Nasrin Parvaz
Biography: Nasrin
Parvaz was born
in February 1958 in Tehran. She first came to the UK in
1978, at the age of 20, to study. When the revolution broke out the following
year, she returned for a brief visit to her family little realising that it
would be 15 years before she would come to Britain
again as an exile. In post-revolutionary Iran
she became active in the field of women’s rights and civil rights, as a result
of which she was arrested in 1982. She
was tortured and sentenced to execution. Her life was saved through the
intervention of her father, who managed to get her sentence commuted to
imprisonment. She was released in 1990 after spending eight years in prison. For Nasrin's complete biography click here.
A Life Worth Living
One Thursday at noon,
when we all were eating our lunch,
the guard called Pari’s name over the loud
speaker, and asked her to get ready for
interrogation.
Though the food wasn’t much, I couldn’t finish it
and went to the corridor to see her before she left.
I saw her ready to go,
talking to people and kissing them goodbye.
She had the same beautiful
confident smile on her lips.
Her thick hair was plaited
with a red ribbon; and her thick eye lashes seemed blacker.
I had to stand on tip toe
to kiss her cheek, which had
a mole on it that looked unreal, like a beauty spot.
A month before that, when I was walking about in the yard,
Pari came and asked if she could stroll about with me.
I felt she was sad, though she laughed as
usual. I asked if she was upset over something.
‘Yes. Before they execute me,
I'd like to tell you something
but I don't know how you will react.’
I looked at her. Nothing was worse
than collaborating, which she didn't do,
so why was she so worried?
‘When I was arrested, I was shocked.
They took me directly to the torture chamber
and started beating me.
They wanted my contact
and I told them where
they could find her.’
Pari blew her nose and wiped her tears.
I felt I couldn't walk and asked to sit.
We sat in a corner and her tears flowed.
Prisoners were walking mostly alone and I had
a feeling of being seated in a forest of legs.
‘I know what I have done. I know
that execution will also not wipe away my mistake.
But it will put an end to feelings of shame and guilt
that are eating me up.’
Crying didn't give her refuge.
‘But you didn't do it on purpose. If they
hadn't tortured you, you would never have given
her name. You must look at it as a mistake. Otherwise,
before they kill you, you will go mad.
Look at yourself and the others.
You are self-confident and self-assured.
Look at them; they walk like the dead,
pulling themselves along.'
With a tearful voice Pari said:
‘But she too has been sentenced
to execution. I have caused her death.’
Pari cried, and I felt suffocated.
I didn't know what to say.
I tried to give her solace.
She became a bit better and that beautiful laughter
appeared on her face again.
I asked her to plait my hair like hers,
since I didn't know how to do it.
She did it for me, teaching me
as she went along.
Now,
on that Thursday afternoon,
we all knew what interrogation meant for her.
Because she was called by her interrogator the day before,
and was told
instead of execution, she would be sentenced
to fifteen years of imprisonment, if she condemned
her political activities.
She said no to their proposal.
When she came back from the interrogation,
she told everyone what their proposal and her answer were.
No one,
none of the prisoners,
none of her friends told her to do a false confession and stay alive.
She slept late that night,
and talked with various people
about the necessity of dying for her beliefs.
As if she was looking for someone,
to tell her that her life was more important
than a confession show; or that
she had to stay alive for her little child,
and her lover. Perhaps every time
she talked about it, she was asking
for an opposite view, but no one confronted her.
No one told her that her life was worth more
than her pride; as if everyone wanted her to be
executed. We all saw the confession
as a sign of weakness, not a sign of oppression.
We wanted to play
the role of the hero in that barbaric theatre
of power relation. Or perhaps
waiting for our turn to be executed
had made us numb and indifferent
to see someone going to her death.
She had no choice than to leave her fate
in the hands of the regime;
and the regime wanted her dead.
On that Thursday afternoon
she had her most beautiful dress on.
We kissed her in silence, to prevent
our tears flowing.
Walking erect towards her execution,
she wished us ‘Stay Alive’ and blew a kiss for us
before disappearing.
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