Iran: UPDATE: Imprisoned women's rights activists Nahid Keshavarz and Mahboubeh Hossein Zadeh, record their experiences of imprisonment amongst other female inmates
Source:
WE for Change Human rights defenders Nahid Keshavarz and Mahboubeh Hossein Zadeh, were arrested for collecting signatures in support of the "One Million Signatures Campaign" demanding changes to discriminatory laws against women in Iran.
(1) What will they do about the Growing Awareness among Female Prisoners and their Guards?
By: Nahid Keshavarz
Translated by: Sussan Tahmasebi
It is Tuesday, April 10, 2007, 3:30 in the afternoon. It has been a good day for both Mahboubeh and I. It's visitation day. Visitation day is the sweetest of days for prisoners. From the moment they announce your name till the moment you finally see your loved ones, your entire being is filled with anticipation. You stretch the moments in their presence, and in your mind, you dress yourself in your most beautiful clothes—one becoming of the occasion, albeit that you are forced to wear a veil and prison issued slippers. Perhaps for those who have never experienced prison, there is no difference between the navy colored veil lent to you by your fellow inmates with love, and the prison issued veil, marked with the logo of the Revolutionary Courts, the logo that is supposed to represent justice. But for us, there is a difference between these two, even if their colors are the same. The veil you borrow from your fellow inmates, the veil that is lent to you with love, gives you a better feeling and you view yourselves as being among your sisters and mothers rather than in the position and in the identity assigned to you by your captors.
As I wait to be escorted to the visitation area, I start up a conversation with one of the female prison guards. I explain to her that I am fighting to attain equal rights for women. I tell her about the "One Million Signatures Campaign" which aims to change discriminatory laws against women. I explain that my experience in prison has reaffirmed my commitment to justice and the path that I have chosen. In jest, the guard says "let the men take second wives, why does it concern you, anyway?" I speak of my responsibilities as a citizen. I know that the guard herself is opposed to polygamy, to men's uncontested right to divorce, and girls' marriage at a young age, still she does not believe that I am in prison because I am fighting to change these same laws. "Certainly you must have insulted someone, that is why you are here," she says. I explain that my friends and I have employed the most civil of strategies in asking for changes to discriminatory laws against women. I explain that I believe in civic action, in creating change, and as such we are only collecting signatures in support of our demands. "This is why I have chosen to work within the Campaign. Because through this effort we can work to educate the public about these demands," I explain.
I realize, more than ever before, that judges have the power to keep us in prison endless periods of time. They have the power to claim that our demands as contradictory to the foundations of the Islamic Republic, proclaim that polygamy is a main tenant of Islam and the State, and to accuse us of crimes, to equate our efforts within the "One Million Signatures Campaign" to "actions against national security, through the spread of propaganda against the Islamic Republic of Iran." But, I wonder, how will these judges, who work so hard at upholding these patriarchal traditions and laws, counter the growing awareness among female prisoners? What do judges do with the women who cite these very restrictive laws as justification for their unlawful actions? Women like Behjat, who is accused of murdering her husband. A woman who in her own defense explained to the prosecutor that "when your laws work unjustly against me and other women, and place us in an extreme disadvantage, when I spend four fruitless years in pursuit of a divorce, all the while forced to take refuge in the homes of relatives and strangers, uprooting my children time and again, am I not forced to take matters into my own hands and to ensure justice on my own?"
Perhaps our court system can exhaust women's rights activists through the infliction of threats and fear. Perhaps they can tire us through continuous summons to court, by inflicting in our hearts uncertainty, by forcing us into prison, but truly what will the court system do about the increasing awareness among its own prison guards? The social workers and guards at Evin prison know better than anyone, about the immense tragedy that results from unjust laws, oppressive cultural traditions and the male interpretations of religion. These are the realities that make up the lives of women, condemning them to "dead ends," spent in prison. In these few days we have heard a lot of stories—real stories. We have listened to the stories of these women, who, because of discriminatory laws and oppressive cultural realities, have reached an eternal dead end.
We have seen women who are in prison on charges of murder, but who prior to taking matters in their own hands had tirelessly struggled to resolve their problems and to escape the cycle of violence to which they were condemned. Prior to resorting to the murder of their husbands, most of these women had never committed even the smallest of crimes. They were kind mothers and wives, who for years quietly endured the violent nature of their relationships, their husband's unfaithfulness or his years of addiction. Forced to try all avenues to flee their cruel fait and after having met repeatedly with failures in their efforts to improve their situation, these women chose a path of escape, that in essence was never a truly a choice at all.
I reach the visitation area. One of the male prison guards reads names off a list. Some of the prisoners go to a public visitation area and some are assigned cabins for their visitation. My share it seems is a cabin, with a window that separates me from my family. Nader and Sadigheh are waiting for me. My sister, who is beautiful and kind, is herself a victim of the discrimination that is enforced and perpetuated by these very laws. She fully understands me and because of her extreme kindness, she does not wish a better life for herself alone. My dear Nader, he is wearing his best clothes. My heart aches, when I see that he is wearing clothes that are my favorite. I pick up the phone in the cabin. Their voice gives me hope. They tell me about the solidarity of my friends and my colleagues who continue to push for the aims of the Campaign. I return to my prison cell, with even greater determination. On my way back, I see Mahboubeh. She too is going to visit with her family.
>--<--><--><-->--<-->--<-->--<
(2) All Women are Victims, not Just those in Prison
By: Mahboubeh Hossein Zadeh
Translated by: Sussan Tahmasebi
"Our husbands are lying in enclosed graves and we are in open graves. We too ceased to live the very day that we killed our husbands." These are the words of a woman who spends her nights on the three story bed across from me. Her nights are filled with nightmares about the death of her husband--a husband she stabbed to death.
This is Evin prison—the women's ward. Nahid and I do not fully comprehend which national security we have undermined, nonetheless with this charge we spend our days in limbo in the midst of these women. Ten of the 16 women with whom we have shared a cell for over a week, are here on charges of murdering their husbands. These women, having lost faith in a legal system that offers no hope and no protection, weave their days to the darkness of the night that lingers behind the tall walls of Evin. If our laws had the capacity to defend women charged with murder, they would not be here now, spending their time idly in waiting for the day that would swallow them—a term used by female inmates to describe execution day.
These women, they all seem kind and patient to me. They are women forced into marriages they did not choose, women who were forcibly married off at the age of 13 and 14, women whose husbands were chosen by their fathers…one of these women was forced into marriage through physical violence bestowed upon her by her father, who slapped her repeatedly until she accepted her fate. Until she accepted to marry a man who was 45 years her senior. Another woman continues to have nightmares about that doomed day four years ago, when she took matters into her own hands and murdered her husband. She worries about her daughters whom she turned over the state welfare organization for care. Others too, have similar stories.
Woman, mother, requests for divorce, discriminatory laws, murderers…all but one of them is under 40 years of age. She asks "why doesn't anyone listen to our problems or pains?" "Where was the judge when my husband forced me onto the streets, into prostitution, in an effort to earn enough money to support his habit of addiction? What is one to do? Which laws were meant to support me? Which laws were intended to save me? Why didn't the judge listen to my pleas? I grew weary. The law provided me with no refuge. I defended myself. Yes! I killed him!"
Another woman explains "my father said that we will lose face. I cried. I asked my father didn't you marry me off by force at age 13? Now I want a divorce. My father refused. But when I saw my husband that night with another woman, in my own bed, I could no longer take the abuse." The victims are not just the women with whom I share a cell. The victims are all women in this land.
Today a few judges came for an official tour of the prison. Nahid was in visitation with her family when they came to our ward. The judge pokes his head into the cell and asks "are there any problems in this room?" It seems that the only problems with which female inmates could be faced are nutritional. He finds out that I am a reporter, so he goes further to ask about our other problems. I explain that I am charged with "actions against national security through spreading of propaganda against the State." He says that my presence in prison, given the fact that they have processed my paper work for release on a third party bail guarantee is illegal. Enthused, I ask his name so that I can quote a reliable source to counter our state of limbo and uncertainty, during these days when the judge assigned to our case does not feel the obligation to provide a response to our family or to our lawyer. Immediately the visiting judge retreats and explains: "there is no need to know my name. I should explain that the judge in charge of your case has the authority to keep you in prison for as long as he sees fit!"
And I laugh. He does not even have the courage to speak his name and to defend his opinion. A few other judges visiting the prison become excited. One speaks of Mehrangiz Kar and her effort to defend women's rights. My heart aches and I feel a sadness as vast as all the days that Mehrangiz Kar, Shirin Ebadi and other women like them have spent in Evin prison, on charges of having defended women's human rights. One of the judges pulls me to a corner to ask how I am being treated by the other inmates. Are we bothered here, he inquires. I recall the smoke filled cells of Ward One of Evin Prison (the punishment ward, as it is infamously referred to) and the immense feeling of insecurity we felt during our time there. I remember having stood at the foot of the stairs in Ward One, when several inmates began beating a woman, pushing her down the stairs. Several female inmates beat this woman, to an inch of her life, while others held her hands so that she could not escape. I watched frightened and stunned. Injured and fearful, she gazed at the eyes of on lookers for help, but there was no liberator or even prison guard present to provide her with a reprieve.
I wanted to tell the man about a girl, who wailing, in this very ward, smashed the television set in her cell to the ground. I wanted to speak about a girl whose scar filled arms, a testament to repeated attempts at suicide, shattered the glass of a window with her head. And this time, the prison guard was present, only to faint at the sight of this violence…
But instead I only told the judge that he should visit Ward One of Evin prison. To date, no reporter has managed to visit this Ward, and no reports about the condition of prisoners in this section of Evin have been prepared. Of course, according to the women in Ward One, no judge has ever visited this section of Evin prison either. The doors to this section remain perpetually closed—and even judges do not bear witness to the atrocities that take place there.
My dear mother, my sister and her small child have come to visit me. Nahid had a chance to speak with my mother as well, and heard her lament about the worries of my aging father. My nephew Soheil is a year and a half. He places his small hands on the window of the cabinet that divides us, and laughs out loud. My sister cries. Her tears are warranted. She is spending her last days with her child. After 4 months of uncertainty, with the unrelenting assistance and support of her lawyer, she has finally managed to get her husband to agree to a divorce, on condition that she give up all her rights, even rights to her child—this very small child, whose laughter and play had interrupted the silence of my mother's home over the past four months. My sister worries for her child, and I feel more powerless than before when faced with her tears. She is only 23 years old. "I too am one of the victims of these laws" explains my sister. "From today onward, I will start collecting signatures in support of the Campaign. I will collect so many signatures, so that these laws finally change."
The female inmate who has now started to record her own experiences in a small diary, pulls me aside and asks: "can I help you in collecting signatures for the Campaign?" She wants me to use whatever means possible to get her a signature form, so that women who are condemned to spend their days at Evin prison, too can have the opportunity to create change for others. So that with their individual signatures they can bring hope to other women. And this reminds me of the last question asked by my interrogator before I was brought here "your demands in the Campaign, including banning of polygamy, equal rights to blood money and testimony, are in contradiction to the foundations of Islamic jurisprudence and the foundations of the Islamic Regime. Given these facts, will you continue to ask for changes in the laws?" In response to this question, I wrote: "Yes! I know that our demands are not in contradiction to Islam." And today, after this experience, I am more determined than ever and I write: "I ask for changes to these discriminatory laws. I ask them in an effort to honor the dignity of all the women in my country."
By: Nahid Keshavarz
Translated by: Sussan Tahmasebi
It is Tuesday, April 10, 2007, 3:30 in the afternoon. It has been a good day for both Mahboubeh and I. It's visitation day. Visitation day is the sweetest of days for prisoners. From the moment they announce your name till the moment you finally see your loved ones, your entire being is filled with anticipation. You stretch the moments in their presence, and in your mind, you dress yourself in your most beautiful clothes—one becoming of the occasion, albeit that you are forced to wear a veil and prison issued slippers. Perhaps for those who have never experienced prison, there is no difference between the navy colored veil lent to you by your fellow inmates with love, and the prison issued veil, marked with the logo of the Revolutionary Courts, the logo that is supposed to represent justice. But for us, there is a difference between these two, even if their colors are the same. The veil you borrow from your fellow inmates, the veil that is lent to you with love, gives you a better feeling and you view yourselves as being among your sisters and mothers rather than in the position and in the identity assigned to you by your captors.
As I wait to be escorted to the visitation area, I start up a conversation with one of the female prison guards. I explain to her that I am fighting to attain equal rights for women. I tell her about the "One Million Signatures Campaign" which aims to change discriminatory laws against women. I explain that my experience in prison has reaffirmed my commitment to justice and the path that I have chosen. In jest, the guard says "let the men take second wives, why does it concern you, anyway?" I speak of my responsibilities as a citizen. I know that the guard herself is opposed to polygamy, to men's uncontested right to divorce, and girls' marriage at a young age, still she does not believe that I am in prison because I am fighting to change these same laws. "Certainly you must have insulted someone, that is why you are here," she says. I explain that my friends and I have employed the most civil of strategies in asking for changes to discriminatory laws against women. I explain that I believe in civic action, in creating change, and as such we are only collecting signatures in support of our demands. "This is why I have chosen to work within the Campaign. Because through this effort we can work to educate the public about these demands," I explain.
I realize, more than ever before, that judges have the power to keep us in prison endless periods of time. They have the power to claim that our demands as contradictory to the foundations of the Islamic Republic, proclaim that polygamy is a main tenant of Islam and the State, and to accuse us of crimes, to equate our efforts within the "One Million Signatures Campaign" to "actions against national security, through the spread of propaganda against the Islamic Republic of Iran." But, I wonder, how will these judges, who work so hard at upholding these patriarchal traditions and laws, counter the growing awareness among female prisoners? What do judges do with the women who cite these very restrictive laws as justification for their unlawful actions? Women like Behjat, who is accused of murdering her husband. A woman who in her own defense explained to the prosecutor that "when your laws work unjustly against me and other women, and place us in an extreme disadvantage, when I spend four fruitless years in pursuit of a divorce, all the while forced to take refuge in the homes of relatives and strangers, uprooting my children time and again, am I not forced to take matters into my own hands and to ensure justice on my own?"
Perhaps our court system can exhaust women's rights activists through the infliction of threats and fear. Perhaps they can tire us through continuous summons to court, by inflicting in our hearts uncertainty, by forcing us into prison, but truly what will the court system do about the increasing awareness among its own prison guards? The social workers and guards at Evin prison know better than anyone, about the immense tragedy that results from unjust laws, oppressive cultural traditions and the male interpretations of religion. These are the realities that make up the lives of women, condemning them to "dead ends," spent in prison. In these few days we have heard a lot of stories—real stories. We have listened to the stories of these women, who, because of discriminatory laws and oppressive cultural realities, have reached an eternal dead end.
We have seen women who are in prison on charges of murder, but who prior to taking matters in their own hands had tirelessly struggled to resolve their problems and to escape the cycle of violence to which they were condemned. Prior to resorting to the murder of their husbands, most of these women had never committed even the smallest of crimes. They were kind mothers and wives, who for years quietly endured the violent nature of their relationships, their husband's unfaithfulness or his years of addiction. Forced to try all avenues to flee their cruel fait and after having met repeatedly with failures in their efforts to improve their situation, these women chose a path of escape, that in essence was never a truly a choice at all.
I reach the visitation area. One of the male prison guards reads names off a list. Some of the prisoners go to a public visitation area and some are assigned cabins for their visitation. My share it seems is a cabin, with a window that separates me from my family. Nader and Sadigheh are waiting for me. My sister, who is beautiful and kind, is herself a victim of the discrimination that is enforced and perpetuated by these very laws. She fully understands me and because of her extreme kindness, she does not wish a better life for herself alone. My dear Nader, he is wearing his best clothes. My heart aches, when I see that he is wearing clothes that are my favorite. I pick up the phone in the cabin. Their voice gives me hope. They tell me about the solidarity of my friends and my colleagues who continue to push for the aims of the Campaign. I return to my prison cell, with even greater determination. On my way back, I see Mahboubeh. She too is going to visit with her family.
>--<--><--><-->--<-->--<-->--<
(2) All Women are Victims, not Just those in Prison
By: Mahboubeh Hossein Zadeh
Translated by: Sussan Tahmasebi
"Our husbands are lying in enclosed graves and we are in open graves. We too ceased to live the very day that we killed our husbands." These are the words of a woman who spends her nights on the three story bed across from me. Her nights are filled with nightmares about the death of her husband--a husband she stabbed to death.
This is Evin prison—the women's ward. Nahid and I do not fully comprehend which national security we have undermined, nonetheless with this charge we spend our days in limbo in the midst of these women. Ten of the 16 women with whom we have shared a cell for over a week, are here on charges of murdering their husbands. These women, having lost faith in a legal system that offers no hope and no protection, weave their days to the darkness of the night that lingers behind the tall walls of Evin. If our laws had the capacity to defend women charged with murder, they would not be here now, spending their time idly in waiting for the day that would swallow them—a term used by female inmates to describe execution day.
These women, they all seem kind and patient to me. They are women forced into marriages they did not choose, women who were forcibly married off at the age of 13 and 14, women whose husbands were chosen by their fathers…one of these women was forced into marriage through physical violence bestowed upon her by her father, who slapped her repeatedly until she accepted her fate. Until she accepted to marry a man who was 45 years her senior. Another woman continues to have nightmares about that doomed day four years ago, when she took matters into her own hands and murdered her husband. She worries about her daughters whom she turned over the state welfare organization for care. Others too, have similar stories.
Woman, mother, requests for divorce, discriminatory laws, murderers…all but one of them is under 40 years of age. She asks "why doesn't anyone listen to our problems or pains?" "Where was the judge when my husband forced me onto the streets, into prostitution, in an effort to earn enough money to support his habit of addiction? What is one to do? Which laws were meant to support me? Which laws were intended to save me? Why didn't the judge listen to my pleas? I grew weary. The law provided me with no refuge. I defended myself. Yes! I killed him!"
Another woman explains "my father said that we will lose face. I cried. I asked my father didn't you marry me off by force at age 13? Now I want a divorce. My father refused. But when I saw my husband that night with another woman, in my own bed, I could no longer take the abuse." The victims are not just the women with whom I share a cell. The victims are all women in this land.
Today a few judges came for an official tour of the prison. Nahid was in visitation with her family when they came to our ward. The judge pokes his head into the cell and asks "are there any problems in this room?" It seems that the only problems with which female inmates could be faced are nutritional. He finds out that I am a reporter, so he goes further to ask about our other problems. I explain that I am charged with "actions against national security through spreading of propaganda against the State." He says that my presence in prison, given the fact that they have processed my paper work for release on a third party bail guarantee is illegal. Enthused, I ask his name so that I can quote a reliable source to counter our state of limbo and uncertainty, during these days when the judge assigned to our case does not feel the obligation to provide a response to our family or to our lawyer. Immediately the visiting judge retreats and explains: "there is no need to know my name. I should explain that the judge in charge of your case has the authority to keep you in prison for as long as he sees fit!"
And I laugh. He does not even have the courage to speak his name and to defend his opinion. A few other judges visiting the prison become excited. One speaks of Mehrangiz Kar and her effort to defend women's rights. My heart aches and I feel a sadness as vast as all the days that Mehrangiz Kar, Shirin Ebadi and other women like them have spent in Evin prison, on charges of having defended women's human rights. One of the judges pulls me to a corner to ask how I am being treated by the other inmates. Are we bothered here, he inquires. I recall the smoke filled cells of Ward One of Evin Prison (the punishment ward, as it is infamously referred to) and the immense feeling of insecurity we felt during our time there. I remember having stood at the foot of the stairs in Ward One, when several inmates began beating a woman, pushing her down the stairs. Several female inmates beat this woman, to an inch of her life, while others held her hands so that she could not escape. I watched frightened and stunned. Injured and fearful, she gazed at the eyes of on lookers for help, but there was no liberator or even prison guard present to provide her with a reprieve.
I wanted to tell the man about a girl, who wailing, in this very ward, smashed the television set in her cell to the ground. I wanted to speak about a girl whose scar filled arms, a testament to repeated attempts at suicide, shattered the glass of a window with her head. And this time, the prison guard was present, only to faint at the sight of this violence…
But instead I only told the judge that he should visit Ward One of Evin prison. To date, no reporter has managed to visit this Ward, and no reports about the condition of prisoners in this section of Evin have been prepared. Of course, according to the women in Ward One, no judge has ever visited this section of Evin prison either. The doors to this section remain perpetually closed—and even judges do not bear witness to the atrocities that take place there.
My dear mother, my sister and her small child have come to visit me. Nahid had a chance to speak with my mother as well, and heard her lament about the worries of my aging father. My nephew Soheil is a year and a half. He places his small hands on the window of the cabinet that divides us, and laughs out loud. My sister cries. Her tears are warranted. She is spending her last days with her child. After 4 months of uncertainty, with the unrelenting assistance and support of her lawyer, she has finally managed to get her husband to agree to a divorce, on condition that she give up all her rights, even rights to her child—this very small child, whose laughter and play had interrupted the silence of my mother's home over the past four months. My sister worries for her child, and I feel more powerless than before when faced with her tears. She is only 23 years old. "I too am one of the victims of these laws" explains my sister. "From today onward, I will start collecting signatures in support of the Campaign. I will collect so many signatures, so that these laws finally change."
The female inmate who has now started to record her own experiences in a small diary, pulls me aside and asks: "can I help you in collecting signatures for the Campaign?" She wants me to use whatever means possible to get her a signature form, so that women who are condemned to spend their days at Evin prison, too can have the opportunity to create change for others. So that with their individual signatures they can bring hope to other women. And this reminds me of the last question asked by my interrogator before I was brought here "your demands in the Campaign, including banning of polygamy, equal rights to blood money and testimony, are in contradiction to the foundations of Islamic jurisprudence and the foundations of the Islamic Regime. Given these facts, will you continue to ask for changes in the laws?" In response to this question, I wrote: "Yes! I know that our demands are not in contradiction to Islam." And today, after this experience, I am more determined than ever and I write: "I ask for changes to these discriminatory laws. I ask them in an effort to honor the dignity of all the women in my country."
