Captive in Iran by Maryam Rostampour Page B

cries went unanswered. By the time the guards came to open the cells for the morning, I had wet myself. I feared I might be losing control altogether and hoped the problem would not be with me from now on. When the door was unlocked at last, I washed my clothes in the sink and wore my coat while they dried.
    With the New Year’s holiday approaching, most of the prisoners were called and set free that morning, leaving only a few of the madams, the young addict from the night before, and Maryam and me. Though the girl still seemed dazed and uncomfortable, she was better than when she’d come in. When we asked how we could help her, she said only a few words before starting to cry. Her voice made a strange, weak, raspy sound. As we comforted her, she told us her story.
    She was so addicted to meth that she ate some of it, which had damaged her windpipe and vocal cords. Her family had tried to help her, and she was able to give it up for a while, but recently relapsed. She walked through Tehran looking for a treatment center until a kind man picked her up, gave her some money, and dropped her off at a hospital. The hospital staff told her they weren’t a detoxification center and sent her away. Walking the streets again, she had asked some policemen for help. Instead, they beat her and drove her to Vozara.
    “There’s no one on earth who can help me,” she said through her tears.
    “The Lord will help you,” I assured her. “He will not answer your cry for help with kicks and punches.” Maryam and I told her a little about our lives and our Christian walk. “Trust God. Go to a church when you get out, and they will help you.”
    The girl’s expression changed from despair to bright hope. “I will go to church, and I will never touch drugs again,” she said with confidence. I held her while she cried, gave her a little money, and wished the Lord’s blessing on her.
    By the end of the day, every prisoner except the two of us had beencalled to court, and all but one had been released on bail. The pilot’s wife was the last one to go, and she was sent to prison. We were left in the cell block completely alone.
    We walked down the hall together, going into each cell and remembering the women we’d met there. By law, prisoners were to spend no more than three days at the Vozara Detention Center, yet we had now been there for two weeks. During that time, we had witnessed to dozens of women we never would have met if the authorities had followed the usual three-day rule. What a miracle it was that we’d been able to meet and encourage so many women. What man meant for evil, God used for His good and His glory. The people who arrested us thought we were suffering in misery. In fact, we had shared the gospel more openly behind bars than we had ever been able to do on the outside. Even two guards who had been especially rude to us apologized during that last day for the way they had acted, and they asked us to pray for them.
    Now, as we entered each cell, we prayed for all the people who had been locked up there. We hoped they now had their freedom, that we had been faithful witnesses to them, and that they would continue to listen for the spirit of Christ moving in their hearts. Then we started thinking about the women who would be locked up there after we were gone. How could we reach out to them? There were damp places on the walls where little chunks of plaster had fallen off. Using these pieces of plaster as chalk, we wrote Bible verses and Christian messages all over the walls, and on the ceilings where prisoners could read them as they fell asleep. We prayed aloud and sang songs until late in the night. All alone in an underground prison cell, we shared a joyous celebration of faith.

    The next day—March 18, 2009, in the West—was known as Esfand 28 in Iran, one of the last days of the year 1387. Maryam and I went back to the Revolutionary Court and waited outside the magistrate’s office while Mr. Yazdani went