Doctors of Rhythm - Jake Brown

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they were looking for material linking me to specific organisations; a printing machine, and evidence that the flat was used as a safe house. Instead, they found a family sitting down to tea, watching Khomeini on television. The oldest Hezbollahi went outside to radio in his report and wait for instructions before the police finally left with the house a mess – but still standing. After my arrest the whole house – and some of the homes of my relatives – would be stripped bare. This was common. Confiscating ‘evidence’ – which included everything from money and jewellery to TVs, stereos and cars – and selling it on was highly profitable.

      The oldest raider turned to me as they left and said, ‘We’re sorry about this, brother. Our information is normally accurate. After all, it was one of your relatives we heard it from.’ It was certainly an inconvenience but it was also a warning that my name was on the Hezbollahi’s list. I told comrades from my organisation not to come to the house. I was torn: should I flee the country or await arrest? I decided to sit tight and see what would happen. Back then I thought that going to prison for my political convictions at this time was the right thing to do. Sitting in my cell, looking back, it seemed like a very long time ago. A different world.

      I still had no idea which prison I was in, but I guessed it was the country’s main interrogation centre, known as Evin. I was mistaken. I found out about four months later that I had been held in Komiteh Moshterak (Centre for the Committee of Anti-Subversive Activities). It had been established by the Shah’s Savak – which was later replaced by the Savama – as a special complex for the interrogation of political dissidents. The majority of its inmates were members of the Fedayeen and Mojahedin, the two guerrilla organisations fighting against the Shah. Under the new regime Komiteh Moshterak and other prisons continued to exact a terrible revenge on political prisoners. Reports filtered out that made the persecution of political prisoners under the Shah look tame by comparison.

      Komiteh Moshterak had been built by the last Shah’s father, Reza Shah and it once held hundreds of fighters for freedom, democracy and socialism. Although prisoners were allowed deliveries of home-cooked food, conditions were generally far from humane. A revolutionary poet named Farokhi was put to death by having air injected into a vein. His executioner was Pezeshk Ahmadi, a veterinary appointed the position of prison doctor. The Shah’s father also imprisoned those responsible for establishing the Group of 53, the first communist party of Iran.

      Just as they did with almost everything else in Iran, Khomeini’s regime Islamicised the names of the prisons. Mine became known as The Centre for the Islamic Revolutionary Guard. It was supposed to hold a hundred maximum security prisoners at a time but now packed in around 2,500. They occupied every conceivable space available: lavatories, yards, balconies of upper floors and hallways. There were queues everywhere. Prisoners lined the corridors. On each side of every passageway they laid head to foot, blindfolded and facing the wall. I lay like this for a period of four months, only moving to be taken for torture and interrogation or to the bathroom. On these breaks we would be taken, perhaps ten at a time, and given one or two minutes despite there being only three or four cubicles. This happened three times a day, once after each meal. If we had time and could get to one of the sinks, we could use this short visit for washing dishes, hands, faces, and even our prison uniform.

      As long as a prisoner was under intense interrogation, he or she would be kept inside the torture room and witness others being tortured or outside waiting their turn or in the yard adjoining the torture block. Those who survived with terrible wounds would be taken to the cramped, crowded hallways or balconies. If they were lucky, they might end up on a more spacious corridor if other prisoners were taken away to other jails – or taken away to be shot. There was absolutely no information – written or otherwise – from the outside world and communication between prisoners was risky. Once I was approached by a man who stood behind me and whispered in my ear.

      ‘Would you like to read the Koran?’

      ‘Brother, I can’t read Arabic.’

      ‘I can help you to read it,’ he said.

      ‘I’m bleeding internally. I can’t keep my mind focused.’

      ‘Those who have not repented,’ he hissed, ‘will be wiped out from the face of this earth!’ With this sweet thought he departed, thankfully never to be encountered again.

      It was during a break, after six months of imprisonment, that I first discovered where I was being held. Usually the guards hurried us along, but on this occasion we were left to ourselves. A young man called Adel helped me get onto his shoulders so I could look through a small window. I immediately recognised the main communications tower in central Tehran and, from this, we figured out where we were.

      We were permitted a quick shower only every two or three weeks. First the prisoners in the so-called ‘solitary’ cells were taken. After they had been it was the turn of those in the corridors, balconies and hallways. Each prisoner was given a piece of black, dried-out, stony soap. Between three to five prisoners would huddle under each of the five showerheads. The shower also served as a laundry and we would wash our uniforms as best we could. Under the showers we could take our blindfolds off, allowing a rare chance to see the faces of our fellow prisoners. In truth, these were my happiest moments in prison. Of course, the guards were always watching, making sure that we did not try and communicate. When 20 minutes were up, we would put on our dripping clothes and leave.

      Mealtimes were not so much of a relief. We ate every eight hours, sitting down facing the wall and remained blindfolded. The prison food was tasteless, colourless and meagre. The heat was sometimes unbearable – the temperature can hit 44 degrees celsius in Tehran – and the thick grey walls were dank from sweat. Cigarettes were, of course, not permitted although we were given one cup of what resembled tea every 24 hours. This was between three and five o’clock in the morning, depending on the time of morning prayer. The yellow and foul-smelling drink was accompanied by between two and four cubes of sugar to last the whole day.

      The prison had only one doctor, himself a prisoner, and once a week he was allowed to administer nothing more powerful than painkillers under the watchful eyes of the guards. Any smile or kind word would lead to severe repercussions. Prisoners in great pain would have to plead for medicine but unless they were dying the guards would often stop the doctor. ‘We need the medicine for the Islamic devotees fighting a holy war against Iraq,’ they would say.

      Many prisoners had vicious wounds on the soles of their feet and contracted infections so severe that some of them died. Others were bleeding and in constant pain from broken bones. A few had even lost their sight in one eye. There were few who did not have some form of skin infection. Unsurprisingly, there was an ever-present stench from untreated wounds. Some of my fellow prisoners caught severe fevers, chest infections and tuberculosis. Lice were everywhere.

      The warmth of the sun, the smell of trees, the stars at night… all were distant memories. Each of our movements was calculated to form part of our torture. You might think that going to the bathroom would bring some relief to the prisoner who had been lying on a floor, blindfolded, facing the wall for ten hours. But not when one had to urinate or defecate in a matter of minutes surrounded by people in severe pain, many bleeding. I had blood in my urine for a long time. Others were affected by stomach disorders and needed more time than we were allowed.

      All our activities were accompanied by an orchestra of horrifying noises. The most disturbing was the sound of cars stopping at the entrance late at night and in the early morning. They were bringing more victims. The main door would screech open and, within ten or twenty minutes, the prison would be filled with the chilling sound of someone experiencing the torture room for the first time. Each scream reminded me of the torture I experienced. It was impossible to block that sound out, let alone sleep through it. Listening to others being tortured was more demoralising for us than experiencing it personally.

      Then there was the prison tannoy system. The authorities subjected prisoners to a constant barrage of readings from the Koran and other religious texts. They relayed speeches by leading clerics and government officials, from Khomeini downwards. Sometimes they played military marches or entreaties to support the regime’s war with Iraq, accompanied by constant bulletins crowing

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