Free Letters to My Torturer: Love, Revolution, and Imprisonment in Iran by Houshang Asadi Page A

reformists during the sixth parliamentary elections. The court of the Islamic Republic had summoned him on charges of opposition to the administration. The tall eighteen-year-old that Ihad met in 1975 had, by 2002, turned into a bald man, who spoke with sorrow about his memories of imprisonment, and about his release following the revolution. He had immediately signed up to fight in the war with Iraq, where he had been captured and spent a few years in an Iraqi prison. Now he was talking of “reform” and of “soft revolution”, but that wintry night long ago, he had one answer to every single question I posed: “Revolution means bang, bang!”
    And he would hold an imaginary pistol in his hand. We would laugh, Khamenei laughing harder than the rest of us. We were now four people in a solitary confinement cell. There was just enough space to allow us, the two leftists and the two religious people, to squat around the food bowl or to sleep side by side. Today the four of us are on opposing sides, but I sometimes wish I was back in that cold winter of 1975 and we were still together.
    First they took Ali away, and then Sasan. Both were given jail sentences and were still in prison when the revolution began and they were freed. Once again, Khamenei and I were left alone together. Just like before, we went for walks around the cell and talked about the past. We spent the long, freezing winter nights shivering under thin blankets. We heard the never-ending sound of crying and moaning from the corridor. Days turned into weeks and we always ended up laughing under the shower, with me repeating my joke: “I can boast a superior specimen.”
    And we would return to our cell. My cellmate occasionally talked about an Islamic project without mentioning any specific names or plans. I would listen to him and quickly change the topic with a joke. In my intellectually oversimplified world, there was no room for religion.
    Three months, more or less, had passed; three months that had more depth than three years. Never again was I to become so attached to someone in such a short time or to become as close to someone else. One day, the door opened and the guard called out my name: “Pick up your blanket and get ready.”
    This meant that I was being allocated to a different cell. We had often discussed how and where we might meet on our release. We embraced each other and wept. I felt that my cellmate was shaking. I assumed that it was the winter cold that was making him shiver so I took off my jumper and insisted he should take it. He refused. I don’t know what made me say: “I think I am going to be released.”
    He took the jumper and put it on. We embraced each other. I felt the warm tears that were running down his face and his voice, still ringing in my ears, said: “Under an Islamic government, not a single tear would be shed by the innocent.”
    The guard said: “Come on, get out.”
    I placed my jacket over my head and walked out. We walked down the corridor and up the stairs. I was telling myself: “I am going to be released.”
    I saw Khamenei again two years later when Rahman and I made a trip to the east of Iran on a story assignment. Together we went to Khamenei’s house. Khamenei was waiting for us in a sparsely decorated room. We hugged and kissed each other on the cheeks and reminisced a little about our time in prison, and I introduced Rahman. The conversation turned to politics and went on for three hours. Rahman and Khamenei debated while I listened to them. Rahman was his usual self, assertive but speaking softly and repeatedly flicking his hair. Khamenei spoke firmly and kept smiling. Tea was served.
    When the debate ended, we stood up to say goodbye. Just as we were about to leave Khamenei put his hand on my arm and asked me to stay behind. Once Rahman had left, he asked me: “This friend of yours, who is he?”
    I said: “The deputy editor-in-chief of
Kayhan
. He is a close friend.”
    He pressed my arm