Letters to My Torturer: Love, Revolution, and Imprisonment in Iran by Houshang Asadi Page B
Authors: Houshang Asadi
Tags: General, History, Personal Memoirs, Biography & Autobiography, Editors; Journalists; Publishers, 20th Century, Political Science, Modern, middle east, Human Rights
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it. You say: “Glasses.”
You unlock my handcuffs. Pain mixes with pleasure. I try to clean my face on my sleeve. I take out my glasses and put them on. I hear your voice: “We know everything. I will return in exactly ten minutes.”
And you leave.
I look at the photographs. In 1977, the British government had invited a delegation of Iranian journalists to England. British artists were participating in an international festival, and the government had arranged to brief Iranian journalists in a face-to-face meeting.
One day, we were all invited to a lunch hosted by the British Culture Ministry in a beautiful pavilion. We talked about a wide range of subjects, including the changing political situation in Iran. The lunch was attended by British artists, journalists, staff from the ministry, and Sonia Zimmerman, “from the BBC World Service, Farsi”.
She took off her sunglasses, looked around the table, and almost imperceptibly raised one eyebrow at me. I stared at her soft brown eyes, shocked into silence. The last time I had seen her was just before my arrest, three years ago. She stood up before lunch had finished, gave a slight bow to everyone, and left.
After lunch, we all started joking. The Intelligence Service had set this up, right?
Curious about her, I telephoned the Farsi desk of the BBC World Service and asked for her. A voice said: “She’s not here. Can I take a message?”
“Yes. Will you please ask her to call me back?”
I gave my hotel number, but I didn’t hear from her.
And now, the photographs are here. On the arm of the chair in the interrogation room. The photographs that had been taken withthe press guys, which I have kept to this day. I didn’t have a picture of the table we all sat round, but you did, Brother Hamid. Where had it come from? Then and now, I have no answer.
There was also a picture of us entering the BBC building. Then a photograph inside Buckingham Palace with our young British guide.
What the pictures were telling me was that I had to confess to something. Just at that moment, the sound of shuffling slippers approached and you arrived, Brother Hamid.
“Right. Have you made up your mind?”
I said: “Yes. Yes.”
You said: “Have you forgotten? Woof, woof.”
I said: “Woof, woof.”
You said: “Don’t talk. Write.”
You put the sheaf of papers and the biro on the arm of the chair. The paper was spotlessly white, but within a few minutes it had turned into one of the foulest documents in history. My hands were swollen so I couldn’t hold the biro properly, with my thumb and two fingers. With difficulty I rearranged the biro, gripping it in my fist, and in an illegible handwriting that sprawled across the pages, I wrote: “I am a spy for the British.”
You picked up the paper. No, you lapped it up. You asked: “With whom did you arrange meetings in Tehran?”
My head was spinning with dizziness. What kind of British people could I have arranged a meeting with? I blurted out, against my will: “The British ambassador.”
“Where did you meet?”
This one was tougher than the first. I recalled the streets around the British winter residence in the centre of Tehran, and again I blurted out recklessly: “Naderi Cafe.”
From behind the chair, you hit my head hard with the pile of papers.
“You are a much more seasoned agent than we had anticipated.”
Chapter 7
How I became a Spy for MI6
I now understand why you were so keen on foreign embassies. When I had my heart attack, I was near the British Embassy in Paris. I was on my way to the embassy to get a visa. I dragged myself forward, passing Madeleine Church, and then collapsed in front of the British Embassy. I couldn’t stop myself from laughing. If I’d had my file with me, I could have shown it to the British Embassy staff so they would realize that I had been their “spy” from some time way back before the glorious Islamic revolution. Maybe, knowing that, they wouldn’t
You unlock my handcuffs. Pain mixes with pleasure. I try to clean my face on my sleeve. I take out my glasses and put them on. I hear your voice: “We know everything. I will return in exactly ten minutes.”
And you leave.
I look at the photographs. In 1977, the British government had invited a delegation of Iranian journalists to England. British artists were participating in an international festival, and the government had arranged to brief Iranian journalists in a face-to-face meeting.
One day, we were all invited to a lunch hosted by the British Culture Ministry in a beautiful pavilion. We talked about a wide range of subjects, including the changing political situation in Iran. The lunch was attended by British artists, journalists, staff from the ministry, and Sonia Zimmerman, “from the BBC World Service, Farsi”.
She took off her sunglasses, looked around the table, and almost imperceptibly raised one eyebrow at me. I stared at her soft brown eyes, shocked into silence. The last time I had seen her was just before my arrest, three years ago. She stood up before lunch had finished, gave a slight bow to everyone, and left.
After lunch, we all started joking. The Intelligence Service had set this up, right?
Curious about her, I telephoned the Farsi desk of the BBC World Service and asked for her. A voice said: “She’s not here. Can I take a message?”
“Yes. Will you please ask her to call me back?”
I gave my hotel number, but I didn’t hear from her.
And now, the photographs are here. On the arm of the chair in the interrogation room. The photographs that had been taken withthe press guys, which I have kept to this day. I didn’t have a picture of the table we all sat round, but you did, Brother Hamid. Where had it come from? Then and now, I have no answer.
There was also a picture of us entering the BBC building. Then a photograph inside Buckingham Palace with our young British guide.
What the pictures were telling me was that I had to confess to something. Just at that moment, the sound of shuffling slippers approached and you arrived, Brother Hamid.
“Right. Have you made up your mind?”
I said: “Yes. Yes.”
You said: “Have you forgotten? Woof, woof.”
I said: “Woof, woof.”
You said: “Don’t talk. Write.”
You put the sheaf of papers and the biro on the arm of the chair. The paper was spotlessly white, but within a few minutes it had turned into one of the foulest documents in history. My hands were swollen so I couldn’t hold the biro properly, with my thumb and two fingers. With difficulty I rearranged the biro, gripping it in my fist, and in an illegible handwriting that sprawled across the pages, I wrote: “I am a spy for the British.”
You picked up the paper. No, you lapped it up. You asked: “With whom did you arrange meetings in Tehran?”
My head was spinning with dizziness. What kind of British people could I have arranged a meeting with? I blurted out, against my will: “The British ambassador.”
“Where did you meet?”
This one was tougher than the first. I recalled the streets around the British winter residence in the centre of Tehran, and again I blurted out recklessly: “Naderi Cafe.”
From behind the chair, you hit my head hard with the pile of papers.
“You are a much more seasoned agent than we had anticipated.”
Chapter 7
How I became a Spy for MI6
I now understand why you were so keen on foreign embassies. When I had my heart attack, I was near the British Embassy in Paris. I was on my way to the embassy to get a visa. I dragged myself forward, passing Madeleine Church, and then collapsed in front of the British Embassy. I couldn’t stop myself from laughing. If I’d had my file with me, I could have shown it to the British Embassy staff so they would realize that I had been their “spy” from some time way back before the glorious Islamic revolution. Maybe, knowing that, they wouldn’t
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