“Dear Sholeh, today I learned
that it is now my turn to face Qisas (the Iranian regime’s law of retribution).
I am hurt as to why you did not let me know yourself that I have reached the
last page in the book of my life. Don’t you think that I should know? You know
how ashamed I am that you are sad. Why did you not take the chance for me to
kiss your hand and dad’s?
The world allowed me to live
for 19 years. That ominous night I should have been killed. My body would have
been dumped in some corner of the city, and after a few days, the police would
have taken you to the coroner’s office to identify my body and there you would
also learn that I had been raped as well. The murderer would have never been
found since we don’t have their wealth and their power. Then you would have
continued your life suffering and ashamed, and a few years later you would have
died of this suffering and that would have been that.
However, with that cursed blow
the story changed. My body was not thrown aside, but rather into the grave of
Evin Prison and its solitary wards, and now the grave-like prison of Shahr-e
Ray. But give in to the fate and don’t complain. You know better that death is
not the end of life.
You taught me that one comes
to this world to gain an experience and to learn a lesson and with each birth a
responsibility is put on one’s shoulder. I learned that sometimes one has to
fight. I remember when you told me a story from Nietzsche, the philosopher,
about when he protested to a carriage man who was flogging his horse, but the
flogger hit the lash on his head and face…(not audible) and he taught us that
for creating a value one should persevere even if one dies.
You taught us that as we go to
school one should be a lady when faced with quarrels and complaints. Do you
remember how much you emphasised the way we behave? Your experience was
incorrect. When this incident happened, my teachings did not help me. Being
calm in court made me look like a cold-blooded murderer and a ruthless
criminal. I shed no tears. I did not beg. I did not cry my eyes out since I
trusted the law.
But I was charged with being indifferent in face of a crime. You see, I didn’t
even kill mosquitoes and I threw cockroaches away by taking them by their
antennae. Now I have become a premeditated murderer. My treatment of the
animals was interpreted as being inclined to be a boy and the judge didn’t even
trouble himself to look at the fact that, at the time of the incident, I had long
and polished nails.
How optimistic was he who
expected justice from the judges! He never questioned the fact that my hands
are not coarse like those of a sportswoman, especially a boxer. And this
country that you planted its love in me never wanted me and no one supported me
when, under the blows of the interrogator, I was crying out and I was hearing
the most vulgar terms. When I shed the last sign of beauty from myself by
shaving my hair I was rewarded: 11 days in solitary.
Dear Sholeh, don’t cry for what
you are hearing. On the first day in the police office when an old unmarried
agent hurt me for my nails I understood that beauty is not looked for in this
era. The beauty of looks, beauty of thoughts and wishes, a beautiful
handwriting, beauty of the eyes and vision, and even beauty of a nice voice.
My dear mother, my ideology
has changed and you are not responsible for it. My words are unending and I
gave it all to someone so that when I am executed without your presence and
knowledge, it would be given to you. I left you much handwritten material as my
heritage.
However, before my death I
want something from you that you have to provide for me – with all your might
and in any way that you can. In fact, this is the only thing I want from this
world, this country and you. I know you need time for this. Therefore, I am
telling you part of my will sooner. Please don’t cry and listen. I want you to
go to the court and tell them my request. I cannot write such a letter from
inside prison for it would not be approved by the head of the prison; so once
again you have to suffer because of me. It is the only thing that, even if you
beg for it, I would not become upset although I have told you many times not to
beg to save me from being executed.
My kind mother, dear Sholeh,
the one more dear to me than my life, I don’t want to rot under the soil. I
don’t want my eye or my young heart to turn into dust. Beg so that it is
arranged that as soon as I am hanged my heart, kidney, eye, bones and anything
that can be transplanted be taken away from my body and given to someone who
needs them as a gift. I don’t want the recipient to know my name. Buy me a
bouquet, or even pray for me. I am telling you from the bottom of my heart that
I don’t want to have a grave for you to come and mourn there and suffer. I
don’t want you to wear black clothing for me. Do your best to forget my
difficult days. Give me to the wind to take away.
The world did not love us. It
did not want my fate. And now I am giving in to it and embracing death. Because
in the court of God I will charge the inspectors, I will charge inspector
Shamlou, I will charge the judge, and the judges of the country’s Supreme Court
that beat me when I was awake and who did not refrain from harassing me. In the
court of the creator I will charge Dr. Farvandi, I will charge Qassem Shabani
and all those who, out of ignorance or with their lies, wronged me and trampled
on my rights and didn’t pay heed to the fact that sometimes what appears as
reality is different from it.
Dear soft-hearted Sholeh, in
the other world, it is you and me who are the accusers and others who are the
accused. Let’s see what God wants. I wanted to embrace you until I die. I love
you.
