Uncertainty on Both Sides of the Bars
On a fall afternoon, atop the hills of Evin, the cold wind twists around the men and women waiting. It circles a small room with a closed door, which serves as the entrance to the prosecutor’s office (shahid-e-Moqqadas, district 33 of Evin) in Evin prison. The cold wind returns and, once again, sits on the pleading faces of families who wait in anticipation. Some hold a small piece of paper with the names of their imprisoned sisters, brothers, spouses, or children written on them.
It’s been more than two months since visitors gather outside the gates of Evin Prison, under the large blue sign that reads “Evin Penitentiary.” every day. The increasing number of daily arrests of protestors has forced the crowds to make their way to the northern part of the capital, Tehran, to inquire about their imprisoned loved ones. Even though they are from all over town and have different backgrounds, they hear the same response. “Wait.” Uncertainty is visible on the worried faces. Until recently, “prison” had been a distant and unfamiliar place to them.
Waiting is one of the hardest emotions a person can experience. The anxiety that comes from waiting for someone outside of prison is different from what the prisoners inside feel. “Waiting for the return of a prisoner is the hardest,” says the sister of a detained student. We, as reporters, understand this well. Some of our colleagues are being held inside.
On Saturday, we came here to inquire about the prisoners and their families. The officials from the prosecutor’s office occasionally look down a barred window at the crowd of worried mothers and fathers. Their response to the pleading parents is always the same: “There’s nothing we can do.”
An older woman choking back tears wants to know what has come of her son after 45 days. Again, the response is three words. Wait. Wait. Wait. Her wrinkled face, gray hair, and droopy lips remind me of Vladimir Mayakovsky’s poem.
I'm sad
Like an old woman who knows
The last soldier returning from the war
is Not his son
No one knows how many people are behind Evin's overbearing gates these days. How many are in wards 209, 240, 241, 2A? Nobody knows how many prisoners would be released. Some still don’t know which ward of Evin their loved one is being held. Others wonder if they are here or in another prison. In a press conference yesterday, the spokesperson for the judiciary spoke about the situation of the newly arrested prisoners but didn’t say how many there are. He says the number of indictments issued in Tehran Province is “1,024.”
The prosecutor’s office is inconsistent with information. The employees take down names and case numbers to provide the status of the inmates. They return with good news for some and no news for others. Waiting continues. Answers vary: “Prisoner’s case has gone to court.” “Prisoner case is still under investigation.” “Prisoner’s fate hasn’t been charged yet.” The phrase everyone likes to hear is, “The bail has been issued.” It is good news. It’s the sound of freedom. It’s a spark in the eyes awaiting families. It’s the sound of joy rising. Although there is pain, waiting, uncertainty, sorrow, and tears behind Evin's closed doors, sometimes joy can be felt amidst the list a prosecutor’s office official read aloud. Although the names tied with freedom are few, they are still the harbinger of freedom and hope.
Every day, different departments of the Evin Prosecutor's office publish a list of prisoners who will be released. Today, sections 5, 6, and 7 have longer lists than others. Today’s lottery for freedom is in the name of a prisoner we call P. She’s been held in the women’s prison in Qarchak Varamin. Her file is on a desk somewhere in Evin Prosecutor’s office. A female prison official says her name to the crowd of visitors. A man comes running up the hill. All heads turn towards him. They envy him.
The gathering of families outside the gates of Evin Prison begins around 8 or 9 in the morning. Until 10 or 11 a.m., soldiers guarding the first set of gates at the bottom of a steep path don’t allow anyone to enter. Once they do, families walk up to reach the main entrance. Previously, families had to assemble at 3 a.m. to get a number and wait until they could check the status of their prisoner’s case after 8 o’clock. But now, “things have changed slightly,” a mother with her daughter, sitting on the curb by the Yadegar Bridge, says. Her other daughter has been in detention for 27 days, and she has no updates on the progress of her case. The mother and daughter have been told not to hire a lawyer because it’s pointless. They learn from other visitors about “Sana,” the Judiciary portal, which allows families to monitor the detainees' status.
“My daughter has a national security case against her,” she says, “They took her from home at night because she had tweeted or posted a story on social media. Why else would she be taken to War 209?” She wants to know why others charged with posting on social media were released.” After her, the daughter starts talking, “We’ve been here since 9:30 a.m. They’ve called seven people from section 2 post bail, but there’s no news about my sister. They told us she didn’t have a specific charge. Maybe they’ll give her a warning and release her. But we haven’t heard anything for a few days. They said they’ll keep her for a few more days to see if she’s been leading protestors. We barely managed to secure a business license in case she needed bail. We didn’t have a home deed to bring. We are ready if they say she will be released. Some people have been released just by presenting pay stubs for bail.”
This is the case for many families. Arranging bail is not easy for everyone. For example, the mother and daughter had met a woman desperate for her son’s release. Authorities told her to bring a property deed, but she didn’t have any; they asked for a pay stub, which she didn’t have either. Ultimately, they released her son with a warning and a letter of remorse to sign. Everything depends on the case investigator.
Families stand outside of Evin Prison until six in the evening. The mother and daughter saw a woman sleeping under the bridge. “She came from the countryside and spent the night here.” She hasn’t been seen since last night.
A father arrives. He is told prisoners have no visiting privileges in sections 1 and 2, especially in ward 209. Their case will go to court in three or four months.
Under the Yadegar Bridge, a woman sits cross-legged and says her son was arrested 20 days ago. He spent the first three or four days in Evin and then was transferred to Tehran e Bozorg, or Greater Tehran Prison, located midway to the Hasanabad-Qom highway. It takes more than an hour from Evin to Greater Tehran Prison, and the mother has made the trip several times during the past 20 days.
“My daughter participated in a protest at her university, which is affiliated with the Azad (private) University System. It’s been a week since her arrest. We were told to post bail. We arranged it and brought it to Tehran, but they won’t accept it because “the deed is from our town and not Tehran city,” says a middle-aged woman sitting on a cardboard near the main entrance. Her daughter’s friends surround her. The mother has come from the southern province of Khuzestan. “Bails need to be processed. Some have been released with a business license, a salary slip, and a letter of remorse,” she says. Her daughter is in Qarchak Varamin prison, so her husband is waiting there while she has come to Evin to do the paperwork. “In Qarchak prison, they allow visits. I saw her once. She said they have mats on the floor to sleep on, and the prison food isn’t bad. They haven’t mistreated her, but it’s still hard for her.”
Among the people are the families of imprisoned journalists. “My sister has been in prison for 36 days,” one of them says, “She’s in ward 209. We don’t exactly know her charges. We don’t have access to the Sana portal either. We come every day hoping for news. But there’s no news.”
Many families have been discouraged from hiring lawyers. They have been told that hiring a lawyer wastes money because a lawyer is only needed for the trial. The lawyers of the detainees themselves confirm this. Ali Mojtahedzadeh, a judicial attorney, legal advisor, and member of Iran’s Bar Association, is one of the lawyers who has persevered in pursuing the cases of his clients detained on threatening national security charges. He, along with lawyers Zahra Tohid, Hadi Tohid, and Alireza Khoshbakht, who are media activists, tell us the doors of Evin, including the prosecutor’s office, are closed to people. “We are tired,” they complain, “so are the families of the detainees. With the laws they have put in place, lawyers have been officially excluded from the trial process. The case investigator considers the lawyer a nuisance and does not allow entry into the prosecutor’s office to review the case. All of this is done under Article 48 of the Criminal Procedure Code. Previously, lawyers were allowed into the prosecutor’s office and were permitted to review the case. Before, we could claim representing clients in the prosecutor’s office if we didn’t interfere. Now, we can’t even reach that stage.”
This problem is prevalent among most families. Another middle-aged woman says her son has a case in section 7 of Evin. Exactly 20 days have passed since his detention. He was also arrested at home. His mother doesn’t know why. Nobody knows. The family has arranged for bail, but nobody has asked them to hand over the document.
The bail amount starts at 100 million tomans (approximately $2400) and can reach several billion tomans. An elderly woman, struggling to walk with her swollen feet, makes her way to a group of women her age. Her son has been detained for over 20 days. Like many others, he is in Evin and was arrested at home. The mother doesn’t know why. Her 30-year-old son doesn’t provide details when he contacts her.
It’s almost four o’clock in the afternoon, and the crowd has dispersed. The prison staff has stopped reading names. The families have found places to sit down. “Staying home is stressful. At least here, we’re close to our children,” says a woman from the southern province of Ahvaz. She leans against a tree. Her daughter was detained 17 days ago. The mother was leaving town when her son-in-law called with the news of her arrest. She had to turn back and come home. For the past 17 days, she’s been in front of Evin every day. “They read her name on Tuesday, and we went inside. They said the computer system was down, and the interrogator hadn’t come. When I returned the next day, they said those names were from yesterday, so wait again. But I persisted so much that they agreed to let me inside to figure out my daughter’s charges.”
A young woman wearing a chador sits on a rock. Her eyes filled with tears. She is the aunt of a 21-year-old boy who has been transferred to the Greater Tehran Penitentiary. They come to Evin every day to post bail but return empty-handed. “My nephew wasn’t protesting. He had an altercation with someone. The other party, who had connections in the government, got him arrested on charges of illegal assembly. He’s been in detention for 31 days and has a case in section 1. Section 1 released three people today, but my nephew wasn’t among them.”
Varamin Highway: Qarchak Women’s Prison
Outside of Qarchak Women’s Prison is quiet. Cars are parked on both sides of the streets. It’s noon, and no one can be seen behind a row of white fences, which leads to a series of newly built structures. The prison watchtower stands tall over a barren expanse. The yellow and brown desert surrounds the prison. The large building was once painted blue. Now, it is dark brown.
The adjacent building in the large compound is where prisoners and their visitors meet. It is a new and clean building. A few people are sitting at the tables. The offices of the social workers, legal help, and mediation departments in the hallway are closed. The only bustling part of the hallway is the entrance to the meeting hall. Visiting days are from Saturday to Thursday. Prisoners can have one visit per week, but not those detained in ward 8. They can only see their immediate families on Thursdays. The number of prisoners brought to Qarchak in the past two months is unknown. The families say arrested protesters are held in wards 8 and 9. Anyone under the age of 30 is in ward 8.
A young woman is sitting on one of the chairs outside the visitation gall. Her sister-in-law was transferred here two weeks ago. She was identified alongside 15 of her colleagues on the street and later arrested at home for 25 days. All of them are now in ward 8. She waits as her husband and mother-in-law are inside. “She has been interrogated several times during this period. She is 30 years old and has a child. They said she doesn’t need a lawyer, but there is no news of her release.”
Amir Raessian, a judicial attorney, tells us many clients find them through word of mouth because the demand for lawyers is very high. “We have had many difficulties representing clients arrested on threatening national security charges for several years. The enactment of Article 48 of the Criminal Procedure Code has made things impossible. Before that, we were not allowed to enter the courtrooms. The court would provide the defendants with a list of approved lawyers by the judiciary. Article 48 and the high volume of cases have made it difficult for lawyers to access their clients' files. The court prefers to pursue the matter without our involvement because the first thing lawyers do is to point out the flaws in the investigation and try to rectify the deficiencies in the case.”
Back in the hallway, a female lawyer is talking on the phone, hoping to gain access to her client’s files. The sister-in-law, still waiting outside, says she “witnessed nearly 100 doctors in white coats being brought on one of the days she was here.”
The families of the other 15 colleagues are also waiting for visits. The sister of one of them says the company employees went to a restaurant for lunch and unintentionally joined a gathering of protesters on the way back to the office. One of the surveillance cameras on the street had recorded them, and they were all arrested. “Their food situation is not bad, but my sister doesn’t eat. She’s not in a good mental state. My mother keeps asking what’s going on. We don’t know either.” The Visits must be scheduled at 8:30 in the morning for a twenty-minute visit in individual cabins.
Another woman has come to visit her nephew to no avail. “My nephew is 23 years old. He was shopping when the street he was on got crowded, and he was arrested along with a crowd of protesters. They told us there is no news of his release until the situation calms down.” She comes from one of the northern cities, and during this time, she’s been regularly depositing money into the nephew’s prison account so he could call home.
Another woman is waiting for the release of her 19-year-old daughter, who was taken from the street 10 days ago. She is also detained in ward 8, and her case has been filed in the investigation department of the Evin Prosecutor’s office. The prison officials had called the family a few days ago and told her to prepare the correct documents for bail. She arranged a property deed as collateral and delivered it to Evin. She has now come to Varamin and is waiting for Evin’s officials to approve them. “They said to bring a billion Toman roughly $24,000.) “They have accused my daughter of participating in riots,” she tells us, “She calls from prison that she is not feeling well. They don’t allow me to give her fresh clothes or a blanket.” She continues, “My daughter works at a cafe, and she is also a teacher at a language institute. My daughter is a vegetarian. She asks everyone she meets if it’s OK for animals to eat humans. Now I’m worried about her food. I brought her food every day. I begged them to give it to her. I even offered wardens to eat some of it. I brought fruits, and they said it was prohibited because wine in a watermelon was once smuggled inside. I asked how I could smuggle alcohol in oranges and apples. The wardens allow clothes for wards 1 and 2 but not for our children.” The mother has been sitting in the visitation hall since 8 a.m. At 3:30 p.m., the names of those to be released at five o’clock are announced. The mother must wait another three hours to see if her daughter’s name is on the list.
Next to her, there is a man over 60 years old. His 28-year-old daughter has been detained for 33 days. “They told us to bring bail; we brought it, but nothing happened. Apparently, the judge has not yet given the order.” The father says they haven’t received any responses from the lawyer either. “I talk to my daughter three or four times daily on the phone. During this time, I deposited money into her prison account so she could buy things from the prison canteen, but the prices there were very high. They don’t allow us to take anything from outside either.”
Hasanabad Highway, The Greater Tehran Prison
Amid a vast desert that stretches as far as the eye can see, The Greater Theran Prison lies under the scorching sun. It’s a large prison spanning 110 acres of farmland, starting where the Tehran city limits end. It is on the old Tehran-Qom highway, off the Hasanabad exit, Chermashahr Road. Like all prisons, this is equipped with watchtowers, and soldiers guard it day and night. The end of the property is “Fashafoyeh Vocational and Rehabilitation Camp,” which makes the prison known as Fashafoyeh Prison.
It’s one o’clock, and the autumn sun is descending. We drive through the narrow Chermashahr road. Children return from school, and Afghan women immigrant workers walk along the roadside from the fields with their harvest baskets on their heads. The outside of the prison is bustling with activity. Families have come to inquire about the status of their imprisoned relatives, and some are here to collect the belongings of those who were released yesterday. Two men, (we call) Mr. A and Mr. B, are cellmates. Their wives, who were waiting outside, became acquainted two weeks ago.
Maryam says her husband was in prison for 11 days, accused of throwing rocks and insulting [the police.] He was released yesterday, and they have come back together to collect their belongings, paperwork, and his ring. However, there is no update on whether they will let him have his mobile phone back. They said maybe in one or two months.
The two husbands signed letters of remorse and were released yesterday. The prison has been tough, but commuting from Tehran is even harder. “Every other Wednesday is visitation day for recently arrested protesters.” One of them says, “Visitation day here is chaotic. It’s impossible to get through.” Their husbands have called them daily, but calls are cut off after two minutes. Maryam says, “We got lucky. It would have been hard if they had asked for bail. We are tenants. I had talked to the landlord about giving us back the advance. I told my husband on the phone not to worry about these things, and if necessary, I’d use the advance and not let him stay in prison. He was returning from work when he was taken.”
The men who have just been released interrupt the women’s conversation. A. jokingly says it was luxurious inside.” Even though he was not mistreated in prison, the conditions during his detention were different. On the day of his arrest, he was initially taken to the market security office in Arg Square, then to Markazi Prison, and finally to Greater Tehran. “We used to buy food from the canteen,” he says, “like canned tuna because the prison food was inedible. It didn’t even have salt. I didn’t eat anything for the first three days. My wife was sick, and I was worried about her. When we were able to make a call, I felt relieved. After that, we could talk whenever we wanted.” He then talks about the ward for protesters. “It was separate and overcrowded. They also brought in new detainees. There were no thieves or murderers among us. However, the Evin inmates transferred here after the fire were held in a separate ward. We couldn’t see them properly. We could only get cigarettes from them through the window.”
The newly released men say that each room in each ward has a capacity of 250 people, and each ward can hold up to 1,500 people. Prison authorities had previously told the media that, in total, the prison has a capacity of 15,000 people—Iran’s largest prison, whose construction took 15 years.
A. says the arrested protesters range from 18 to 70 years old. “We had doctors, engineers, merchants, and teachers among us.” They saw two brothers being arrested while smoking a hookah in the courtyard of their house because the neighbors next door were chanting anti-government slogans. “We were interrogated once in the Markazi detention and once in the prison. We promised not to participate in any gatherings anymore, but if we broke our promise and got caught again, it would be a lot different.” He hopes that all the inmates he refers to as “kids” be released in just a day or two.
A., who has become friends with B. inside the prison, covers his eyes from the sun and says he spent his days in detention reading books. “I would take a book and read it for hours. Many people would sleep on the floor, especially the younger ones. The prison had a bad effect on the 18-year-olds. They brought a boy who was deaf and couldn’t talk. The officers gave me the phone to talk to his mother for him. She said her son has depression and asked me to take care of him. The boy was arrested for chanting slogans. He was mute!” He ends by saying the inmates were supportive of each other. “We have a lot of compassionate people.”
B. follows by saying, “After interrogations, I went to the psychological evaluations. They gave me a test, fifteen pages long, and I had to answer all the questions. For example, whether you have a girlfriend or not. Who is your favorite actor? I went in at 3 o’clock and came out at 9 o’clock. There were multiple-choice questions like what you eat. What do you do when you’re alone? Do you dream when you sleep or not? And so on.”
There are other stories from prison. A parole prisoner says ward 6 has ten halls, each with a capacity of 350 people. There are nearly 1200 to 1300 detainees, all protestors. However, only 100 people are released daily. Although in the past week, judicial authorities have not provided any information about the number of detainees in Tehran Province, on October 18, Ahmad Alireza Beigi, a member of Parliament, announced that 3000 people had been detained in Tehran only. The parole prisoner says, “Most detainees here were arrested on the streets. Other detainees are taken to Evin. Inside ward 6 is a hall for those with a criminal record, which means they will not be released until things quiet down.” He has a 7-year sentence, served five years, and has been a parolee for a year. Prisoners like him are granted parolee status because they have no charges of embezzlement and no complaints against them. However, he says, “Only the judge decides to grant it. He is in prison five days a week and leaves on Fridays and Saturdays.
In the prison courtyard, there is a white building for counseling. The rooms are small and gender segregated. The line for men is long. Only two women are standing in the other line. One is the mother of a 20-year-old boy who has been released. She is here to pick up his belongings. She recalls the lines being so long on Thursday. “So long that not everyone got their turn. My number was 580, and they stopped the visits after me. You have to come early in the morning. They didn’t give numbers to after 11:30,” she says, “They kept my son for a week. He is a motorcycle courier who was arrested on Piroozi Street. When they looked at his phone, they saw his social media posts about recent events. Someone had also sent him a message on Instagram. All of this is in his file.” The woman explains how she found out her son. “At first, I went to the local police station, and they said he hadn’t come here, even though he had been there for a day and a half. From there, he was taken to the national security police. In the end, I found him here.”
A few other men sit at the bus stop by the prison. One of them has recently been released, and the other two had their brother and son in prison. They have a different story. “I was in prison for a week until the legal process was completed. They didn’t bother me at all. Anyone who says they were beaten is lying. During this time, I was interrogated twice and then released without signing a remorse letter.” The man, who is about 40 years old, continues, “I was walking on Abbasabad Street when they arrested me. They thought I was going to protest.” The man beside him adds that most detainees are released without signing any statement, and those detained similarly are released within a week.
