Shirin Ebadi - The golden cage : three brothers, three choices, one destiny

Kenneth Kales, Editor and Publisher
Nathaniel Rich, Translator
Lori Lewis, Copy Editor and Proofreader
Jamie Wynne, Editorial Assistant

Cover design by Laura Klynstra
Interior design by Steven Berry

Copyright 2011 by Kales Press, Inc - USA
Text copyright 2011 by Shirin Ebadi
2008 RCS Libri S.p.A. - Milan: La Gabbia DOro

All Rights Reserved. First Edition

The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:

Ibadi, Shirin.
The golden cage : three brothers, three choices, one destiny / Shirin Ebadi.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-9798456-4-2 (alk. paper)
ISBN: 978-0-979-84567-3 (e-book)
1. Iran-Politics and government--20th century. 2. Ibadi, Shirin. 3. Women lawyers--Iran--Biography. 4. Lawyers--Iran--Biography. 5. Nobel Prize winners--Iran--Biography. I. Title.
DS316.6.I2313 2011
955.05--dc22

2011005921

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher.

Contents

If you cant eliminate injustice, at least tell everyone about it.
ALI SHARIATI

WAIT HERE, I said to my driver. Ill be back soon.

I checked the rearview mirror to make sure that my hair was still covered by my foulard, but I shouldnt have bothered: in that heat the fabric clung to my forehead. As soon as I stepped out of the car, the Khavarans torrid desert air hit me like the breath of a furnace. It was the middle of August, and the humidity was unbearable. For a split second I wanted to rush back into the air conditioning. But no, I couldnt, it was silly even to consider it. I adjusted the strap of the handbag on my shoulder and set off at a brisk pace. I passed the old Hindi and Bah tombs and approached the gathering crowd.

For them, this wasnt an unusual sight: a shapeless expanse of grass and dirt, without a fence in sight. The bodies of thousands of political dissidents, crushed beneath the blows of the Pasda-ran, had been buried here, one on top of the other, like mowed hay. Theyd been denied funerals and interment in Muslim cemeteries. They were zedd-e enghelab: counterrevolutionaries. No memorial services. If youre lucky well let you know where you can find the body. Thats all that the families of the condemned were told. The dead were discovered after weeks, even months of silence, uncertainty, and absence. Thats what had happened to Javad.

I was there for him. Although, for many years, I couldnt figure out why, I had always kept him in my heart. Him and the rest of our ruined generation, torn apart by half a century of ideological battles for the soul of my country. Noble Persia; miserable Iran. On that suffocating day I was there for Javad, from whom Id been separated by history. And I was also there for Par, Abbas, Al, and all the others. I was there to make up for the years of incomprehension and distance, to erase the words of hate and to recover other wordsthe words of our old friendships.

I joined a large group of women. They walked slowly, like a migration, from every directionmothers, wives, and sisters holding single carnations or red roses. They all had fiery expressions on their faces and they did not cry. When people die the way their children did, you can only mourn them at home.

I recognized the woman they called Mother, the spokeswoman of their grief. She pushed her way into the center of the crowd. Her sparse white hair was just visible beneath her foulard. She was about seventy years old. Her son, an engineer who had studied in America, was buried somewhere in Khavaran.

Mother slowly raised her arm and began to speak. The buzzing stopped.

Today were here to remember. We know that blood cant wash away blood. We are women, not guerrilla fighters. Wives and mothers and daughters and sisters who have already seen more than enough violence. Killing the murderers will not bring back the victims

Silence, infidel! They werent victimsthey were traitors, zedd-e enghelaband they deserved to die!

The voice reverberated in the tense air above our heads. I looked to see which woman had spoken. She was wrapped, from head to toe, in a black chador.

Wed been surrounded by women and men of the goruh-efeshar. The forces that attacked and broke up public demonstrations were once again ready to act.

We pressed together to protect ourselves, shoulder to shoulder, uncertain as to what to do. I remembered what my mother said when I left home: Shirin joon, dont go, its dangerous. It occurred to me that perhaps, next year, she would be one of those women on the bloody sands of Khavaran, remembering her daughter.

As if obeying a silent order, the goruh-e feshar lifted chains and knives into the air. They prepared to attack. Then there was only silence and the dense odor of our fear.

They launched their attack on the outermost circle. The crowd scattered. The women ran off in every direction. The few men among us were immediately seized by the lebas-shakhsi government agents in civilian dress. They beat their backs with clubs, growling, This should finally put an end to your traitorous demonstrations. Your children dont deserve any memorials. They were enemies of Allah and of Iran. You should have thought about that when you still had time. You should have taught them proper values. Its your fault theyre dead! The lebas-shakhsi dragged off their semi-conscious victims, staining the sand with thin streams of blood. Gray-haired women were sprawled all over the ground.

One of the women in chador managed to hit Mothers forehead with a stone. At the sight of the blood, as if driven mad, Mother ran forward even more frantically, despite being buffeted by blowsit was as if all the stones in the desert wouldnt stop her. Some of the others followed her example. Mother was undeterred. The rocks whizzed by her body. Cowards, she muttered, staring straight ahead.

I couldnt take so much as a single step. I felt paralyzed in front of this surreal display of violence. A woman pushed me aside; Ill never know whether she wanted to help me or if she was only trying to push me out of her way, but that awoke me from my trance. I started to run, following the unknown woman. In a confused haze I saw the faces of weakened women, I heard the metallic sound of chains, smelled the metallic odor of blood. Mother was yelling nowCowards!but her voice soon faded into the distance.

I tripped over a root, fell, got back up. Any second now I could be swept away or trampled. Or struck down by a scrum in which you couldnt distinguish friends from enemies. My heart leapt into my throat, it echoed in my brain and blotted out every thought. I ran, breathless. A man grabbed me by the arm and I blindly turned to give him a kick.

Ms. Ebadi? Its me.

It was the driver. He dragged me into the car and we drove away at full speed. Exhausted, I dried the sweat that stung my eyes and tried to calm myself. Feeling cold for the first time, I looked down and realized that in my flight Id lost my foulard. I lifted one foot onto my knee and saw that the sole was scratched and bleeding. I watched a thick drop of blood fall on the floor mat, and only then did I feel the burning sensation of my wounds.

1
Old Friendships