Captive in Iran by Maryam Rostampour

she cried. “I’m so tired!” All we could do was pray for her.
    After Masomeh and the transsexual returned from court, the two of them got into a loud argument. We still weren’t sure we had the whole story on Masomeh, the martyr’s daughter who had set up her boyfriend to be arrested and lashed by the basiji . She started talking with the transsexual about her relationship with her boyfriend, claiming that she loved him so much. After listening for a minute, the transsexual asked if the apartment where they were caught was at a certain address. Masomeh said that it was.
    “Six months ago, your boyfriend was one of my customers!” the transsexual crowed. “We went to that apartment, and he paid me 100,000 tomans to have sex with him!” Masomeh had said earlier that she’d bought the boyfriend a car and other expensive gifts. Now the truth was about to come out. She turned absolutely white. “He told me everything he had, including his car, was his to begin with, not presents from you!” the transsexual continued. “You weren’t wealthy, and you weren’t being generous. He was the wealthy one, and you had him arrested so you could take everything from him!”
    Normally brash and outspoken, Masomeh was struck dumb by this exposé of her past. “I have to go to the toilet,” she said, and left the room. Later, we learned she was having an affair with the judge in her case. Heknew she was guilty of defrauding her lover; but in exchange for her sexual favors, the judge forced her boyfriend to marry her, and then sent him to prison so that Masomeh could keep his property and she and the judge could continue their relationship. This is not an uncommon situation. A different judge had offered to release one of the madams on bail if she would give him her phone number.

    Marziyeh
    Cleaning the floors and toilets had become an everyday routine for us. The change in hygiene and the improvement in the way our meals were served, small as they were, made a big difference in the comfort of our temporary home. One day, I even convinced one of the guards to take a little money from me to buy some cake and juice for everyone. It was the only relief we had from bread and cheese in the morning and lentils and rice the rest of the day.
    Every morning, we also cleaned the hall in front of the guards’ office. One day, a kind-looking middle-aged woman came to the cell block while we were cleaning and asked us why we were at Vozara.
    “We’re in jail for our faith in Christ,” I explained.
    She was the custodian, hired to clean the whole detention center. She admitted that, until that moment, she had never even been to our cell block. Perhaps tinged with guilt, she gave the floor a few halfhearted strokes with a broom and then said, “I hear you pray for everyone here. Could you pray for me?”
    “Do you accept the way we pray?” Maryam asked.
    “How do you pray?”
    “We are Christians. We pray to Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior.”
    “Okay, so you’re Christians,” she answered. “What difference does it make? I accept Jesus. Just pray for me.”
    We promised we would.
    Late that night, a young girl, very thin and addicted to crack, came in. She was injured or sick, and crying in terrible pain. Though it was after midnight, I went to her cell.
    “Why are you here?” the girl asked. “Why aren’t you asleep?”
    “Because I wanted to sit here with you,” I said. I took the girl’s head in my lap and stroked her hair. She was younger than my sister, Elena. I prayed silently until the girl fell asleep, and then sat with her a long time so as not to wake her.
    Early the next morning, the girl sought me out and asked, “What kind of prayer did you pray for me last night?” I told her I had prayed for Jesus to heal her.
    “I became so calm,” she said, “and my pain is much less.” Maryam and I told her that if she trusted Jesus and tried to change her ways, the Lord would always be willing to help her.
    A