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Translation by Nina Kahori
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The Memoir of Ms. Fariba Sabet, former political
prisoner of the Islamic Republic of Iran
Written By ~ Fariba SabetTranslated by ~
Nina Kahori
The Power
Of No
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The Power of No
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Translated Copyright © 2010 By: Nina Kahori
Original Work Copyrighted By: Fariba Sabet
Art work by: Mr. Nasser Khavar
All Rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Actof 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed,or tranmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in database or
retrival system without the prior written permission of the publisher orthe author.
Translation Published by
Seashell Books www.theseashellbooks.com
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Better to die standing
than to live on your
knees.
~Che Guevara
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This is a condensed translation of (thePrison Memoirs written by Ms. Fariba
Sabet. Permission was granted toNina Kahori by all parties involved withoriginal work, to translate and publish
this version of original work namedabove.
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For my brother Ibrahim, who lost his lifefor democracy and for his people, for my Mom, who has spent last agonizing thirty
years waiting for news about her sonand for all those who lost their innocent
lives in search of equality for all.
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The Powerof No
Memoir of Fariba Sabet,
former political Prisonerfrom Islamic Republic of Iran
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Evin Prison1
It felt as though the spring of 1983 was not a usual Tehran spring. The city was in
wicked silence. The silence broke with the gunre of the Pasdars who roamed the
streets. Their presence in the streets, intersections, squares, back alleys, and the trenches
built by the army to control the opposition made people feel unsafe and made the city
look gloomy.
It could have been a beautiful spring day under different circumstances, however
with the non-stop sound of continued gunre, and the government-controlled media
constantly celebrating the eradication of the opposition parties and groups, life had
changed. Because some of my friends had already been arrested, to be safe, I left my
home and took refuge in a safe house. I and my eight-month-old daughter went to stay
with one of my friends for a few days.
On the second day, around ve in the afternoon as I was talking with my friendMahnaz, the door bell rang. Mahnaz went to answer the door and a barely audible
murmur of conversation ensued. Suddenly, ve or six male Pasdars entered the house.
One of the Pasdars pointed a gun at me, ordering me to put my hands on my head and
stand quietly in a corner. Another Pasdar watched Mahnaz.
When I protested, the Pasdar said, “We have been told that there are some narcotics
in this house.”
The house was not very big. It consisted of only a living room, a small kitchen,
and a washroom. Effortlessly, the Pasdars started searching the bed-sitting room. This1 The name Evin is infamous. Though nobody knows the gures, everyone has heard the anecdotes, the many graphicdetails of how before and after the Islamic revolution, Evin was the favored site of systematic torture and countless execu-tions. The prison itself, as urban architecture, is arguably a masterpiece. The Alborz Mountains, with one slope separatedfrom its buildings that make up the prison complex. A large part of the prison blends neatly into nature, being built under-ground, beneath the hills.
2 From the beginning of the new Islamic regime, the Pasdars (Pasdar-e Enghelab-e Islami, or Islamic RevolutionaryGuard Corps, or Revolutionary Guards) have secured the regime and eliminated opposition. A branch of military establish-ment, the Pasdars are separate from and parallel to the regular Iranian army. They are well equipped with their own navyair force, and ground troops. A member of this corps is called a Pasdar.
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made the Pasdars’ job effortless. They started in the bed-sitting room. In an instant, the
place was ransacked and was in chaos, the photo frames smashed and broken, the carpet
torn up, the pillows and mattresses ripped apart, and even the small crib belonging to
Mahnaz’s daughter broken and thrown into a corner. Mahnaz’s daughter who was a year
and a half old ran from one corner to another, trembling and screaming with horror.
One Pasdar looked after Mahnaz and me; the rest left the room, soon returning
with several bags stuffed full of things. When they found the secret compartment in thehouse; they excitedly made a pile of all the books and tapes they had found. It looked
as though their job was now complete. The lead Pasdar spoke to his superiors and then
ordered us to get dressed.
I said, “According to what court documents are you taking us to the Pasdaran
station?” He had no search warrant. He said, “We are only taking you to Evin prison for
some questioning.”
After we got dressed, we were led to the street and ordered not to make gesture or
make eye contact with anyone; if we did we would be killed immediately.
2 A short distance away from Mahnaz’s home, three sedans and some undercover
agents were waiting for us. Ignoring the passersby around us, they led us to one of the
cars. Soon, the cars started moving, ours escorted by the other two, one in the front and
one behind. The cars sped along the freeway.
My daughter Sahar had fallen sleep in my lap. I was quiet, gazing upon the streets
and the people for the last time. I do not know how much time had passed when suddenly
the voice of the Pasdar next to me startled me. “Take a good look, this is the turning
point. Asadullah Lajavardi says whoever gets to this point has already repented. When
you reach this point, you should choose what you are going to do. I advise you to makeup your mind, and make a decision.”
I said, “I have not done anything wrong.”
After a few minutes of driving through the streets of Evin prison, the car stopped in
front of a large building. One of the Pasdars got out, sent a code with his telephone, and
then returned with two blindfolds.
When he blindfolded us, Sahar was petried to see my eyes covered and constantly
pulled my blindfold down. Even though I held her tight, I felt very afraid for her.
A door opened and the car entered an open area; after a short distance, we were let
out. The Pasdar who was holding my chador told me to go down some stairs. As they
took Sahar away, I asked them in a quavering voice to give her some milk from the bottle
in my bag.
3 Called the butcher of Evin prison, in Tehran, he is said to be personally responsible for the torture and execution ofthousands of Iranian political prisoners. He was assassinated in 1998.
4 A cloth about ve to six meters used as a head covering, the chador is an outer garment worn by women; it is onepossible way in which a Muslim woman may follow the hijab dress-code. Originally used by the practicing religious womanin Iran, its use was widely enforced after the 1979 Islamic revolution.
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We went down the stairs and entered a corridor which smelled of blood and alcohol
After a few minutes of walking, the Pasdar escorting me rang a doorbell; the door opened,
and we were passed on to other Pasdars.
The blindfolds only partially covered my eyes, so I could see. We entered a dimly
lighted area. I was separated from Mahnaz at that point and we were taken to different
rooms. Distraught, I asked about my daughter and the Pasdar who was searching me
replied callously that she had no information. After the body search, Mahnaz and I were taken back into the corridor and told
to wait in a corner. I lifted my blindfold slightly. It was a very busy corridor, on each
side of which there were a lot of blindfolded prisoners sitting on the oor. I felt lost and
distressed; my hands were shaking, and my breathing was shallow.
For dinner we were given dates, cheese and a piece of bread. Since I had no
appetite, I did not take it. The Pasdar offering it said with a laugh, “Do you think you are
in Hotel Evin and we are supposed to serve hot meals here?” Of course, I had no difculty
believing I was in Evin; it was that knowledge that made it impossible to swallow the
smallest morsel of food.
Whispering started and I tried to talk to the woman next to me, but she was in
shock having just been arrested too. Again, I lifted my blindfold and glanced around
There were a great many men and women, some with injured feet who were sitting in
wheelchairs, some obviously new captives since they had their shoes on. Someone said
“cover your eyes”, and I realized that supper was over and interrogators had entered
the hallway. A hubbub started. Someone was asking about her husband and insisting
that he was innocent, another was asking about her children, and the interrogators were
ordering everyone to be quiet. They walked around looking at prisoners and then left without saying another word.
Shortly, someone approached me and I felt the tip of a pen on my head. A rough
voice asked for my rst name, last name, address, place of arrest, and reason for being
charged. I gave false names for both myself and my husband and told this person that I
had said that I had done nothing wrong, nor was there any reason I should be imprisoned
Moments later he ordered me to go with him. We went down a few stairs and entered a
basement. He took me to a corner and told me to take off my blindfold but to close my
eyes.
I agonized over the unknown ahead of me. As well, the thought that one of our
friends had betrayed us pained me and wondering what kind of information had been
given to the prison authorities made me feel agitated. I heard foot steps, and desperately
wanted to open my eyes to see who was coming. It felt like a century passed before the
interrogator said, “Do you know her?”
I suddenly opened my eyes and caught off guard the woman I had guessed it was.
She looked down and said, “No”.
I paid for looking at her by being hit on my legs and feet, but it was very unwillingly
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that I closed my eyes again. After three other prisoners came and responded negatively
the interrogator returned me to the corridor.
Finally, a Pasdar gave me two dirty old blankets and told me to sleep where I was
Even though I was wide awake, I laid down. My chest was feeling tight. My Sahar, did
she have milk or not? Was she asleep or awake? It hurt me to think about her. I had
almost fallen sleep when I was hit on my side. “You have to either cover your head with
the blanket or you have to wear the blindfold!”It was a brutally dull long night. Early in the morning we were taken to use the
washroom and were served a breakfast: a piece of bread, some cheese, and a cup of tea.
One of the Pasdars called me and took me to a room. After asking for my rst name, last
name, and address, he wrote on a piece of paper, “your activities are not in question for
us, just describe them.”
I told him I was a house wife and I had done nothing wrong.
“What were you doing in that house?”
“I was a guest there.”
He hit me. “This is Evin prison! Some of your party leaders have come here and
told us everything in an instant. You think you are stronger than they were!”
I said, “I have no reason to resist. “We will see” he replied, and left the room.
From the way the questioning had gone thus far I realized that, fortunately, they had no
information about me, he was simply blufng. I breathed easily, savoring every minute
of respite alone in that room.
The interrogator returned and pulled my chador, saying, “So you are going to
resist?” He led me to the basement and sat me down in a corner.
The smell of blood and dampness and the scream of the prisoners who were enduringunder torture, transxed me. Recognizable among the screams of the prisoners, was the
voice of a friend of mine. I lifted my blindfold a little. He lay on a bed, being whipped over
his open wounds with blood running down his legs. His screams did not sound human.
Astonished and shocked, I could do nothing. After a while, the screams stopped
and the interrogator said, “Can you count, Abdullah?” There was no response so they
brought in a stretcher and carried away Abdullah’s comatose and bleeding body.
The interrogator sat on the oor in front of me and said, “You know him and this is
just the beginning. Decide for yourself.” After that he stood me behind the interrogation
door.
I was kept in the hallway for three days. During the day it was very busy. Prisoners
were brought in from different locations for interrogation, but it was impossible to make
a connection with them, as they couldn’t trust one another, and frequent movement of
the interrogators made it daunting to get close to others. I could, however, guess quite
accurately who was being interrogated from the conversations of the Pasdars.
On the third day, the interrogator took me again to his ofce. From the start,
his tone was callous. He repeated the same questions saying, “You have to write down
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everything”, and I reiterated my answers. Several times he hit me on the head and said
“I will give you one more day, and tomorrow we will start a more serious interrogation.
Think about it carefully because your future is in your own hands.” He led me out of the
room and rang a bell behind a curtain. A female Pasdar took me to a cell.
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