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I abandoned my suicidal thoughts and remembered what my father had told me about his torturer, a savage named Zibaei. It took Zibaei a while to understand that physical torture was not effective. “I kept on passing out while I was being tortured,” my father used to tell me. “And when I didn’t pass out because of the pain, I pretended that I’d passed out so that the torture would stop. I just couldn’t live with myself if I revealed any information about my comrades.”

Even though my father and his comrades were all atheists, most of them came from religious families where sex was taboo. Their interrogators knew this, and used it against them. Two of the main methods of torture favored by the shah’s henchmen after the 1953 coup d’état were rape and touching the prisoners’ genitals. It took the shah’s intelligence almost two years to realize that threats of execution and denying prisoners the chance to see their families were far more effective.

“The interrogator pretended to be my friend, and asked about my family,” my father told me. “He asked if I missed my wife and child. I didn’t answer at first, because I knew he was going to use it against me, but when I finally said yes, he allowed Moloojoon to bring Babak to see me.” My father always had to hold back his tears when he remembered these meetings with my mother and my older brother, who was a toddler at the time. “Then the next week he told me that if I didn’t name my comrades and tell him where they could be hiding, I would never be able to see Babak and Moloojoon again.” At that point my father’s large eyes would well up with tears. “Bi sharaf ha,” he’d say. “They had no dignity.”

I grew up hearing my father’s friends praising his strength in prison, maintaining that the only reason he managed to escape execution was that he’d had a cousin in the army. But many other Tudeh Party members broke under physical and psychological torture. Between 1954 and 1956, the shah’s intelligence found the coded list of Tudeh Party members and its underground military network, and eventually deciphered the codes. By 1957, when the last execution of a Tudeh Party member under the shah took place, most leaders of the party had either been killed, imprisoned, or lived in exile.

As much as remembering my father’s courage gave me strength, I knew that what I was facing in Evin was very different from my father’s experience in the 1950s. My father had had concrete information about a number of individuals and their whereabouts. The torturers wanted him to tell the truth in order to save himself. I was being tortured to lie about myself and others to preserve the regime’s and Khamenei’s narrative about the election. My father used to say that he felt sorry for the shah: “He is a pathetic man who believes in his own lies and the lies others tell about him.” In that moment, as I remembered my father’s struggle, I was sorry for Khamenei, another pitiable despot.

· · ·

I’d been in prison for a month when one night, after evening prayers, Rosewater took me to a new interrogation room.

“How are you, my friend?” he asked in a tone that reminded me of the one he’d used during the first days after my arrest. “Maziar, I have to tell you something that may make my bosses really upset.” He paused for a few seconds. “But I have to reveal it anyway.”

The dishonesty in his voice betrayed the fact that he was trying to manipulate me, but I wanted to hear what he had to say. “My bosses are not happy with your performance and want to make an example of you.” He then brought his head forward and whispered in my ear. “I’m not supposed to tell you this, but they think that by executing you they can teach others an important lesson.”

I felt a chill in my spine as Rosewater asked me to remove my blindfold. There was a basket of fruit and vegetables on the table. He pulled three small cucumbers from it and peeled them slowly. He then placed them on a small plate with a few apricots and slid it to