Captive in Iran by Maryam Rostampour Page A

woman in her forties arrived, whose husband was a pilot in the air force. They lived on a military base outside the city, and every aspect of their lives was monitored by the government: mobile phones, text messages, visitors—absolutely everything. The authorities knew more about them than they knew about themselves. Her elderly father had stomach trouble that he treated by drinking a little wine, even though alcohol is strictly forbidden by Islamic law. Because the family was under such close surveillance, it was impossible to buy wine without being seen, so they grew grapes and made their own. A neighbor saw the wine in a cabinet at their house and alerted the authorities. With the pilot and his family arrested by the basiji , the neighbor hoped to be promoted to the pilot’s position. The woman was worried about her husband and also about their two young children. After she heard our story, she asked us to pray for all of them.

    When a guard came for Maryam and me the next morning, we assumed we were going back to the police station or to the Revolutionary Court. We walked outside in handcuffs, but instead of the usual police car or van waiting for us, there was a taxi, and beside it stood a man who introduced himself as Mr. Yazdani. We didn’t recognize him, but hoped that our sisters had sent him. Mr. Yazdani carried a dossier in his hand and seemed to know something about us and our case. “We’re going to see what we can do to get you released in time for New Year’s,” he said. That certainly sounded encouraging!
    On the way to the Revolutionary Court, he asked us why we couldn’t accept Mohammed and Jesus both. “That’s what I do,” he explained matter-of-factly. “It’s a shame that girls like you have been caught in this type of situation.”
    When we arrived at the courthouse, the driver told us the total fare. He insisted the police hadn’t paid him. Mr. Yazdani hadn’t planned to pay him, so I paid him.
    Maryam and I waited in an outer room while Mr. Yazdani went in to talk to our judge, Mr. Sobhani. As we waited, we started talking, and eventually we were laughing. A young female guard came over to see what we were laughing about. We had simply gotten the giggles, and once we started, we couldn’t stop. The young guard started giggling, too, and was soon red-faced and laughing as hard as we were. Just then, the office door flew open and a stern-faced Judge Sobhani came stalking out.
    “Are these girls your prisoners or your friends?” he barked at the guard. She quickly stopped laughing and scurried to a chair across the room. After the judge disappeared back into his office, the guard resumed her conversation with us. She was a university student and very interested in Christianity. She wished us good luck and said she would find a Bible to read.
    The door opened again, and Mr. Yazdani came out looking very dejected. “Mr. Sobhani doesn’t want to see you today,” he said. There was no one else waiting to see the judge, but he had been offended by our laughter. He tended to be far more lenient with prisoners who flattered him and begged for mercy. Every time we had seen him, we had seemed confident and courteous. This aggravated him, and therefore he declined to see us.
    It was nearly midnight by the time we returned to Vozara. A new prisoner lay on the floor in front of our cell, a teenager addicted to crystal meth and going through withdrawal. She was nearly comatose, unable to stand and seemingly unaware of what was happening. One of the guards was kicking her.
    “Get up! Get up!” she yelled. “Get in your cell, you stupid trash!” The girl was completely helpless. The guard kicked her into our cell like a pile of old rags.

    The next morning, I woke up with a terrible pain in my abdomen. Some kidney problems I’d had in the past were flaring up again, thanks to the stress, bad food, and cold floors. I called for the guard to unlock our door so I could go to the toilet, but my