Torture and Resistance In Iran

(Hemaseyeh Moghavemat)

Written by: comrade Ashraf Dehghani

Early 1970s

To:

... all the heroes of the masses who, martyred under torture, or facing murder squads, raised the red flag of their cause,

... all those dedicated revolutionaries, who died fighting the enemy of the people, and watered the tree of our people's liberating revolution,

... all the political prisoners whose resistance and fortitude strengthen the people's front, and to all those warriors of the masses, who have joined the path to people's liberation ... the path of revolution.

Iran, my land, from the Gulf, streaked with blood, to your tall, proud mountains, rabid dogs rave

Iran, my land, look how the ugly hyenas plough clots of blood in your rich soil, look how the clear water from your depths, is sucked into the sewage that is imperialism,

But, Iran, my land, I vow, I vow to answer, the silence of your night, with the clamour of bullets; the darkness of your night, with the flame of bullets; and the cold of your night….

Table of Contents

Introduction by The Organisation of Iranian People's Fadaee Guerrillas

CHAPTER 1 ARMED‑STRUGGLE IN IRAN: THE BEGINNING

The End of Silence

Errors of Inexperience

The Enemy's Efforts to Capture Comrade Behrouz & Me

CHAPTER 2 ARREST, TORTURE, INTERROGATION

My Arrest

Torture in the Police Detention Center

In Evin's Torture Chambers

Mercenaries Panic in Facing Armed Struggle

More Interrogation, More Torture

The True Face of the Villains

The Torture & Martyrdom of Comrade Behrouz Dehghani

General Samadian‑Pour: Chief Hoodlum

Interrogation Goes On

A Meeting with Comrade Hamid Tavakkoli

The Helpless Mercenaries

A Meeting with Comrade Ali‑Reza Nabdel

The Kindness of Torturers: Another Trap

Who is the Captive?

Victims of Poverty & Ignorance

Comrade! Think of Flying, Birds are Mortal

Faith & Will‑Power Will Triumph Over Torture

The Duty of Every Revolutionary in the Prison

Appendix

Introduction by the Organization of Iranian People's Fadaee Guerrillas

The armed struggle for the liberation of the people of Iran, undertaken with a full understanding of the historic currents of the present era and based on an objective analysis of these currents, has put us in the forefront of world revolution.

Our age is the age of liberation of the enslaved masses exploited by imperialism. It is the age of peoples' liberation movements. Everyday the masses of the world open up a new front against world imperialism, and everyday a new blow is inflicted on imperialists.

Now the masses have risen, in Asia, in Africa, in Latin America, and the invigorating sound of machine guns, the clamour of the liberation movements can be heard throughout the world. Faced with the historic uprising of the oppressed masses, the bloodthirsty imperialists and their reactionary stooges will not lay down their slaughter axe. Desperately they try to destroy the armed pioneers of the peoples' revolution and to block the path of the power of the masses ‑ a destructive historical flood, which will demolish the castles they have built on misery. The enemy does not stop at any crime. However, death is no longer the answer. Now the wish of Comrade Ernesto 'Che' Guevara, the heroic son of the peoples of three continents, has come true. Now when a warrior is slain in the front against imperialism, many fighting hands reach for his weapon to continue the solemn struggle, which leads to the freedom of the masses. This historic development inevitably claims many martyrs, but that does not deter the revolutionaries. Rather, it makes them more determined.

The guerrilla movement in our country has arisen out of both objective and subjective conditions and phenomena. The deepening hatred of the people for world imperialism and internal reaction, the rule in Iran of the comprador‑bourgeoisie and the intense and systematic political and economic exploitation of our masses coupled with imperialist deculturalisation of the country; the failure of the regime's 'reforms' which aimed to reduce the revolutionary potential of the Iranian masses; the phenomenal political suppression in Iran which has made any kind of open or semi‑overt struggle by the masses impossible, together with past experiences which had shown 'peaceful' opposition to be vulnerable and sterile; the impact of the revolutionary movements of the Third   World in general and of the Middle East in particular; increasing political and historical consciousness of the young generation in Iran; and, study and analysis of former methods of resistance and struggle by those who pioneered the armed revolution; these were all among the basic elements that brought about the armed guerrilla movement in Iran.

Before the advent of armed struggle in our country, there existed a few revolutionaries who were able to perceive the bright horizon of the future while submerged in the darkness of the Iranian political scene. It was these people who set the wheels of armed revolution in motion. The armed struggle in Iran started at a time when the enemy imagined itself more powerful than ever, and the imperialists were triumphantly boasting about "this island of stability and calm". It was a time when the many politically blind were revealing their ignorance of the fermenting currents within Iranian society with their well known saying: "Nothing can be done in Iran at present". These subjective dogmatists, isolated from the Iranian society and its realities and unable to offer a clear and realistic course of action to break the political deadlock in Iran, were borrowing page after page from the book of another country's successful revolution, prescribing duplication of set patterns out of line with the particular realities of our country, clinging to their dogmas and refusing to learn from their mistakes. It was a time when the opportunists were 'awaiting favourable circumstances' when the masses would all rise together as if in a fairy tale of a revolution. Meanwhile, they were accepting a degrading and sterile life under the venal Shah, living a corrupting life in silence and inaction, pretending to be part of some imaginary undercurrents that would suddenly surface ‑ undercurrents that did not and could not exist as imperialism and reaction, with their thousands of schemes and conspiracies, stopped its growth and ended its very existence.

It was under these conditions, with painful memories of past defeats casting a dark shadow on the minds of the people, with the blind hopes and the cold hearts that the young generation of our land rose to its feet. A young generation had achieved a level of political, intellectual and practical maturity to be able to undertake its historic mission. A young generation that was emerging from the darkness, with a firm belief and a revolutionary dedication, to raise the arms of revolution and open the way for the struggle of the oppressed masses.

The young generation in Iran has risen to wipe out the degradation of the past two decades; to wipe out the gloom and the doubts; to break the silence, the suppression; to end the, impotence; to condemn looking abroad for all inspiration and patterns of action; to eliminate the sewage of opportunism; to destroy the yoke of imperialism and reaction, and to accomplish the rule of the people in their homeland.

This heroic young generation set to work without any external source of support. It stepped out on the road to revolution without the benefit of any practical experience and unable to draw on the experience of previous generations, as no positive and creative experience had been left behind. The work had to start from the very beginning.

The experiences of the past generations could only teach the young how a struggle that fails to arouse the masses and rely on them is doomed; how political servitude and the lack of an independent line compatible with the particular conditions prevalent in Iran can leave the movement subordinate to the interests and compromises of others. The experiences of past generations taught the young that lack of a realistic political unity among the people's forces against the common enemy leads to inefficacy and disintegration; that indecision and lack of courage and determination leaves the country to the whims of the enemy; that lack of progressive and truly revolutionary Organisation and leadership, hardened in the field of battle and not arising out of political play‑acting and show business, can waste the tremendous potentials of the masses and lead to impotence and defeat, in spite of the fortitude and sacrifices of many children of the masses.

This was how the young generation of our country undertook the grave responsibility of cleaning up the sty of the Iranian political scene and laying the foundations of people's revolution.

In the beginning, their hands were empty but their hearts were full of hope and determination. The movement grew in the course of revolutionary action, under the darkest tyranny, in fire and blood. This generation has had to build from the very foundations, without any support but that of the masses. It had to create everything, and so learned to be creative, constructive. This generation has given all, dedicated all, to gain all for the people. This generation has solemnly accepted its historic mission, has courageously faced difficulties, and emerged victorious, has terrified the Shah, his masters and his terrorists.

Comrade Ashraf Dehghani belongs to this generation. Comrade Ashraf was arrested (in the Spring of 1971) while on a mission. She was subjected to barbarous tortures by the fascist regime but, with her revolutionary determination and fortitude, she endured it all and revealed nothing after many months of torture, Comrade Ashraf was tried and sentenced to ten years imprisonment. In March 1973 she escaped from the Shah's prison and rejoined the ranks of the O.I.P.F.G. Now together with her comrades, she continues the war.

Comrade Ashraf Dehghani's fortitude and her resistance in the face of the regime's mercenaries, the agents of imperialism in Iran, has not been an exception to the rule. Countless revolutionaries, children of our people, have shown indomitable firmness and resistance under the savage tortures of the fascist regime and its North American masters. There have been, and there remain, countless heroes of the Iranian Revolution. There have been countless martyrs. We are now able to tell the masses of Iran, to tell the World, of her heroic resistance as an example of the courage and determination of the Iranian revolutionaries.

With unwavering belief in our final victory

The organisation of Iranian People's Fadaee Guerrillas

CHAPTER 1

Armed Struggle in Iran:

The Beginning:

THE END OF SILENCE

In Bahman of 1349 (February 1971) the Battle of Siahkal opened a new, significant and decisive page in the history of the struggle of the Iranian people. For imperialism and reaction in Iran, the bell began to toll.

The brave children of the nation had risen to fulfil their historic mission, breaking the silence of many years, to shatter the enemy's myth of invincibility, to raise the tremendous force of the masses and open the way to freedom from oppression, suffering, deprivation.

In the space of four months after Siahkal, many police stations were successfully raided and many banks expropriated.  Preparation was successful, although inexperience had taken toll and many revolutionaries were captured by the regime and summarily murdered by firing squad. More action followed, and much more was to come.

After the trial of the murderous traitor, General Farsiou (l) in the People's Court and his execution, the enemy, still in a state of shock, unleashed a widespread campaign of terror and intimidation. After murdering some heroes of Siahkal (2), the regime foolishly imagined that it had put paid to the movement at its birth. In its ignorance, it even believed that the fifteen heroes killed by firing squad or under torture, were the whole of the guerrilla force! When they learned of nine others, the regime, with a typical lack of understanding of Iran's historic conditions and processes, decided that capturing these revolutionaries would, again, put an end to the armed struggle, and give the Shah a new lease of criminal existence.

The regime distributed 'wanted' posters with photographs of the nine throughout the country with promises of rich rewards. Newspapers told the people there were only the nine left out of the movement. The nine revolutionaries were Comrade Amir Parviz Pouyan, Javad Selahi, Hamid Ashraf, Manuchehr Bahai‑Pour, Eskandar Sadeghi‑Nezhad, Abbas Meftahi, Ahmad Zibrom, Mohammad Saffari Ashtiani and Rahmatollah Peirov Naziri). The enemy was naive enough to expect the people to betray their heroes. The only result of this action was that the masses throughout the country learned of the existence of the revolutionary forces and of the beginning of the armed struggle. The regime had thus unwittingly achieved what the revolutionary forces had tried to achieve. Nine pioneers of the people's revolution were thus known to the people. The reaction was breathtaking. The posters ended up in people's homes, over the mantelpieces where heroes belong. The nation was exalted. At long last, it had found hope, and it had all happened overnight. The heroes were cherished: "We would not sell them for anything", "the money would be haram*, "these are like the Viet Cong"…

The effect on the intellectuals was also overwhelming. They took up armed struggle at an incredible rate. The revolution began in earnest, and this all helped to drive it on to its logical and historic conclusion.

Together with my revolutionary brother, Behrouz, I had joined the armed struggle at the beginning. When the enemy was leaving no stones unturned looking for the nine heroes of the people, I shared the same operational base with two of them; Comrades Pouyan and Nabdel (4). Our group was charged with reproducing and distributing leaflets and communiqués. This was our main duty, but we would undertake other tasks as the need arose.

Every revolutionary action brought new hopes and elation. The correctness of the path was not in doubt and armed guerrilla action was clearly the only way left to overthrow the rule of reaction and imperialism. However, we did not know, because of our inexperience, how long it would take to establish a wide base of support. What was in question was not the direction of the struggle, but its tempo. Comrade Pouyan's view was: "In this struggle, the Organisation may be dealt heavy blows. There may be many casualties, but the struggle we have initiated is just, and even without the O.I.P.P.G., the fight will be continued by other revolutionary organizations".

On 14 April, 1971, Comrades Pouyan, Golavy, Nabdel and Selahi, left the base at 6.30 p.m. to post and distribute leaflets. The former returned safely but Nabdel and Selahi did not come back. We later learned that they had been spotted posting leaflets on a wall by a retired army N.C.O. who raised the alarm. The comrades had not previously surveyed the area, and, attempting to escape, they rode their motorcycle into an alley leading to the police station in Pamenar Avenue. Station sentries opened fire and an unequal battle ensued. Comrade Nabdel was badly wounded and fell unconscious. Comrade Selahi fought on and, with his last bullet, shot himself in the back of the head, denying the enemy the opportunity of: using his death for propaganda: "One of the nine ...

Comrade Nabdel was taken to the police hospital. Without attending to his injuries, the enemy began torturing him. Indeed his wounds were mauled and whipped with an electric cable. His resistance in those critical first days was astonishing. It was such that the torturers were left full of admiration! He had been told that a bullet in his leg would not be extracted if he refused to talk. His response was typical: "the bullet is yours, the secrets mine. I will keep what belongs to my people and myself". At last, the enemy relented. He was given medical attention but interrogation went on. One day, he hurled himself out of the window of his third floor room trying to take his own life lest the enemy extract any information from him. He survived the fall, with a few broken bones and burst stitches. He had then tried to tear out his intestines but was captured.

Then he was told: "we have arrested all the members of your organisation and soon you are all going to be shot". His reply was: "that is not important. The struggle goes on. We may be torn apart, but we shall never break, we shall never bend". For many days, he had withstood savage tortures without revealing a word. He even resisted for twenty days before disclosing the address of the house our team had used as base. But the enemy attacked an empty house.

*Haram: unclean, profane, and religiously prohibited. (I.C.)

ERRORS OF INEXPERIENCE

Having lost hope for Comrade Nabdel's return, we stayed the night in the same house. The following morning we cleared the place out and burned some documents. I wont to Tabriz in the afternoon but Comrade Pouyan together with another comrade stayed for one more night. Obviously, if Comrade Nabdel had revealed the address to the enemy in the first two days, the clash of Niruye Havai Street (5) would have happened there and then. This fact was important, as every hour of the life of a revolutionary fighter, particularly one like Comrade Pouyan, is most valuable to the struggle.

Next day I warned the comrades in Tabriz of Nabdel's arrest, but neither Comrade Behrouz nor myself went into hiding Two days later I returned to Tehran as arranged with Comrade Pouyan, but failing to meet him, I went to Tabriz yet a second time. Those trips were a mistake for two reasons. Firstly, despite my trust in Comrade Nabdel, I should have gone into hiding following his arrest. Secondly, having told my family that I was studying in Tehran, my trips in the middle of the academic year aroused suspicion. However, this time I stayed in Tabriz for a week before returning to Tehran. Comrade Behrouz joined us in Tehran a few days later. Still, not knowing what Comrade Nabdel was going through not to reveal our identities, we were going about freely.

Each and every one of our activities immediately following Comrade Nabdel's arrest, was an error. Inexperience, lack of objectivity, and our ignorance of the enemy's mode of operation created many false images in our minds.

More than twenty days after the capture of Comrade Nabdel, I was instructed to contact, in a nearby mosque, the landlady of the house we had left, to learn of developments. There was also a plan to attack the SAVAK agents in the house. I went to the mosque in the evening in time for Nemaz*, as it was easier to spot her at that time. I approached her and talked to her. She was quite obviously frightened. It was plain, SAVAK agents were in the house. Nemaz started again and I slipped out.

I later learned that, after my visit, a herd of secret agents had daily accompanied her to the mosque. As if I would return there!

*Nemaz: Moslem prayer. (I.C.)

THE ENEMY'S EFFORTS TO CAPTURE COMRADE BEHROUZ AND ME

After many days of torture, and after much heroic fortitude, Comrade Nabdel disclosed the identity of Comrade Behrouz to the enemy. SAVAK agents raided our home in Tabriz in the middle of the night and ransacked the place. They made my mother stay inside, detaining whoever called at the house. Next evening my younger brother Mohammad (6) did not return home and was arrested.

The mercenaries then raided my sister's home and arrested her husband, Comrade Kazem Saadati (7) and took him to SAVAK's Tabriz headquarters. Kazem, one of the most progressive sympathisers of O.I.P.F.G. was living with his wife and child, and had not gone into hiding. On arrest, in order not to give any information to SAVAK, he pretended to be a naive simpleton, totally ignorant of our activities. The mercenaries released him hoping he would help them capture Comrade Behrouz, and threatened him that his lack of co‑operation would lead to re‑arrest and torture. He realised that he was under close observation, but was unable to warn Comrade Behrouz who was due to make contact with him soon. On the night of his release, he committed suicide by taking poison and cutting his wrists, so that Behrouz would be warned by the commotion. The enemy learned of Kazem's action and did everything possible to save his life. He was taken to hospital, and it was demanded that his life be saved! However, Comrade Kazem, his secrets buried in his heart, joined the martyrs of the Iranian Revolution. The enemy frustrated and dejected, became an object of ridicule by prosecuting, supposedly on behalf of Kazem's family, the intern who had failed to save his life! To the embarrassment of SAVAK, the people of Tabriz in great numbers gloriously honoured their hero and gave him a most splendid funeral. To disrupt the funeral would have been an admission of guilt by SAVAK. Instead, the enemy later retaliated by arresting those who had been most outraged.

Comrade Kazem had once again proved the regime's impotence and inefficacy in the face of revolutionary determination and absolute dedication. His last words to my mother were: "the enemy may murder your children under severe torture, but do not ever plead, do not ever beg. The enemy is too base for that".

The elaborate efforts for our arrest even extended to setting up roadblocks on all routes out of Tehran. All the universities and other institutes where I could have been studying (that was what I had told my family) were probed.

In one instance, a shrew of a woman, probably the same one who later acted as my jailer, went to the dormitory of a girls' boarding school at 2 a.m. With the building surrounded, the woman awakened the students one by one, introducing herself now as my aunt, now as my sister‑in‑law, asking their names, telling them my mother was gravely ill, and she had come to take me to her. Having noticed her varying identity, the students began asking questions and a group of them were ready to throw her out, forcing her to abandon her search and run to safety. Yet another unsuccessful ploy! The only result of these midnight raids was that groups of students were made more aware of the regime's nature and given a glimpse of the enemy's stupidity and brutality.

CHAPTER 2

Arrest, Torture, Interrogation.

MY ARREST

After the blow, we reorganised and resumed revolutionary activity. In the morning of 13 May 1971, I left the base with Comrade Behrouz, to continue surveillance of an enemy mercenary. I was standing on 21 Azar Street when two cars screeched to a halt in front of me and a group of men charged out. The first one to reach me put one hand over my mouth and, uttering obscenities, tried to lift me up and carry me to one of the cars. Soon the others joined in. Their loathsome faces and their foul language worthy only of the Shah's police and SAVAK thugs, left me in no doubt as to their identity. What was not clear was how they had identified me, and how much they knew about me. I refrained from expressing my feelings about them and the regime they represented, in case they had taken me for someone else. Yet I could not and did not want to submit sheepishly. I felt it my duty to unmask the Shah's louts and expose their foul nature for all to see. I started shouting and screaming to draw the attention of the people around. How wrong those mercenaries, those venal traitors of the people, were to think they could so easily drag me off. Shouting and screaming, I was defending myself, punching, kicking, and biting their hands, arms and legs. Yet more enemy agents thronged around to help arrest me quickly, and to disperse the crowd that was growing more and more numerous around us. Suddenly I knew how the enemy had recognised me. A ghastly face told me this.

Having vacated our hideout in Tehran following the arrest of Comrade Nabdel, I had occasionally stayed in the house of one of my brothers that was apolitical. There was another tenant in that house who had introduced himself as a civil servant. He had seen me a few times in my brother's house and twice near Tehran University where I was carrying out a surveillance mission. In the raid on our home in Tabriz, SAVAK had obtained my photograph and circulated it to its agents. As it turned out, the 'civil servant' was one of them. At the time of my arrest, a major strike by the students had just ended and no doubt, the area was swarming with SAVAK mercenaries. I was to blame for my arrest, failing to analyse the situation and going there daily. Standing in the area seemingly aimless, day after day, I had undoubtedly attracted their attention. 

When I was struggling with the Shah's ruffians and more of them were joining in, I saw his wretched face. He must have been hiding from me, so that the enemy could feed me lies about their invincibility: "We are very powerful. We know all. We see all and some such nonsense, but he had to join in. What a ghastly face he had! The struggle went on for some fifteen minutes. My clothes were torn. I felt pain everywhere but still found great strength. Finally they managed to grasp my arms and legs, and I was dragged into the car. I was still struggling, surprised by my own strength. They could not hold me still. When unable to drag an arm or a leg free, I would bite them. One of the thugs was biting my finger as hard as he could. Another was aiming with his revolver, shouting he would shoot if I moved. What a clown! I moved more violently than before and knocked his revolver out of his hand. The bravos had panicked, scrambling to get it out of my reach. I pulled one leg free and kicked the rear window, breaking it. They grabbed me tight. I could only move my head. Raising it, I saw a bus. As usual it was packed. Tired faces were looking out of the windows. The bus was undoubtedly from the south of the city, from the slums. I thought to myself: these are the last proletarians I shall ever see. They had not noticed me but I shook my head to them, trying to tell them that I shall love them forever, that I will never turn my back on them….

The thought that I had been captured so soon, without having done anything for the revolution, made me feel ashamed. I thought: at least now, I must carry out my duty well under torture.

TORTURE IN THE POLICE DETENTION CENTRE

The car stopped at the Police Intelligence Department. I was dragged out of the car and into the building. I was shouting and struggling. Some pulling and others shoving, they made me run the length of a long corridor. They kicked me in the back. I fell on my face. They forced me up again and the marathon continued. Thus, we got to an 'interrogation' room.

They started "…(obscenities)…"Where is Amu-Oghli? (nom de guerre of Comrade Javad Selahi)(8) Did you see what we did to Farhoudi? (9) How many bastards did you abort? *    Where is your phony uncle Pouyan? One of them held a photograph in front of me taken while I was in high schools crying; "See who this is". Then I saw the back of the photograph: "She is wearing such and such a coat". I looked at my coat. It was clear. They had been to our house, and what they said indicated the extent of their information. There was no longer any point in hiding my feelings. My hatred. The hatred of them and the class they served: "Death to you! You base criminals…enemies of the masses, dirty leeches, drinking the blood of the workers…." Then some poems that gave me strength:

"With each squeak,

The fact is revealed,

The aging machine shall run down to ruin"

"Fight we must,

Like the Bolsheviks

What is to our hearts,

Burning in flames,

Shooting by the foe?"

They attacked. Punching, slapping, kicking and passing me from one to another. What was left of my clothes was now torn in pieces. Beatings went on. After a while "Khatayi" the 'Head of Operational of the Police Intelligence Department', said to be a close and favoured underling of the Shah, walked in shoving others aside: "What is this?  Can't you treat people with respect? What do you want of her? Her address? That is not important. It can be asked without beating and shouting".

In the past, Behrouz and his comrades had often been taken to SAVAK. I had heard of their treatment and was somewhat familiar with the enemy's techniques, brutalities, fooled by words of kindness and concern. His warm face and his calm and polite tone did not fool me to change my attitude toward him. He was an enemy, mean as the other mercenaries, hiding his ugly criminal face behind a mask of humanity! He went on: "Tell us the address. We wish you well. The sooner your friends are arrested the better it is for them. Because they commit fewer crimes. Isn't it a shame that so many good and well educated young people should die?"

Looking at the ghastly beast, seeing thorough his transparent duplicity made my blood boil. I cut short his speech: "You enemy of the human race, I shall never compromise, I will fight to the end…." His 'kind and gentle' face went sour. Now it reflected his true self:

"Then get the hell out of this… (more of their obscene vocabulary)…."

The thugs strapped me to a bed. The room was packed with them. They had all come to watch. They presumably found the torture of a revolutionary girl interesting. Some looked calm and composed. I found that strange. I had never imagined a torturer could be so indifferent. As if to them, it all seemed routine. The main torturer was Captain Niktab. Others helped him. They were whipping the soles of my feet. It was unbearably painful, but chanting slogans and singing gave me strength. The words made them angry. They would whip harder. Naming the Shah and calling him what he is, particularly angered them; or they have to pretend that it did. Whipping went on. Stroke after stroke. Now all their faces began to twist, A few came close: "Have mercy on yourself. Tell everything". Their expression of concern came simultaneously with the strokes of the whip, so that while feeling pain one would also see the way out! It seemed a good opportunity for playing games with them:

"How can I tell you the address when I am taken there blindfolded?

How can I tell you an address I do not know?"

They saw signs of resignation. Whipping stopped:

"Alright, which area was it in?"

"I don't know"

"What colour was the door? Was it an apartment? Facing, north or south?"

"I don't know, My eyes were always shut".

"I will now open your eyes" Khatayi said sarcastically and took over the whip. The 'kind‑hearted' few started again "Have mercy on yourself…."

The pain was unbearably intense now. I needed a breathing apace to think, to gather my strength, to build up my will power. I said, "the name of the main road was Khani Abad". They smiled in triumph: "What was the name of the side road?" "I don't know…" The strokes began to land again. Until I could concoct a fake address, whipping stopped and restarted a few times. Another advantage was that they were convinced that I did not want to disclose any information, but that I could not endure the pain. With the 'address' complete, I was unstrapped and told to walk. It felt strange, as if thousands of pins were piercing my body. I could not walk, could not sit, and could not stay still. They grasped me and walked me the length of the room. Then a woman came and bandaged my feet. They had thought the address genuine. Their attitude was different now, trying to get more information softly. My behaviour must have seemed inconsistent. While my resistance had supposedly crumbled and they had obtained the address, I was so saturated with hatred that it was impossible for me to look at any of those criminals without describing his true nature, his hideous inhumanity.

I noticed a man sitting in a chair, looking pale, petrified, his eyes wandering aimlessly. He obviously did not look like a SAVAK thug or police, more like a stunned, involuntary onlooker, one forced to watch a horror film and deeply shaken by it. I did not dwell on him then. Later I learned that, passing by at the time of my arrest, he had been so outraged by the savagery of the Shah's ruffians, that he had attacked them, injuring one. He had the attempted to escape but the mercenaries had given chase and arrested him, firing warning shots.

A herd of mercenaries had gone on a wild goose chase to the address I had given them. I felt quite pleased, having sent them across the city making fools of them, and gaining valuable time for myself to think. Later on, however, I regretted that manoeuvre, because the police kept vigil in the area. Perhaps some comrades did live there. Perhaps I had unwittingly led the enemy to some revolutionaries.  In fact, I had not, but the idea was a mistake.

I could not feel my legs. They were totally numb. Dumped on the floor, it was very difficult to move. It was about noon. A man came in with two plates of food, spoons and forks. One plate was for a uniformed pig sitting behind a desk in the room, the other was for another next door. He paused, asked me if I wanted lunch. An idea occurred to me. I accepted the food.

The plate was put in front of me. At first, the officer watched on, I started eating. He turned his attention to the food. That was ample opportunity. I sat up straight and rammed the fork into my throat, trying to thrust it in as far as possible. I thought this would kill me, I tried and tried but no use. The officer jumped on me, grabbed the fork. Swearing, he started to punch and kick. Then the other thugs burst through the door. They had received word the address was false. They were not amused.

Torture started again. This time they gave me electric shocks using truncheon‑shaped electrode. Before going on to use the shock to inflict pain, they were using the electrode to humiliate me, the target was the morale rather than the physique. They had completely undressed me and, uttering revolting obscenities and sick 'jokes' that at worst reflected their state of mind, set about administering shocks to the sensitive parts of my body….

That filthy beast, Niktab, walked into the room. He looked dejected, downtrodden and miserable. "How can anybody descend to such extremes of nothingness, of wretchedness?" I wondered. My attitude was wrong. How could it be otherwise? In the class society, a person without a class base is an object, a meaningless, worthless venal object.

The embodiment of misery, the manifestation of defeat, he cried: "So you wanted to rob banks, ha? We've caught you all…." That day a bank in 'Eisenhower' Street** in central Tehran was to be expropriated. I could read the result in the animal's twisted face. The comrades had carried out the mission successfully. No one was arrested.

He strapped me to a bench, face down. The shameless vermin dropped his trousers and assaulted me. Would they stop at nothing? They wanted to degrade me, shatter my nerves, overcome my resolve. I was infuriated, seeing blood before my eyes. But no, I had to try to keep calm so that they would feel the shame and degradation instead. I wanted them to know that their degenerate and shameless barbarity did not affect me, was unimportant to me. Why should it be otherwise? To me, what was the difference between this and being whipped; they were both tortures. They were both being carried out with the same aim. The evil aim of extracting my secrets, the people's secrets. And I would endure both for a worthy aim. To further my glorious cause, I had to keep the secrets in the interest of the struggle, of the revolution. For me the torture, the degradation was short‑lived and would pass. I thought of the toiling masses who endured it not for an hour, not for a day, but every moment of the suffering that is their life. The retarded vegetable who had expected to enjoy watching me struggle and suffer had failed again.

Once more, I was strapped to the bed and whipping resumed. This time, with the whip landing on the earlier wounds, the pain was more intense. Relying on my will power, I tried to overcome the pain and imagine myself as an onlooker, as if watching another's torture. I succeeded to some extent, yet the whip was a material fact, which could not be endured in this way. I needed a reality to turn my mind to. Every time the pain increased, I would call Eypak, Reihan, Robab, and Kasem…. These were some of the workers in the village where I had taught. It was as if I could see their anxious eyes watching me, as if I could touch them. They were anxious, impatiently waiting to learn of my love for them. Would I remain faithful? I could see in their kind eyes what they rightly expected of me. I could see in their kind eyes the anxiety lest I who had closely witnessed their sufferings and pains, and who had joined in the struggle to free them from centuries of slavery, would now compromise with their class enemy who had inflicted so much pain on them for so long.

I could see Eypak's hand, deeply cut with a sickle, yet not nursed because the work had to go on. I would think of the acute backache that plagued Robab and Reihan. Yet, they had to irrigate their tiny piece of barren land with their hands. I had before my eyes the sufferings of Golnar, the tears of Zahra, the sincerity of Ghorban, the innocence and childish happiness of Marzan who would run to me shouting "Aunt Ashraf" in the rags that were her clothes. I could remember that every time watching her unwitting joy, I would think of the agony and humiliation waiting to swamp her, to degrade her and to ruin her life. I could remember how my heart bursting with sorrow and choking with hatred of those who bring about so much misery, I would smile at her, caress her, and vow in my heart; "I shall fight for your freedom and that of all those others like you, chained by the oppressors". Now I could see their anxious faces before my eyes. With every stroke of the whip, I would call their names. I was trying to assure them, in fact to assure myself, that I would keep my pledge.

How wrong were those torturous mercenaries who thought I was revealing the names of my comrades in the armed struggle. How unfounded was their joy. "Who else? What are their family names?"

At last, they were tired of whipping. They tried a stupid manoeuvre. Khatayi aimed his revolver and threatened to shoot through my nose. He was some four meters away. I believed him at first. Just when he pretended he is pulling the trigger, I moved my head forward in the path of the bullet. They laughed mockingly. The hoodlum aimed again. Once again, I moved my head to line up the bullet. Pretending he was angry, Khatayi shouted; "Don't move, I only want to make a hole in your nose". I realised this was their idea of fun! They only wanted to threaten, and more than that to mock me. I stopped paying attention. The game was repeated three or four times, changing the revolver or the distance. Were they hoping to break my resistance with such clownish acts? How very naive!

They took me back to the wooden bench. Lying me on the back they passed my arms down the sides and handcuffed me under the bench. Then they all walked out. The bones in my back were pressed tightly against the wood. I felt as if a big hole was gaping in my back. The pain was intense. It seemed more than the pain from the whip. There were no torturers around to shout at to take my mind off the pain. I started reciting a poem by Comrade Mao. The poem ended but not the pain. My arms were so stretched I felt they were being torn off. The piercing pain of the wounds on my back was burning through my body. I could not rest. I wanted the pain to go away. That feeling was new and unwelcome. I reproached myself. This shows that in the past I had failed to get myself used to pain and suffering.

The ugly face of a mercenary appealed through the door. They came in one at a time, tried to persuade as to go along with them, and left in despair. one would talk of my mother's sorrow, another would utter: "To hell with the masses and all the barefoot and poor. You should think of yourself"! Others would promise me money and trips abroad!

Apparently, there was a prize for anyone who could extract any information. One thug leaving disappointed, groaned: "You could have talked and made me a little money"!

I do not know how time went by. Perhaps I had passed out, or perhaps I had fallen asleep. When I came round, they were threatening: "You think this is it? This is nothing. We are not SAVAK men. When you go to Evin and face the SAVAK people, you couldn't possibly keep silent. It is dreadful in there. We are taking you there tonight".

A horrifying picture of SAVAK and torturers had been in my mind before. While telling them "it does not make any difference, you are all the same", I thought these police torturers must be novices compared to the animals in SAVAK. Yet, my resolve to preserve the secrets of my comrades, and not to surrender to the enemy, remained indomitable.

*The regime's propaganda machine accuses revolutionaries of sexual perversion, addiction to drugs, etc., so familiar to its leaders.

**The puppet 'honours' his masters. (I.C.)

IN EVIN TORTURE CHAMBERS

It was night time. Niktab and a few others came to take me to Evin. They had a large prison coat for me to wear. Every time one of them came close, I kicked. At last they all grasped my arms and legs and put the coat on me as I struggled. Then I was blindfolded, carried outside and dumped on the floor of a car. They sat on the seats, holding me down with their feet, kicking all the time. That filthy beast, Niktab, put my neck on his knee, pressing my head down every time I tried to move. Thus, we left the Police Intelligence Department for the Evin torture chambers.

On the way, I thought of a Brazilian comrade who had bitten his own tongue off in order not to talk. I tried to do the same, unsuccessfully. Of course, I was not firm enough in my decision, reasoning that if one wants to disclose anything, it is always possible to write it down.

In Evin, they dumped me on a bed. Looking through the blindfold, I could see vague figures of the 'expert' torturers. Among them, was the large gorilla‑like mass of Hosseini. "Where have you taken me?" I asked, "Who are these?" It was Sabeti answering, trying hard to sound impressive: "These are my slaves. I have cut off this one's ear", and, patting the gorilla's chest: "and I have cut off this one's tongue…. this is my land of…." I do not remember what he said. Something witless like; land of strange, bloodthirsty beasts. Then

they measured my height! I felt totally relaxed, in high spirits. There was no fear, no worries.

After their silly japes, they started naming some people, asking me which ones I knew. I was trying not to hear any of the names for fear of reacting to the name of a comrade.

Then they asked where my hideout was. I repeated the faked address. They removed the blindfold and took me to a large room with a bed and two wooden tables.

First Hosseini, twisting his face, grabbed my head shaking and turning it violently, howling like a wild boar. His cries were deafening. He was trying to frighten me. Niktab, Hossein Zadeh, Javan and a few other mercenaries whose names I do not know, burst into the room swearing "Where is this…." Hossein Zadeh shoved others aside, sat on the bed holding my body shaking me, uttering: "Look into my eyes, darling, into my eyes". I would look down, or around, I did not want to pay him any attention. He was furious, shouting, jerking me, repeating "into my eyes…."  What did the criminal savage want of me? What did he expect? Perhaps he thought he could hypnotise me. Gradually he got bored and told one of the underlings to get the whip. Turning to me he said: "Do you know me? I am Hossein Zadeh, the famous torturer, executioner". So they even take pride at that! Pulling his ghastly face, he would growl: "This is Evin, and I am the expert torturer". He was truly the embodiment of ugliness. They seemed so stupid, so detestable, but were not frightening. The realisation that I was not at all frightened filled me with joy.