During my time in prison, I encountered numerous women who had endured years of unimaginable hardships, including domestic violence, rape, discrimination, and pervasive gender inequality. Their stories of suffering were often kept concealed, hidden from the outside world. Upon my release from prison, I felt compelled to shed light on their experiences, as some of these women had confided in me, sharing their haunting memories of inequality. Among those whose story resonated deeply with me was Iran Mousavi, the mother of Babak Khorramdin. She found herself accused of complicity in her husband's heinous act—the murder of their own son. It was in the confines of Qarchak prison that I had the chance to meet her, where her heart-wrenching tale unfolded before me.

In the newspapers, I came across the tragic tale of Babak Khoramdin's dreadful demise. The heart-wrenching news had gripped everyone's attention, as they mourned the loss of this 47-year-old man. It was a sorrowful account of how his own parents had betrayed him, drugging him unknowingly before ruthlessly stabbing him to death.

The chilling truth unraveled that Babak had discovered the horrifying fate of his sister, Arezou, and her husband, who had fallen victim to his parents' malevolence before him. The extent of the cruelty inflicted upon their own family was simply unimaginable.

One afternoon, as I made my way back from the prison's workshop, I sensed an unusual commotion among the prisoners. Among them, I noticed an elderly, frail woman. She was “Iran.” The prisoners were showing her a photograph from the newspapers, inquiring if the person standing beside Babak was her. She responded with a trembling voice, denying that it was her in the picture, stating that she was her husband's concubine. Fear and immense pressure weighed heavily on her fragile shoulders.

In Qarchak prison, there were eight wards, each housing prisoners based on their crimes. Unfortunately, none of the wards were willing to accommodate Iran. Even the so-called "health wards," where mothers and their children, as well as elderly individuals and non-smokers, were kept, rejected her presence. The prisoners' voices echoed with anger, expressing their disbelief that a mother could kill her own child.

In a desperate attempt to quell the unrest, the warden temporarily assigned Iran to our ward, housing political prisoners. However, our ward also protested this decision fiercely. Amid heated arguments, Iran's belongings were unceremoniously thrown into the hallway by her roommate, who then forced her out of the room. That night, Iran had no choice but to sleep in the prayer room.

My heart went out to Iran, and I decided to seek help from the warden, despite his indifferent demeanor. However, he claimed his hands were tied, as no ward was willing to accept Iran. Refusing to stand idly by, I offered to take responsibility for her and have her in my room, even if it meant facing the prisoners' protests head-on. Reluctantly, the warden agreed to my proposal.

Back in the ward, I turned to my roommate and good friend, Noushin Jafari, a fellow political prisoner, for assistance. She was the only one who sincerely offered help and stood by my side. Noushin prepared a bed for Iran, provided her with fresh clothes, and filled her food box with care. Meanwhile, I took Iran for a bath. I took her clothes off and bathed her. I shaved her armpits and massaged her body. Iran was unable to stand and wash herself. Iran broke into tears. In the midst of her tears, Iran questioned why I was being kind when everyone else treated her with contempt. I reassured her, saying that I couldn't pass judgment until I heard her side of the story firsthand.

After the bath, Iran sat quietly in a corner of the prison yard, gazing at the sun. I threaded her face and she became beautiful like the sun.

Together, Noushin and I made sure Iran was able to rest without facing intrusive questions from fellow prisoners or prison guards, giving her some respite from the unbearable stress surrounding Babak's tragic murder.

In time, Iran gradually opened up to us, and for hours on end, Noushin and I listened intently to her heart-wrenching story. She poured out her emotions, sharing memories of Babak and Arzou as she wept.

During the nights, fear consumed her, dreading the possibility of her husband's malevolent presence, haunting her even behind bars. I tried to reassure her, reminding her that he was confined to a men's prison, far from her reach, and that she was safe.

However, our support for Iran came at a cost. Other prisoners targeted us with both verbal assaults and physical aggression. They questioned why we would stand by someone accused of such a heinous crime as child murder. Yet, despite the barrage of insults and attacks, Noushin and I remained steadfast in our determination to help her.

In an effort to offer some solace, I shared Forough Farrokhzad's book with Iran, encouraging her to read some poetry aloud. Despite her modest literacy, she humbly agreed to read for us, embracing the comfort of words that transcended the confines of the prison walls.

“Do not put the lock of silence on my lips,

As I have an untold story in my heart.

…

Come on, you selfish creature

Come open the cage doors

You put me in prison for a lifetime

Leave me this one breath.

Do not put the lock of silence on my lips

That I have to tell my secret

I have to bring the fiery echo of my song

To the ears of the people of the world.”

As Iran read the words, her emotions would often overwhelm her, causing pauses as tears streamed down her cheeks. Her presence intrigued me, a mysterious aura surrounding her. Her eyes were captivating, her hands delicate, yet her face betrayed the weight of sorrow and unspoken pain. I yearned to unravel the secrets she held within.

Throughout the day, we conversed, but I sensed her fear whenever her husband's name came up. Fear had tightly gripped her, suppressing her voice and trapping her in silence. My aim was to help her break free, to assure her that she was safe, and that speaking out would not bring harm upon her.

And finally, she found the courage to speak. Her tale was one of horror and brutality, subjected to domestic violence and unspeakable torture since the early days of her marriage. Her husband's cruel actions, tying her hands and feet while inflicting both physical and sexual abuse, were hauntingly recounted. Shockingly, she revealed that he found solace in inflicting such pain upon her. “It brought peace to his soul,” she told me. “I was young and did not have the power to defend myself.  I thought I deserved the cruelty that was done to me. I thought I deserved to be beaten.”

Iran also told me about her daughter, Arezou. When Arzou was young, Iran would leave her at the house with her father to visit her mother or go shopping. Arezou had confided in her mother, sharing that her father would mistreat and harm her when she was alone. ”Mom, when you leave the house, dad bothers me and does bad things to me.” Initially, Iran dismissed her daughter's claims, “I grounded her,” Iran said. “After a while Arezou became withdrawn and depressed and I realized I was wrong. I argued with Arezou’s father for Arezou. He threatened to divorce me or kill me, and I had to keep silent.”

Tears continued to flow as she confessed to feeling trapped and frightened, with nowhere to turn. “I was captured by my jailer,” Iran said.

"Why didn't you speak up about the rape and the mistreatment during your trial? Why did you confess to cooperating with him?" I gently asked, seeking to understand her circumstances.

Her response was laden with terror, explaining that her husband had threatened her life, as he had done to her daughter and son, Arezou and Babak. The chilling reality of their deaths echoed in her words.

It deeply troubled me that no one seemed to lend a helping hand to women like Iran, overshadowed by the media's focus on the horrifying deaths of Arezou and Babak. The violence and cruelty inflicted upon Iran and Arezou were seemingly ignored, casualties of a patriarchal system perpetuated by an anti-women government.

Desperate for support, Iran turned to me, seeking assistance in sharing her voice with the world. She had reached a breaking point, tired of enduring judgments and insults. Encouraging her to find strength, I emphasized the importance of her story, how it could inspire other women to break their silence and rally against inequality and violence.

With no phone card of her own, Iran used mine to record her voice. This time, the goal was clear—to focus solely on Iran's narrative, allowing people to make a more realistic judgment. I aimed to amplify the voices of the oppressed women within the prison, knowing it would stir courage within our society.

As her story went public, the prison guards swiftly pursued Iran, interrogating her about how she managed to get her words out. The prosecutor demanded answers from Qarchak prison, determined to maintain control. However, I stood by Iran, reminding her that she had done what she should have years ago, urging her to fear nothing.

In response to her newfound courage, Iran was transferred to quarantine, an attempt to separate her from me and the political prisoners. The conditions in the quarantine ward were harsh, unsuitable for an elderly woman like her. Worried for her well-being, I discreetly inquired about her situation, learning that she was struggling to eat or sleep, constantly calling out for me.

These were trying days, as they sought to wield their power against an elderly, vulnerable woman. But their fear was evident; they dreaded our courage, our united voices challenging their oppressive rule.

Soon enough, I was summoned by the security, who stressed that Iran had no one but me to assist her. I confronted the prison warden, questioning their anger and the transfer of Iran to another ward. I emphasized that she hadn't spoken about politics or insulted any sanctities, merely sharing her story of sexual abuse inflicted by her husband.

I questioned their treatment of Iran, denying her basic rights even as a prisoner, leaving her to suffer on her own. But as soon as her voice reached the public, they suddenly remembered her existence.

To me, Iran represented my homeland—beautiful yet wounded by the aggression and tyranny imposed upon it. The oppressors feared the cries of the people, of Iranians who had grown fearless and now shouted in unison: Woman! Life! Freedom!