Memoirs of Political Prisoners

An Excerpt from the Memoirs of Ayatollah Makarem Shirazi

Selected by: Faezeh Sasani-khah
Translated by: Kianoush Borzouei

2024-12-10

It was night. The air had grown cold and dark. An army truck was parked beside the gendarmerie in Qom, waiting for me and two other gentlemen. Each of us was assigned two armed guards. Given the extreme unrest in Qom, they seemed eager to get us out of the city as quickly as possible.

When we arrived at the Qom-Arak highway checkpoint with our six armed escorts, snow began to fall. We had to wait there until a passing vehicle could take each of us to our designated destinations. We suggested staying in the police station's dormitory until the transit vehicle arrived. However, the officer in charge, visibly unsettled, refused and insisted we remain in the truck. He even brandished his sidearm, threatening us.

The canvas covering the truck’s roof and sides was torn, allowing snow and biting winds to penetrate the truck’s dim confines. The temperature likely dropped to 10 degrees below zero. The guards would take turns stepping out to warm themselves in the police station, but I could feel my hands and feet gradually freezing and becoming numb. We were willing to step out and walk in the snow to keep our blood from freezing, but they would not permit it. Ultimately, we resolved to move our hands and feet constantly inside the truck to stave off frostbite. I will never forget how the discomfort of that night lingered in one of my hands for a long time.

Hours later, when we finally boarded a bus heading to Isfahan, I could feel my body—on the verge of freezing—gradually coming back to life. Despite the visible dread the passengers harbored toward the armed guards accompanying us, especially after recognizing me, they didn’t hold back their sympathy. This scene offered them many lessons.

The order was clear: travel swiftly, avoid stopping in cities, and, if necessary, only transfer from one vehicle to another at police checkpoints. After midnight, we reached Isfahan, where permission was granted to continue to Yazd in a passenger car. The treacherous and lengthy Malahmad Pass was shrouded in snow and dense fog, leaving the route barely traversable. Yet, our escorts insisted we proceed.

At one point, the situation became so perilous that we could neither advance nor retreat. That night, we came to the brink of death, but by God’s grace, we survived. After significant effort, we arrived in Yazd and continued our journey without delay.

Later that night, while traveling from Bam to Iranshahr, we lost our way and became stranded on an unmarked path. Darkness enveloped everything. Not a soul was in sight. We were left considering our options when, by chance, a distant light appeared. It turned out to be a bus traveling the same incorrect path. There was concern that the driver might ignore our signals to stop. One of the two guards—by now a comrade of sorts, as we had begun to build rapport—remarked, "This is where the weapon comes in handy." He jumped out, rifle in hand, and flagged down the bus.

The driver and passengers were startled, fearing the worst. Their relief was palpable when they realized we merely sought directions. We eventually discovered we had mistakenly taken the dirt road leading from Zahedan to Iranshahr. The inexperienced bus driver resisted retracing the route, but I insisted, particularly since the threat of running out of fuel loomed large. (It’s worth noting that even on some major highways in this region, there isn’t a single gas station for 350 kilometers.) Moreover, nearly 30 hours of continuous travel without rest or sleep had left my nerves frayed. The guards supported my suggestion, reasoning that “His Excellency’s experience surpasses ours,” and we turned back to Bam.

I’ll spare you the details of our ordeal—dealing with a flat tire on our broken-down vehicle, lacking a spare, and getting caught in a sandstorm en route to Iranshahr. Whatever the case, after nearly 50 hours of travel, we finally reached Chabahar, the furthest point of the country, on the shores of the Gulf of Oman near the Pakistani border. Exhausted, battered, and in poor health, I found myself repeatedly reflecting on the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and the commemorative day and week we had assigned to it. It became evident that even our guards harbored deep frustrations with the situation, yet, as they confessed, saw no escape from it.

Despite the snow falling elsewhere and the fact that it was February, we drank cold water in Chabahar. Non-native residents used fans and even air conditioners at times, while the locals—mostly Baluchi people—declared it to be cold weather. For them, true heat occurred when sweat dripped from one’s fingertips, the brain seemed to boil, and humidity hung so heavy in the air that raindrops appeared to fall from tree leaves despite a cloudless sky!^[1]