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Starlribunecom MINNEAPOLIS - ST. PAUL, MINNESOTA
With absence of lawyers, Iran prisoner families forced to
handle complicated bureaucracy
By SCHEHEREZADE FARAMARZI, Associated Press
September 19, 2009
BEIRUT - The middle-aged woman demanded to know the fate of her daughter, Fariba
Pajooh, who had been picked up by three Intelligence Ministry agents a few days earlier.
“She will be with us for a few days,” the prosecutor told her calmly. “Don't worry, she's in a
good place.”
“What's the charge against her?” the mother wanted to know.
“It's said she had some foreign connection,” the prosecutor replied vaguely.
More than a month later, 29-year-old reformist journalist Pajooh is still in jail, along with
thousands of others in Iran, and her mother still doesn't know why. Her mother spoke to
The Associated Press in a telephone interview from Tehran on condition that she be
referred to as Mrs. Pajooh to protect herself.
Mrs. Pajooh, her husband, her brother and the prisoner's husband take turns every day to
visit the General Prosecutor's Office, or Dadsara, in the hope of finding some clue as to
why their loved one was arrested Aug. 28 and whether she would be released anytime
soon. Their ordeal offers a glimpse into the attempts of thousands of families to find
loved ones who were detained in the crackdown following the disputed June 12
presidential election.
Often without lawyers, an accountable system or rule of law, families are forced to handle
the nightmare of a complicated legal bureaucracy on their own. They very rarely have any
information about the whereabouts, health or conditions of their loved ones. And the
prisoners themselves are denied medical care and legal representation and do not even
know on what charges they have been arrested.
Fariba Pajooh's lawyer Nemat Ahmadi has not yet seen his client. Ahmadi was out of
town when Fariba was arrested. When he returned a week later, there was not much he
could do.
“If there was at least a trusted intermediary, such as a lawyer, who would assure us that
Fariba is okay, would tell us not to worry and that her case is taking its legal course, then
we'd be fine. We wouldn't be in the dark,” said Mrs. Pajooh, 45.
On Aug. 28 at 7:30 p.m., three officials from the Ministry of Intelligence came to Pajooh's
home. They searched the house and half an hour later left with Fariba.
As soon as they left, Mrs. Pajooh, whose husband was out of town, ran to call Fariba's
husband from a public phone lest her home phone was bugged. Then the four of them —
her son-in-law, younger daughter and son - cried until I in the morning.
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Friends advised her to keep calm, and to get word out to channels that were holding
Fariba to show she had family looking for her. Fariba's husband went to see a
conservative member of parliament for advice. The family got in touch with other friends
and acquaintances, anyone they thought might have some influence.
Two days after the arrest, the family received first word from their daughter. Three
women had seen Fariba brought to the Dadsara that morning. Fariba had told them she
was in solitary confinement in Section 209 of the Evin Prison, controlled by the
Intelligence Ministry.
She also allegedly said she was being pressured to confess to espionage and immoral
behavior and that she had been threatened with execution if she refused. But her lawyer
Ahmadi said there was no way to substantiate such a claim, and no charges had yet been
leveled against Fariba.
Fariba, who wrote for reformist publications, including the newspaper of presidential
reformist candidate Mahdi Karroubi, and translated for Western reporters, had traveled a
few times abroad with government permission.
“They usually tag an immorality label on women as evidence of extramarital relationship,”
said Hamid Reza, a close relative of Fariba's.
“Things that are normally considered positive - being sociable and making friends easily
— are used as negative traits against prisoners. Fariba is an extremely kind and friendly
person. They claim to have listened on to her phone conversations as proof of her
promiscuity. Maybe they want to frame someone else and destroy him and are using
Fariba as a scapegoat,” said the relative.
Lawyers advised Mrs. Pajooh to go to the Dadsara, where files of all political prisoners
are kept, to pursue her daughter's case. She didn't go until four days after the arrest
because she didn't know who to see.
Now when she enters the building, she shows her ID, is given a piece of paper and heads
to the Security Office on the third floor.
“When you get there, the prosecutor that you have to see may not be there or might be in
a meeting or very busy,” said Mrs. Pajooh. “So you sit and wait.”
“You're not treated bad, they only stall you,” Mrs. Pajooh said. “They keep up
appearances, so I can't say they're rude or insulted me or have thrown me out of the
room. No. They speak to me with respect. They say hello and ask how I am, and even
welcome me to the room. But in practice, it's futile going there; you don't get a clear
answer.”
Reza, Fariba's relative, said the officials at the Dadsara give false hope to families by
telling them there's no need to follow up on the cases of their loved ones, and not to say
anything to anyone.
Despite its futility, Mrs. Pajooh keeps going there.
“We have a system in Iran that whenever they tell you ‘no', it actually means ‘yes.' So you
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have to go. Usually if you pursue something, persist in it and keep going — as long as
you don't provoke him — it's effective,” she explained. “Maybe if he sees I'm not giving
up, he might look into her case... or at least he may not extend her detention.”
Besides, when she goes to Dadsara she sees numerous other families who are going
through the same ordeal. “We comfort each other,” she said.
It wasn't until Sept. 7, 10 days after her arrest, that Fariba was allowed to call her family.
“I am good; don't worry about me,' was all she could say,” said Mrs. Pajooh. When her
sister told her that her mother had been crying nonstop since her arrest, Fariba burst into
tears.
“I grabbed the phone and tried to calm her down. I told her not to dwell much on what's
happening, that it'll pass and only the memory of it will stay,” Mrs. Pajooh said.
Fariba asked her family to get word out to the world about her arrest.
She called again Sept. 13. She was crying again because she was missing her family.
She told them she was still in solitary confinement.
Mrs. Pajooh tried to visit her daughter at Evin Prison, but was told those in solitary are not
allowed to receive visitors.
“It's more than a month that our lives have turned upside down,” said Mrs. Pajooh. “I can't
do my work. The most I can do is sit in front of the computer and check the Web sites.
Fariba's face comes in front of my eyes. Nothing is important to me anymore.
“When I look at the walls and the hills of Evin, I can't help but wonder that my child is
behind those walls and under those hills,” said Mrs. Pajooh. “We as parents are also
captives.”
© 2009 Star Tribune. All rights reserved.
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