http://www.gozaar.org/template1.php?id=449
Open Letter by Kiyanoosh Sanjari
January 15, 2007It took only 20 minutes for me to understand that, from this day forward, I am prohibited from writing anything against the government in my web-blog or conducting interviews with radio and television stations on subjects related to politics. The government informed me, in an assertive and unfaltering tone, that I no longer have these rights.
They told me I should keep silent like Mr. X and Mrs. Y who have been released from prison and have since “zipped their mouths.” They told me the other alternative was for me to go back to prison where I was held until a few days ago.
But blogging, along with my endeavors to promote human rights, is the only outlet through which I can breathe. Without this outlet I will suffocate. I have the right to speak, write, and criticize. I have written and spoken about the truth.
I understand that I am not permitted to speak about subjects that interest me, I am not supposed to see the whole truth, and I am not supposed to write the whole truth. Once again, the government’s tone was assertive and unfaltering.
I understand that if I behave otherwise, “[You’ll] have to pay dearly, isn’t that so?” I understand clearly.
Despairing sobs have choked me and my eyes are wet with tears. My sobs have penetrated into my veins and oppressed my heart. I am full of pain and sadness, a profound and tormenting sadness, a horrible and unyielding sadness. From yesterday afternoon until now the shadow of a heavy sadness has enveloped my life. I am sick with sadness. Uttering the phrase “I can no longer do it” over and over has acutely unnerved me.
I cannot write again because I have nothing else to write and speak about – except the truth. What else is there in life to fascinate me?
I am prohibited from continuing my previous activities. I no longer have the right to write or speak about the problems of political prisoners and my former fellow prisoners. I no longer have the right to mention that Mehrdad Lahrasbi has been in jail for seven years and treated with indifference, although he never committed any crime. I no longer have the right to say that he has become ill in prison and needs to be released, even temporarily. He has no money and no one to bail him out.
I no longer have the right to recount the incidents that have happened to me or discuss how the authorities have treated me.
I no longer have permission write in my web-blog or tell the media what 45 days of solitary confinement means.
Solitary confinement means nothing but being buried alive. I have been stripped of the right to even say this, stripped of all imaginable rights.
If I write again and if I speak again, the prison walls will once again surround me. This was the warning the government wanted me to understand.
I have read somewhere that “endless joy will only come with endless courage.” I am weighing this to see if I have the courage to gain such joy. What about my mother? Her illness? Her loneliness?
Imprisonment has been a harrowing experience in my life. Since the beginning of my youth, when I was still a student, I have received hard slaps, suffered, and cried in a corner of numerous prison cells. The year 2000. The year 2001. The year 2002. The year 2005. And this year. Altogether, there have been nine months of solitary confinement and one year of regular prison. Detention Center No. 59 of the Revolutionary Guard. Ward 2. Ward 240. Tohid Prison. Detention Center No. 209. And others. The charges? Membership in the illegal group “Democratic Front,” acting as the spokesman of the illegal group “United Student Front,” taking part in an illegal political gathering, writing, speaking, and telling the truth. These are the crimes of which I have been accused. But if I try to count these crimes, interpret their meaning like philosophers, I will say I have been searching for “endless joy,” a joy that is hidden in the cocoon of truth, freedom, emancipation, and eventually happiness; an endless happiness that we all long for, a happiness that can be tasted, a warm and kind embrace, a trust.
I tried to erase my “indifference.” I made a moral choice. I thought I could distance myself from a futile life. Now I have to make another choice. The next seven or eight years of my life depend on this choice. “At least eight years of prison,” said the government, their tone assertive and unfaltering.
A sincere confession: I do not wish to return to prison. At this moment so many insurmountable difficulties exist in my life, which have robbed me of the power to make a truly free choice. But I should be even more sincere: it is true that all these difficulties – like my mother’s illness, loneliness, and the numerous problems she faces – have paralyzed my life and deprived me of a truly whole-hearted choice; perhaps this is not a convincing reason to not return to prison.
I must confess: I am tired of prison and suffering. When I was in prison, at times I felt I was an unfortunate Iranian youth. Of course, this feeling was the result of the intolerable pressures of interrogations and solitary confinement. My eyes would fill with tears, and helplessness would creep into my whole being, a kind of vacuum, a shred of doubt, a shaken will that made me hesitant. I would waver with uncertainty about the choices I had made. I would doubt the truth of the moral choices I had made. I would doubt my very existence. But then I would realize that all these misgivings were imaginary, particularly when I felt myself being crushed by the walls of my prison cell.
But now that I am outside the prison, I have no doubt as to the righteousness of what I have chosen: human rights, freedom, and justice are concepts that deserve respect and must be sought. Just like refusing to lie, or to beat one’s wife, or to steal. One must seek an honest and dignified life.
The words of the government were assertive and unfaltering.
- Kiyanoosh Sanjari
