Aadel Collection

Tell Me, Where is my Father?

          
          Azadeh Pourzaiicl
          _________ VA R SUNt AY DECEMBER30
          _ ‘
          An open letter to His Excellency Seped
          Mohammad Khatami, pr&s-ident of the Is-
          lamic Republic of Iran.
          Dear Mr. President:
          I am a 17-year-old Iranian girl. My in-
          troduction to politics came IIrough hearing
          your televised campaign interview when I
          was 12. On Election Day, I accompanied my
          parents to vote. Full of hope and great ex-
          pectations, we drove across town while roy
          father told us stories about the 1ast and my
          mother looked at IIe gathering crowds in
          IIe street wiII her writer's eyes. My sister
          boasted that she was old enough to vote, and
          I felt like becoming a political activist but
          had to struggle with my birthdate.
          When I was a year old, my father was im-
          prisoned for the first time. He was not a
          thief, he was not a smuggler, he had commit-
          ted no crime. Like so many other law-
          abiding Iranians, he became a prisoner who
          had no idea why he was in prison.
          When 1 was 6 he was hauled off to prison a
          second time. I remember banging my white
          child's shoes against the waft and shouting.
          i)on't tell me my father is traveling. He is in
          Evin Prison. Don't tell me about his roorrr,
          he is in a solitary celL” Once again he was
          freed—a thin, tired, quiet man. Once a vi-
          brant, gregarious talker, he had turned into
          a passive and indifferent listener.
          I was 15 when my mother, Mehrangiz
          Kar, a lawyer and women's rights activist,
          was imprisoned. A few months earlier, ray
          sister, Leily, had hurriedly left IIe couritiy,
          leaving all her hopes and dreams in Iran.
          Government agents, or those who pretend-
          ed to be government agents, had driven
          sleep from her eyes and peace fflom her
          heart.
          So it was that my father and I were left
          alone to keep each other company, Family
          and friends spoke of me as a strong young
          woman. Only the walls in my room shared
          my fear and frustration as I sobbed tan-
          comitrollably and banged them with my fists.
          When my mother was ffinafry released, I
          still wanted to see your smiling face and
          heat- your words on government television,
          Mr. President—_no matter that it was the
          same government television IIat had so
          recklessly distorted my mother's statements
          and slandered and insulted her.
          Not long after she had secured her release
          from prison by posting back-breaking bait,
          my mother was diagnosed with cancer. I was
          16 and could hardly wait now that I could
          vote for your election to a second term. Cast-
          inga ballot for the first time in my life was a
          thrift. I carefully wrote “Seyed Mohamrnad
          Khataini and became an adult. I am now ac-
          companying my mother, who ha traveled
          abroad to seek treatment for her illness.
          A month ago we heard IIe news of my (a-
          IIer's disappeai-ance. Mr. President, my La-
          iher, Siamak Pourzand, born Nov. 24, 1931,
          was taken by unknown agents as he was see-
          ing oL some guests at his sister's house. He
          has not been heard from since. OEe last time
          my mother and I spoke with him, he told us
          that he was being followed by men on motor-
          cycles and that he was in danger. We hadn't
          known what to do to help, and we feel help-
          less now.
          My mother sits in a corner quietly and
          waits for the phone to ring. 1 know waft that
          a cancer patient has no hope of survival if
          she is tense and agitated. I don't know what
          to do for eiIIer of my parents.
          OEis morning I woke up terrified. I had
          dreamed that an interrogator had slashed
          my father's neck, and I was running around
          hysterically trying to find a way to p him
          alive. He called me back to him saying, it is
          no use, stay with me for a few more mo-
          ments.”
          OEe road to Evin Prison has a sharp turn
          called “the repentance curve.” If I ever pass
          that road, I will repent crimes that I have not ‘
          Committed so that I will not be taken ju-
          nocent and come out guilty. My only t st
          of you, Mr. President, and fortunately . Ou
          are still president, is to make an, inquiry
          about my 7 0-year-old father's phy iIIl and
          psychological health and let me know how ‘
          he is and where he is being held. I impatiei t-
          ly await a reply from your offce.
          Tell Me, Where Is My Father?
          i espectfufty,
          d :h
          First-time voter
        
          
          5a -' c 1
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