Ebadi - Until we are free : my fight for human rights in Iran
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Until we are free : my fight for human rights in Iran: summary, description and annotation
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For years the Islamic Republic tried to intimidate Ebadi, but after Mahmoud Ahmadinejad rose to power in 2005, the censorship and persecution intensified. The government wiretapped Ebadis phones, bugged her law firm, sent spies to follow her, harassed her colleagues, detained her daughter, and arrested her sister on trumped-up charges. It shut down her lectures, fired up mobs to attack her home, seized her offices, and nailed a death threat to her front door. Despite finding herself living under circumstances reminiscent of a spy novel, nothing could keep Ebadi from speaking out and standing up for human dignity.
But it was not until she received a phone call from her distraught husbandand he made a shocking confession that would all but destroy her familythat she realized what the intelligence apparatus was capable of to silence its critics. The Iranian government would end up taking everything from Shirin Ebadiher marriage, friends, and colleagues, her home, her legal career, even her Nobel Prizebut the one thing it could never steal was her spirit to fight for justice and a better future. This is the amazing, at times harrowing, simply astonishing story of a woman who would never give up, no matter the risks. Just as her words and deeds have inspired a nation, Until We Are Free will inspire you to find the courage to stand up for your beliefs.
Praise for Until We Are Free
Ebadi recounts the cycle of sinister assaults she faced after she won the Nobel Prize in 2003. Her new memoir, written as a novel-like narrative, captures the precariousness of her situation and her determination to stand firm.The Washington Post
Powerful . . . Although [Ebadis] memoir underscores that a slow change will have to come from within Iran, it is also proof of the stunning effects of her nonviolent struggle on behalf of those who bravely, and at a very high cost, keep pushing for the most basic rights.The New York Times Book Review
Shirin Ebadi is quite simply the most vital voice for freedom and human rights in Iran.Reza Aslan, author of No god but God and Zealot
Shirin Ebadi writes of exile hauntingly and speaks of Iran, her homeland, as the poets do. Ebadi is unafraid of addressing the personal as well as the political and does both fiercely, with introspection and fire.Fatima Bhutto, author of The Shadow of the Crescent Moon
I would encourage all to read Dr. Shirin Ebadis memoir and to understand how her struggle for human rights continued after winning the Nobel Peace Prize. It is also fascinating to see how she has been affected positively and negatively by her Nobel Prize. This is a must read for all.Desmond Tutu
A revealing portrait of the state of political oppression in Iran . . . [Ebadi] is an inspiring figure, and her suspenseful, evocative story is unforgettable.Publishers Weekly (starred review)
Ebadis courage and strength of character are evident throughout this engrossing text.Kirkus Reviews
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Copyright 2016 by Shirin Ebadi
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Random House, an imprint and division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
R ANDOM H OUSE and the H OUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Grateful acknowledgment is made to Sara Khalili for permission to reprint an extract from the poem My Country, I Shall Build You Again by Simin Behbahani, translated by Sara Khalili. Translation Sara Khalili. Reprinted by permission of Sara Khalili.
L IBRARY OF C ONGRESS C ATALOGING-IN- P UBLICATION D ATA
Names: Ibd, Shrn., author.
Title: Until we are free : my fight for human rights in Iran / Shirin Ebadi.
Description: New York : Random House, 2016.
Identifiers: LCCN 2015027147 | ISBN 9780812998870 (hardback : acid-free paper) | ISBN 9780812998887 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Ibd, Shrn. | Women lawyersIranBiography. | LawyersIranBiography. | Women human rights workersIranBiography. | Women judgesIranBiography. | Women Nobel Prize winnersIranBiography. | BISAC: BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Personal Memoirs. | POLITICAL SCIENCE / Political Freedom & Security / General.
Classification: LCC KMH110.I23 A3 2016 | DDC 323.092dc23 LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015027147
eBook ISBN9780812998887
randomhousebooks.com
Book design by Liz Cosgrove, adapted for eBook
Cover design and illustration: the BookDesigners
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ep
And the wrongdoers will soon know to what place of return they shall return.
The Holy Koran 26:227
I know how men in exile feed on dreams.
Aeschylus
I was restless. The evening was like any other, dinner at my brothers house, but I felt an anxiety I could not identify. The room was stuffy, the lamps too bright, the children louder than usual. I stepped onto the balcony for some fresh air and watched clouds darken the sky. There was a loud crack; then the rain Tehran so badly needed began to wash the toxic smog out of the air. Though it was April, and the wind should have cleared the winter pollution, I had been having a hard time breathing outside. A government official had recently said that living in a city with such poisonous air was akin to mass suicide.
For weeks now, I had been working on a report about the governments executions of children. Every other nation on earth had stopped routinely executing minors, but Iran regularly imposed the death penalty on children for a range of crimes, from murder to manslaughter in self-defense. In 2004, the authorities sentenced a sixteen-year-old girl to death for premarital sex, or crimes against chastity. The judge himself reputedly acted as executioner, leading the schoolgirl to the noose, blindfolding her, and motioning for the crane to hoist her from the ground. Her body hung from the crane for nearly an hour, her black chador swaying in the breeze. The state didnt want any attention brought to these executions, especially internationally, but my colleagues and I had worked hard to show a pattern of such sentencing. It was perhaps the boldest report we had ever produced, and we were due to share it with the United Nations, where we knew the Islamic Republic would face condemnation. It was that, I told myself, that was making me uneasy. If I could be back at home with a cup of tea, the report in my hand, reviewing the language and checking the details, my mind would settle.
I decided to head home early, and said goodbye to my brother and his family. The streets were mostly empty and the air smelled of exhaust and rotten leaves and rainwater as I climbed into my car. Pulling away from the curb, I noticed a mural on the side of a building, shining under a streetlamp, baiting America and the West: Sanction us; well cope.
The roads were silent except for the rain under my tires. I turned onto my street, a quiet lane. No one was out in the downpour, and the sidewalk felt even more isolated than usual. My husband, Javad, was not at home, and our windows were dark. I thought about the report waiting inside, on my desk, and its horrible depictions of children hanging from cranes. I fingered the keys in my pocket anxiously. Minding the puddles, and looking nervously over my shoulder, I didnt see the note until it was directly before me. There, thumbtacked to my front door, was a message on white paper from someone who had been watching me:
If you go on as you are now, we will be forced to end your life. If you value it, stop slandering the Islamic Republic. Stop all this noise you are making outside the country. Killing you is the easiest thing we could do.
The story of Iran is the story of my life. Sometimes I wonder why I am so attached to my country, why the outline of Tehrans Alborz Mountains is as intimate and precious to me as the curve of my daughters face, and why I feel a duty to my nation that overwhelms everything else. I remember when so many of my friends and relatives began leaving the country in the 1980s, disheartened by the bombs raining down from the war with Iraq and by the morality police checkpoints set up by the still new Islamic government. While I did not judge anyone for wanting to leave, I could not fathom the impulse. Did one leave the city where ones children had been born? Did one walk away from the trees in the garden one planted each year, even before they bore pomegranates and walnuts and scented apples?
For me, this was unthinkable. When I walked into the countrys highest court and the new revolutionary authorities told me that women could no longer be judges, I stayed. I stayed when the authorities demoted me to clerk in the same court I had presided over as a judge. I shut my ears when the revolutionaries who had taken over the justice system talked in my presence about how women were fickle and indecisive and unfit to mete out justice, which would now be the work of men. I stayed as the Iraqi warplanes bombed houses on our street to rubble. I stayed when the new authorities said Islam demanded violent justice, that Islam allowed for young men and women to be executed on rooftops and hung from cranes for their political beliefs, their bodies dumped in mass graves.
In the same way that I did not leave Iran, I did not leave Islam, either. If we all packed our suitcases and boarded planes, what would be left of our country? If we bowed our heads and stayed quietly at home, permitting them to say that Islam allowed the assassination of writers and the execution of teenagers, what would be left of our faith?
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