I spent only one night in the quarantine section of Evin Prison. Even then I became known by everyone as a political prisoner. I had entered uncharted territory that I could not have pictured before. While in solitary, I had been told by some prison guards, “Pray to god to be released directly from here without having to pass by the public wards. You won’t be able to survive them.”

It was strange setting, and it is hard to describe how I felt at that moment. I was only 24 and in a public ward in Evin. It was not just any public ward, either; it was the quarantine ward. I don’t remember how many rooms there were inside the ward, but it consisted of a hallway with rooms on either side. It was common to distribute the prisoners according to their crimes so they could be sent to the right prison when their time came up. The guard who received me took a quick look at my card and photo, and his eyes went round, “Don’t accept these accusations; you will lose your head if you do.” He went on asking, ”Have you done all these things?”
I was not in the mood to answer, ”Yes. No. I don’t know.”
He realized that I was impatient, and he did my work quickly and said, “Go to that room.” Naïve me! I was still in the suit and long rain coat that I had on the day I had gone to court wanting to be well dressed. When the prisoners saw me they thought that I had been accused of fraud. Every time I was asked what I was doing there, I gave different answers. To one I said I had a bounced check; to another one I said it was because of political activities. I even said to one prisoner that I had committed robbery. One hour passed and a few prisoners gathered around me. We were chatting when a person entered the room. Everyone stood up. I thought he was the warden or an officer, so I did not stand up and sat right where I was.
He turned and looked at me, “Looks like you are one of those stubborn students who are looking for trouble. Did you insult the Agha (Khamenei) or have you played with national security?” The rest of the prisoners and I burst out laughing. One prisoner who was talking to me before said, “Salar, he is a political prisoner.”
I thought he was a looti1 and Salar was his nickname, but I found out that it was his real name. He was a lively old man with broad shoulders. He said, “Political prisoners are highly esteemed in our eyes. Guys, take him to room 2; it is cleaner.” It had started to look like a movie. After I had seen Salar, I was expecting that at any moment a prisoner would be released, and like Mehdi Fathi in the movie “Compromise”, Salar would say, “Cheers for three people: the soldier, the prisoner and the one who is lonely.” But no one gets released from quarantine.
They all agreed: since I was a political prisoner, they would transfer me as soon as tomorrow to a ward inside Evin. The next day, a bus arrived. They said that those whose names were called were going to go to Ghezel Hesar. I was not worried. I would have never thought that I was about to go to Ghezel Hesar. Suddenly my name was called; I was shocked. Salar was standing in front of me, and when he heard my name called, he said, “Looks like you have pissed them off. You are going to Ghezel Hesar to pay for it. Don’t let them break you.”
I left the main hall. They shackled me and put ankle cuffs on me. I was fuming with anger but could not do anything. They had done the same with everybody. Tehran was bitter cold and it had snowed. There were 30 of us on that bus. Everything inside the bus was made of iron like in the movies where they show prison buses, except that it was real. The others didn’t seem to mind. They even were busy chatting. One prisoner was describing how this was the fourth time he was going to Ghezel Hesar, adding, however, that the last time he served time was in the Rajai Shahr prison.
The quarantine section of Ghezel Hesar was huge. If you could look at it from the air, it would look like one of those labyrinth games where you have to find the exit. That night I slept with nine stinky and threadbare blankets wrapped around me. I shivered till morning despite keeping my shoes on. There was nothing to warm myself, not even a lighter or cigarettes.
The next day at noon we were distributed in different wards. I was taken, along with a few others, to unit 3. The cold was piercing through my bones. We walked to unit 3, which faced the main gates. Once we were inside the unit, we were again assigned to different rooms. There was no end to my anger. Tears were welling in my eyes and my throat was swelling up. I could not imagine that I was inside that prison. It all looked like a never-ending nightmare. The guards had lined us up against the wall. I had been ordered to sit. The guards were boasting and were trying to scare the prisoners from the beginning. One of the guards started to ask prisoners about their accusations or the reasons for their imprisonments, to which the prisoners would say different things. Upon hearing the answers, the guard would reply by kicking and slapping the back of the prisoners’ heads. In occasional moments of “civility”, the guard would refrain from physical harm, opting instead to throw insults and moving on to the next prisoner.
I was one of the last in line. When it was my turn, he asked me, “What the hell did you do to end up here?” I stood up and said, “It is none of your business. You can’t ask me any questions, and if you dare touch me, you will pay for it.” He was dazed; he hadn’t expected this. He turned and told the other guards, “Looks like our brother was the bully of his neighborhood.”

In reality, they were not expecting to see a political prisoner. They went and brought back my card and photo to check who I was before deciding whether or not to beat the hell out of me. I even heard one say to have the bat and falak2 ready. When they read my card, they didn’t even come near me, but the look in their eyes revealed that they had future plans for me.
I was told to go to salon 8. The electricity was gone inside the prison. Unit 3 was a long one storey building with 12 big salons that each contained anywhere from 150 to 250 prisoners. I started walking along the long and ugly corridor. The big iron door of one of the salons opened and two others and I were pushed inside.
The door was closed behind me. I was unable to take a step forward. I can say without any doubt that that was the scariest scene I have ever faced in my life. I say scary because of how I felt in that brief moment. There was no electricity and the salon was dark. There was an area of about 50 square meters in the front; the cells were located in the mid section of the salon and were backing each other. There were two hallways on either side of the salon and there was a barred window in front of each cell door that opened to the yard.
There were a few prisoners who were sitting against the wall in the front section. They looked like addicts who were about to die at any moment. The air was filled and foggy with cigarette smoke. Suddenly I imagined that it was written above the entrance door: Abandon hope, all ye who enter here
I looked up but there was nothing written above that door. I could not believe it then and even now I feel that that writing was above the door. I could not move. I turned back and started frantically pounding on the door with my fists. A guard came and asked me what I wanted in an angry voice. I said, “I want to see the director.” He opened the door and took me to the warden. There were many prisoners who were waiting outside his office. They were all scrutinizing me from head to toe. When my turn arrived, I went in. I was so angry that I did not even say “hello”. I said outright to his face that it was illegal to keep me in this prison. There were 3 or 4 other people inside the office. Later I found out that they were the deputy warden, the security chief of the ward, and the heads of the political-ideological and investigations departments. All their eyes turned toward me. Unknowingly, I had informed prison officials that a political prisoner was among all the thieves, murderers and drug traffickers.
Unlike the others, the head warden was a pleasant person. He said, “Are you not the political prisoner who was brought in today?” We sat down and talked. I will never forget that man and his humanity. He ordered tea and cookies for me. I remembered that I had only had water in two days.
And with that I became a Ghezel Hesar inmate, and for the next 21 months, it became my prison.
Before I wrote this, I was thinking of writing something for the friends who are currently in prison; for Mohammad Poor-Abdollah who has been in Ghezel Hesar for the last 8 months, for Behrooz Javid Tehrani who is withering away in Rajaie Shahr, for Momeni and his 8 year prison sentence, for Soorna Hashemi, Alireza Mousavi and other friends, for Fariba Pajooh whom they do not let go, for Zaidabadi and his dignified pen, for Farzad Kamangar who is innocent but remains in jail on death row, and for Hamed Rouhinejad and his frail and feeble body.
I said that, maybe by reading what I wrote above, others will have a better understanding of what our friends and loved ones are going through.
1. Before the time of Reza Shah’s established police force, lootis were feared and respected figures of authority in the neighborhood. A looti, often followed by a few subordinates, would act as a mediator in conflicts arising in the neighborhood; i.e., the looti was an unofficial figure of law enforcement.
2. A falak is a torture device. The prisoner’s arms and legs are bound at their extremities and made to project outward from the prisoner’s body. A wooden stake, the falak, is then placed through the bound appendages, and the prisoner is left to hang, back facing the ground. Prison guards will use this position when beating the prisoner.

• Flaying  over Qezl-Hesar Jail