Iran in June 2009 was a continuation of the same struggle. My father and his friends loved to recite the poem “The End of the Game,” by Ahmad Shamlou, which Shamlou wrote about the shah.

How can you enjoy

trees and gardens

for you spoke to Yassmin

with shears.

Where you step

plants

refrain from growing.

For you

never believed

in integrity

of soil and water

As the Islamic regime consolidated its power after the revolution, the poem became not only about the shah anymore; it referred to all despots who have ruled my country. As I sat in Khamenei’s prison, I thought of him while I recited the poem.

Alas! our destiny

was the faithless ballad of your soldiers

returning

from the conquest of the harlots’ fortress.

Wait and see what the curse of hell

will make of you,

for the grieving mothers

—mourners of the most beautiful children of the sun and wind—

have not yet

raised their head from their prayers.

· · ·

I had been reporting on the Islamic Republic for twelve years. I knew how irrational and dangerous the regime could be. The longer I sat in my cell waiting for someone to explain to me what was happening, the more concerned I became. In my better moments, the journalist in me found the experience, even the interrogations, fascinating. Not many journalists had gotten so close to the inner workings and secrets of this notorious prison.

I concentrated on remembering every detail for an article I imagined I’d eventually write: “Seventy-two Hours in Evin Prison.”

That first night, I shut my eyes and tried to sleep. Immediately, I started to dream. I was with Paola in Hampstead Heath on a foggy London morning. We were lying on top of a hill. Paola was wearing her white pajamas and a white tank top. I was kissing her pregnant stomach and rubbing baby oil on it. In my dream, I did not miss any opportunity to kiss Paola. I told her about the absurdity of my seventy-two hours in Evin, and we laughed about Rosewater’s absurd allegations. Then we were back in our flat in London, her dark blond hair spread across the pillow beside me. Then, suddenly, someone was banging on our door.

“Prepare yourself. You’ll be going back to your specialist soon!”

In my dream state, I couldn’t make sense of those words.

“Get up! You leave in five minutes.