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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



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



The Power of No

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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.



The Power of No

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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



The Power of No

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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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