The Steps of Evin

If anyone had told me a year ago that by this time I would be spending my days in front of Evin waiting for the release of a friend who had been arrested on the anniversary of the revolution for having a green wristband in his pocket, I would have kindly asked them to go to hell. Iran was a strange place, but not this strange.

There I was though, in front of the Evin Detention Center, standing in the cold, and thinking how stupid of him to carry something as sensitive as that, and then how stupid of me to even think how stupid of him. But this is Iran. Something as worthless as the lint in your pocket may someday have the potential to take down the regime.

We spent the evening of 22 Bahman trying to find out where our friend – and myriads of others – had been taken. Given the circumstances, and the number of people arrested that day, he could be in any one of the detention centers in Tehran. Our only consolation was that he was arrested by the Police, and not Basij, or the IRGC. Though they are not exactly loved by the people, they are still somewhat legal in their proceedings, which increased the chance that my friend was indeed at a detention center and not in some obscure mosque. His crime was so nonsensical that I even had hope he would be released that very night.

A group of us gathered at someone’s house that evening, making calls and trying to get information, while a couple of us were out on the streets visiting detention centers, asking the guards if they knew where all the people arrested during the day had been taken. Nothing much came of any of it though, as authorities in Iran have the tendency to ignore inquiries, or simply misinform inquirers. But late in the evening, through an acquaintance of an acquaintance who knew someone who worked for the Tehran Police, we were informed that given on the location of his arrest, our friend was probably at the so-and-so detention center. We weren’t sure of the accuracy of this information but it was better than nothing. There wasn’t much else we could do until morning, so we separated.

The next day, I went for a visit to his family. They knew the story – we had told them the day before – but we all needed to put our heads together and discuss what our next steps should be. Before noon a friend called to let us know that he had heard most 22 Bahman arrestees were taken to Evin in the morning for processing. “Evin?” I asked. “Yep. Evin,” he replied, but he was not sure. He was in front of the detention center in the morning when a chain of buses came out, and he followed them all the way to Evin. Other families waiting there had done the same.

Aside from all the worry, I hated being in the dark, unsure of the most basic facts. My friend may have been on those buses, or he may not have. We weren’t even sure if he was in that detention center the night before. What now? Should we storm Evin? “Were there people on the buses or were they empty?” I asked. “How do I know? They had curtains and I couldn’t see inside. The guard said they were the 22 Bahman people. He said all 22 Bahman people were going to be taken to Evin”. That wasn’t much help either. But Evin is where other families had gone to, and that’s where we went. I grabbed a friend and we took off.

We parked somewhere near Evin prison and started walking slowly and cautiously toward the main gate. As we walked, we were trying to spot all the cameras we had heard were planted in the area, and were planning our escape route in case we were attacked by government thugs. We found none though; no cameras and no thugs. What we found instead, was a large crowd of people. Some had gathered at the top of the steps leading to Evin Detention Center’s small door, next to the main gate, and others were below in the parking lot in front, talking, smoking, laughing, asking, worrying, and consoling.

We had been there for ten minutes, when a young man tapped my shoulder. I turned. He looked very tired, and standing next to him was another tired young man. They were friends. “Can we get a couple of cigarettes from you please?” he asked. “Sure,” and I took out my pack. “Thanks man, we haven’t smoked in almost two days,” he said. “Why? Did you quit?” I asked. “No we were just released”.

“Released?!”
“Yeah, they got us yesterday morning.”
“Wow! Kudos! You guys look good. I’m surprised.”
“It wasn’t a big deal.”
“Where were you arrested?”
“Close to Tehran University. They’ve taken in so many.”
“How did they treat you?”
“Okay, I guess. Last night was bad though.”
“Where were you?”
“Enghelab Detention Center. We spent the night there and this morning they took us here for processing.”
“Did they beat you?”
“Not really. Just the regular slaps and kicks. Some of the guards were nice though. But you know detention centers. They kept us in the courtyard, in the cold, until about nine and when they let us in, we were about fifty in a small, cramped cell. They gave us very little water, and they fed us once. They threw in a pot of boiled eggs and a sack full of baked potatoes. I slept with someone’s foot in my mouth.”

What the young man meant by “regular slaps and kicks”, was the usual abuse of power Iranians in a position of authority generally display. Growing up in Iran we saw plenty of this at school, when our teachers slapped us for not knowing our poems by heart, or after being arrested for wearing short sleeves or talking to girls on the streets. You are in their hands, and a guard passes you by and feels like hitting you on the back of the head because he can, so he does.

“So not too bad then?” I asked.
“No. Most of the ones treating us badly were the young low ranking bastards from the provinces. Just enjoying their day. Some were nice in there though, especially the higher ranking ones. The judge here at Evin was nice too. When someone complained to him that they hadn’t let us take a piss since yesterday, he started yelling at the guards telling them this was not how people should be treated. So they took us outside to the courtyard and said we can do it anywhere. Can you imagine? We pissed at Evin. I’m proud of that.”
“So how come you’re here? I mean, you should be eager to get home.”
“Yeah, I’m waiting for my wife to come get me. They didn’t allow us to make any phone calls. I used someone’s cell phone just now to let her know I’m here. She’s coming.”

We smoked and talked some more. They told me the people randomly arrested on 22 Bahman were classified as “Pishgiri” (prevention), and since their “crimes” were preposterous, they thought most of them would be released soon. “It’s crazy in there too. They’ve taken so many people that there’s probably no room, and prisons are already full, so they’ll let them all out soon,” one of them told me. They also said they had been blindfolded the whole time, but they could see from the corners.

During the time I spent in front of Evin, detainees were let out in batches of three, four, five or six and sometimes more, almost every half an hour, without any of their possessions, and without any call to their families. They walked out of the small door, rubbed their eyes and squinted before getting used to the light, looking to see if there was anyone waiting for them. People cheered and applauded as soon as they appeared, patted them on the back as they walked down the steps and told them they were heroes. Some of the freed prisoners would hold the V sign and yell “Victory!”. People offered them food, water, juice, sweets, and smoke. I learned to carry all those items, but I really stocked up on cigarettes. Almost every time I asked them if they were thirsty or hungry, their response was “cigarettes…man…cigarettes.”

The most reliable information you gather in these situations comes from the families waiting outside the prison, or from the detainees themselves. The routine was that every released prisoner would take a few minutes to answer people’s questions, which were mostly about whether they had seen their loved ones or not, and if so, how they were and what kind of dossier was being cooked up for them. Some of them had to call and wait to be picked up, and in those cases we would get to talk in detail. There were also those who found themselves stranded if they were from the provinces or if their families didn’t answer. They were penniless in a neighborhood they didn’t know, but people who were leaving would offer them rides.

Most of the people who were freed in those days were from 22 Bahman. But we saw others too, some from Ashura, others from months ago. Once, I remember a man in his early thirties came out and we all gathered around him. He was calm and smiling and his eyes were a bit red. People started asking him the usual questions. He told us he didn’t know anyone. He had been in solitary confinement for two months and he only knew his cellmate’s name. Some people apologized to him for the bother and said he must be wrecked. “Not at all. It wasn’t fun, but not a big deal either. I now know I can do it again.” he said, still smiling. I watched him in awe as his family circled him and walked away, crying and laughing.

On day one, I was asking about my friend too. Some would say his name was familiar, some weren’t so sure. Late in the afternoon, a woman was released who had smuggled out a chocolate wrapper, on which about twenty people had written their names and a relative’s contact number. This was an effective method. People who were let out, would call the numbers on the list to let families know about their loved ones. My friend’s name was on the wrapper. Bingo! He was inside.

We watched about a hundred detainees come out that day, men, women, young and old. I remember they released an old woman, probably in her seventies, wearing a black Chador who had difficulty walking down the stairs. A couple of people held her hands and helped her down, as everyone else stared in silence. I think we were all quiet because we were in a state of disbelief that they would arrest someone like her too. When she got to the last step she looked up and smiled. That’s when the crowd exploded.

At about half past eleven, a guard said there will be no more releases that night. We knew our friend was inside and that was progress, and a relief. We also knew we would be going back every day as long as it took.

Everything in front of Evin was counter to my expectations. Friends and families waiting outside to hear from their loved ones were in excellent spirits. They gathered in groups, exchanged information or talked openly about politics. They recounted stories of their own exploits at this and that demonstration. One young girl told us that on 22 Bahman the Basij had stopped their car and searched them. They had found a flash stick in her handbag, and one of the Basijis excitedly reported this to “Haj Agha”, his superior. When Haj Agha arrived with a laptop, he slapped her husband in the face and proceeded to ask the girl what was on the stick. The girl had told him there were two video reports from BBC and VOA about Ayatollah Montazeri’s funeral on it. “Is this the truth?” Haj Agha asked. “Listen, if I were afraid of you, I would have said I had family photos, no?”, she had replied. The Haj Agha then asks her if he can look at the contents. She told him if he thought what they were doing was legal, she had no problem with it. “But let me also tell you that what your men did, searching a lady’s bag, is not only illegal, but also unethical,” she had said to him. Haj Agha decides against attaching the flash drive to his laptop and tells them they can go. He also asks her husband to Halal him (forgive him). They reluctantly did, but told him there is a nation of innocent people who may not. “She saved my life,” her husband added at the end.

Some people had been coming there for a while. I remember, two women, in their late forties, were talking to a worried family, consoling them with jokes and laughter. “I’ve been coming here every night for the past forty five nights,” one of them said. The other woman turned to her and replied: “Sister, I’ve been here longer than you, remember?”

Many of the people who were freed would come back the next day and wait for their loved ones to come out. After a while faces became familiar and you got to know people. The Steps of Evin was a friendly and heartwarming place. I even saw acquaintances there by chance. Invariably we greeted each other by saying “Oh my, you too?!”

It was the same with prisoners as well. They made friends inside Evin,  and I know some of them have formed groups now that gather once a week to reminisce and have a good time. I spoke to another couple of young guys and they told me they had first met on 22 Bahman when they were temporarily taken inside a shop along with other people. They were slapped and kicked by the Police while they waited for their vans to arrive. They considered themselves lucky. “While we were at the detention center, IRGC guards would come in from time to time and told everyone how lucky they were for having been arrested by the Police,” one of them was saying. “They said if you were in our hands, you wouldn’t be able to stand up now.”

When the two were leaving, one patted the other on the back and said to him: “Ok Abbas, I’ve gotta go. Until next time,” and everybody laughed.

The management and processing at Evin was ridiculous at times. At one point, we heard from someone who was released that there was a group of people behind her, who were turned back and locked up for the night. We asked why, and she said: “Their release papers were signed and they were good to go. They even came to the door with me, but suddenly a fight broke out between the guards, and they sent them back in.”

“What do you mean a fight broke out between the guards?” I asked.
“It’s chaos in there. One of them started shouting and asking why these people were being released. Another shouted back saying so-and-so has said. Then the new judge, who was just starting his shift, came in and said they should take them all back in until he sees their files.”

Many people who came out of Evin, were telling us that we should see the women inside. “They are lionesses,” they said. They told us women were demanding, aggressive and rowdy, didn’t mind the circumstances much and kept talking and laughing as loudly as they could. They would even make fun of the guards and give them a hard time. One detainee told me he was sitting on the floor in a hallway along with several other men. They were quiet and facing the floor. A guard came in and told them laughingly, “You should be ashamed sitting here like this. Go and learn from the women. They’re driving us nuts!”

On one of the nights, a detainee came out who told us that some women were so loose with their Hejabs even in Evin, that one of the judges had stopped their release and ordered them to be taken to the Vozara detention center for the night to teach them a lesson. About half an hour later, we saw a bus drive by and go up to the main gate and inside Evin. Its curtains were drawn and we couldn’t see inside, but we were sure it had come to take those women. Another half hour went by, and the bus came out of the gate, again with its curtains drawn, drove a few meters and stopped at the street. We cautiously started walking toward it to see if we can take a peek inside, feeling sorry for all those poor women. The driver rolled down his window and waved to us to come closer. We were surprised a bit at this. Some people started to turn away when the bus driver yelled, “Come, I tell you. Don’t be scared.” He told us he had been called to take about fifty people to Vozara, but they hadn’t transferred anyone to him. “I’m going back empty. Look.” We looked through his window and it was empty. “I’m going back empty,” he said again, smiling. “Tell everyone not to worry, they’ll all be released,” he said and took off. It was surreal for an Evin bus driver to behave this way I thought, but again, this is Iran.

I don’t know how many people were arrested on 22 Bahman, but judging from what people who were coming out of Evin were saying, the number ran into the thousands. Some of the detainees had heard from the guards that the Police, IRGC and Basij were given orders to arrest anyone whose face they didn’t like. They had even seen pro-Ahmadinejad people detained in Evin.

They were taken to temporary detention centers, and were processed there in the afternoon. A file was created for each, with pieces of relevant evidence attached to it. Some had little green threads stapled to them, others had posters and flyers. In cases with larger material such as flags, or harder material such as knives, they would be sitting next to the files.

Rows of tables were set up with interrogators sitting behind them, and each detainee was questioned swiftly and moved to the end for a judge to decide on his or her file. The process took between five to ten minutes. They were then sent to Evin for further processing where they went through a similar procedure. They were asked whether they had e-mail, or ran any websites, whether they were political, and if they had lived abroad or had relatives outside Iran. Their faces would also be compared to pictures of people from the Ashura protests, and if they matched they were taken away. From all I heard, there were two matches. The detainees who told me this agreed that those poor people barely looked like the ones from the pictures, but they were taken away anyway.

One of the strangest bits that I heard from many prisoners was about an amusing questionnaire they were asked to fill out during their interrogation. I didn’t meet anyone who answered anything incorrectly. Some of the questions were:

Who did you vote for?
a) Ahmadinejad c) Mousavi  d) Karroubi  e) Rezaee

Do you think there has been cheating in the elections?
a) Yes    b) No

Who do you think is responsible for the riots?
a) The Supreme Leader b) Ahmadinejad c) Mousavi d) Karroubi e) Provocateurs

If the elections are repeated who do you think will win?
a) Ahmadinejad c) Mousavi  d) Karroubi  e) Rezaee

Whose fault is it that you are here?
a) Mousavi b) Ahmadinejad c) Myself d) The regime.

How many people do you think are part of the green movement?
a) 20,000 b) 50,000 c) 100,000 d) 150,000

May of the detainees I spoke to believed most of the judges and guards they met during their ordeal were green. They just couldn’t express it. “You could see it in the way they looked at you,” they said. One person told me he had seen a judge throw away evidence pertaining to some of the cases. We spoke to a girl who had been arrested with a pack of green T-shirts who was sure she’d be staying at Evin for a long time. But she was released because the judge had tossed the shirts out. On another occasion, a man was released who had been arrested with a poster of Karroubi. The judge had looked at the poster, crumpled it and thrown it into a trash can saying, “There’s no need for this.”

Some were saying that the judges and the prison guards were tired and angry also. They had been called to do double shifts for ridiculous cases and it didn’t sit well with them. One prisoner told us that some of the guards were begging them not to come to the streets anymore.

One Ashura detainee told me it seemed the Police were careful to follow the law in processing people. They were kept for twenty four hours at a temporary detention center and they were then given a paper to sign which allowed the authorities to transfer them to Evin and keep them there for thirty days. When I asked him why he signed, he told me the conditions in the detention center were so bad that most people didn’t want to spend another night there. Besides, they didn’t know where they were and felt insecure. They thought they could disappear and no one would ever know about them, so signing something and getting registered at Evin would leave evidence of their detention and was a good option.

Finally, one of the people who stepped outside turned out to be my friend. When he came out, he was blinking and getting used to the light, like everyone else. We hugged, I shed some tears, he answered people’s questions, and then we walked him to the car. On his way out he was told by a guard to be careful because his phone would be under surveillance for forty days.

While our friend was answering questions, a young man, maybe eighteen or nineteen years of age, who had also been released asked us if he could use someone’s phone to call his family and we gave him a phone. No one answered. He didn’t know the area and asked me where he could find a cab. “Nowhere near this place, but I can get you to a cab,” I said.

“You don’t have money though. Where do you need to go?” I asked him.
“Varamin.”
“That’s outside Tehran. I can’t give you a ride there.”
“It’s okay. I can take the metro too, I’ll be fine after that.”
“No problem. Let’s go then.”

The metro station was far and in the car I asked him about his story. He had been arrested near Sadeghiyeh and he had been carrying a knife.

“What kind of knife?” I asked him.

“A huge one. Everyone in the evidence room was asking whose it was when they saw it, and I had to raise my hand. They all nodded and said I’m in as big a trouble as the knife.”
“So carrying a knife and a wristband legally have the same weight in our judicial system.”
“I was slapped a lot and I didn’t think they’d let me out, but somehow they did.”

When we got to the metro station, we gave him some money to cover his trip back home. He kept thanking everyone and saying he was ashamed to take the money. I got out of the car and gave him a hug.

“Just be more careful…and never take a weapon with you again. You got lucky this time. Remember: Peaceful.”