Life in Tikrit Camp No. 12
Jafar Golshan Roghani
Translated by Kianoush Borzouei
2025-09-08
“From the signboards, I realized they were taking us to Basra. Like a long train, we entered the city. I assumed they wanted to showcase us as a spectacle, to boast that they had captured many prisoners. The people stood on both sides of the street, spitting upon us. Some threw stones and clods of earth at our heads and faces. The scene evoked the martyrdom of Imam Husayn and the captivity of Lady Zaynab. The men were choking back their tears. One of the captives, who knew Arabic, shouted at the people: ‘What are you doing? Did not your forefathers treat the descendant of the Prophet in the very same way?’ As he cried out, the soldiers rushed at him, striking him with fists and boots until they cast him upon the floor of the vehicle. They were so ruthless that they demanded we curse the Imam. No matter what they did, we kept our lips sealed. They beat us with the butts of their rifles. Our hands were tied behind our backs, and we could not defend ourselves. One soldier stood before me, repeating his demand that I utter insults. I shook my head in refusal so much that, enraged, he slammed his boot into my chest. He struck with such force that my breath stopped; it felt as though my heart had ceased to beat. I saw death before my very eyes. My eyes were bulging from their sockets when at last my breath returned.” (pp. 62–63)
These passages are excerpts from the memoirs of the honored freed prisoner of war, Baba Ali Ramazanpour, known by the alias Sabzali, compiled in the volume entitled Matbakh. Hassan and Husayn Shirdel, through fourteen hours of interviews across twelve sessions, undertook the recording and editing of his recollections. Sabzali was born in 1965 in the city of Babol, the fifth child in the family, preceded by two sons and two daughters, and followed by another daughter granted by God to his father, Geda Ali, and his mother. The father sustained the family’s livelihood by farming on others’ lands. From early childhood and throughout his primary education, Sabzali displayed a taste for orderliness, careful not to soil his clothes. His attire was always clean and neat, and his lunch container spotless and free of leftovers. By sixth grade, he discerned from the whispered conversations of classmates that significant events were unfolding in the country. Teachers warned students to go straight home, to avoid getting entangled in the street demonstrations and turmoil. “It was in this manner,” he later recalled, “that I gradually came to know of Ayatollah Khomeini.” (p. 8) He watched Imam Khomeini’s arrival in Iran on 1 February 1979 on the television at his aunt’s house, and then witnessed the celebrations in Babol. “The people were distributing sherbet, sweets, and chocolates. They chanted slogans, clapped, and whistled. We saw several tearing down the Shah’s portraits from walls and doors, replacing them with images of the Imam.” (pp. 8–9) After the Revolution’s victory, while working summers in a carpenter’s shop in Babol’s bazaar, he observed the clashes between supporters of political factions and religious revolutionaries, even becoming acquainted with members of the Mojahedin-e Khalq Organization. Their proclaimed commitment to establishing the “Justice of Ali” appealed to him, and he attended their meetings. Yet his friendship with two Basij members in his neighborhood eventually drew him into the Basij, the mosque, and the causes of the frontlines. When, on 30 August 1981, the assassination of President Rajai and Prime Minister Bahonar by the Mojahedin shook the country, Sabzali presented himself at the local Basij base and enlisted. After several days of military training, he divided his time between daytime studies and night patrols, guarding checkpoints under the Basij’s command. With the growing activity of the Mojahedin and the assassination of several devout townspeople, his role in the Basij became ever more serious.
In June 1983 (Khordad 1362), he registered for deployment to the front. He and others paraded from the Basij headquarters on Qasr Street to Kia Kola Square before heading to the training camp in Manjil, where he completed a 38-day course. He was then dispatched to Sanandaj with the 8th Najaf Division. Assigned to Marivan, he and a group of men embarked on a mission to Nechi Poshteh peak, facing the “Sugarloaf Hill” opposite them. What was to be a 35-day operation extended to 105 days amidst the forces of Komala and the Kurdistan Democratic Party. In December 1984, he married Sakineh Aghajani, and a year later, their first daughter, Maryam, was born. In autumn 1986, he once again joined the frontlines, receiving training with the 25th Division’s heavy weapons unit, mastering the DShK, 60mm mortar, and RPG-11, eventually specializing as a DShK gunner.
He was later dispatched to Faw, and subsequently became commander of an operational axis in Kurdistan, overlooking the Iraqi city of Mawat. On 25 May 1988, during a counterattack in Shalamcheh, he was taken captive. In Basra, to avoid harsher interrogations and torture, he posed as a water-tanker driver. After severe questioning and torture at Baghdad’s intelligence headquarters, he was transferred to Tikrit Camp No. 12. Upon arrival, “on each side stood twenty men wielding cables. In that tunnel we realized this torment was unlike any other. They welcomed us in such a way that the pain would remain etched in memory forever.” (p. 67)
Captain Jamal, the commander of Tikrit Camp No. 12, was notorious for his cruelty, arrogance, and sheer ruthlessness, employing every conceivable form of torment:
“Captain Jamal ordered the soldiers to beat us. The cables rose and fell like the wings of crows. Our bodies turned as black as raven feathers. We were being beaten while others looked on. None of the soldiers even dared to show fatigue; it seemed they had to keep striking us until Captain Jamal raised his hand and commanded them to stop. In the midst of this savage scene, Jamal turned to Amiri, a young man from Shiraz, and asked: ‘Did you say Saddam is dead?’ Amiri replied: ‘No, no, I never said Saddam is dead!’ He never had the chance to finish his words. They dragged him before Captain Jamal, forced a stone into his mouth, and began kicking him in the face. His teeth were shattered, his lips torn to pieces, and his face beaten black and blue. We were all brought to tears. They beat us until we lost consciousness. Then they brought an eighteen-kilogram oil tin and a can of fruit compote, both filled with water, and poured it over us with cups to bring us back. For days afterward, our arms and legs remained swollen. When we walked or ran, the swellings on our bodies shook like large blisters. During drill, we had to be careful not to let the fingers of the man behind us touch our backs or shoulders, preventing to cry out in pain.” (p. 69)
From page 57 (Chapter 7) to the end—nearly one hundred pages—the narrator devotes himself to recounting his years of captivity. The title Matbakh (“Kitchen”) appears to have been chosen because, after some time, he was assigned to the camp’s kitchen staff, where he and a group of twenty-four men prepared food for the prisoners: “Every day we had to cook nine twenty-kilogram sacks of rice and distribute them among 3,300 men. Normally, one would allot 100 grams of rice per person, but there it was less than 50 grams.” (p. 80) Iraqi officers even called him Tabbākh (“the cook”), which suggests that the title Tabbākh might have been a more fitting choice for the memoirs. (pp. 119, 131)
Although employed in the kitchen, Sabzali’s courage, audacity, and physical strength often led him to intervene on behalf of fellow prisoners during disputes, striving to shield them from injustice—even though he, like the others, endured relentless torture. On one occasion, he stepped forward as the first to receive severe punishment from the Iraqi officers: “When my turn came, another boy and I were led out of the cell. They pulled a canvas sack over our heads. You could no longer see anything; you had no idea from which direction the blows would fall—front, back, stomach, legs, or ribs. One man struck me twice with open palms; another punched me square in the face so hard that I felt my eyes bulge from their sockets before settling back. A blow landed on my kidney; another smashed against my jaw. Four of them were striking me at once. Then they forced me down. Two men stood on my arms. The heaviest of them lifted my shirt and sat upon my head. I was bewildered—this was the first time they had raised my shirt, and I did not yet understand why. His broad, heavy body pressed upon me until I could scarcely breathe. Meanwhile, two others stretched out my legs and bound them with rope. I realized they were preparing to flog me on the soles of my feet. I prayed silently: ‘O God, grant me strength not to yield.’ They inserted a rod into the rope and twisted it tight. The pain was indescribable, as though the flesh were being torn from my feet. Two men raised my legs while another began striking the soles with a metal rod. My big toe broke after only a few blows. They continued until the flogging was finished. Then they brought out an electric shock device. Only then did I understand why they had raised my shirt. The stun gun was new; they did not yet know how to operate it, nor had they set its voltage. They tested it upon me, shocking my stomach repeatedly until they managed to calibrate it. I don’t know how high I jumped or how violently I shook. When they finally dragged me out, the sack was still over my head. When they pulled it off, my face was bloodied and torn, yet I forced a laugh and told the others: ‘Now it’s your turn to take your share.’ My laughter, echoed by the boys, only deepened the torment of our captors. By midnight the pain began in earnest. The next day, a doctor examined me and said: ‘Your big toe is broken.’ My whole body was blackened, charred like coal, dark as the night itself.” (pp. 108–109)
One of the strengths of Sabzali’s memoirs lies in their breadth. He speaks of countless aspects of camp life: the prisoners’ arrival procedures, the posture demanded before Iraqi officers, methods of cooking and distributing food, the practice of eating communally from a single dish, hygiene and bathing, the meager soap rations and other sanitary measures, the secret educational classes organized by the captives, the camp infirmary and treatments for the wounded, the deaths of many from dysentery, the tailoring of prison garments by captive tailors, perpetual hunger and thirst, the prisoners’ improvised confections made from stale bread flour, the spread of scabies, the torments of toothaches and primitive treatments, their sabotage of the camp’s loudspeakers blaring music, the rationing of cigarettes, the drawings of Aqa Ne‘mat depicting Iranian prisoners on the camp walls and Iraqi officers’ wives on canvas, haircuts and shaves, the self-management of dormitories, the daily quota of torture, the commemoration of Muharram, quarrels among the prisoners, the presence of Mehdi Abrishamchi, who sought to recruit the weak-willed to the Monafeghin, the weeping of the captives upon hearing that Imam Khomeini had accepted Resolution 598, their mourning upon news of his passing, the Iraqis’ efforts to compel them to curse the Imam and their steadfast refusal, wrestling matches with Iraqi soldiers, punitive confinement in latrine pits, portraits of officers and soldiers, the small celebrations of Nowruz with cake and embraces, the preparations for release and the visits of Red Cross officials, the journey from camp to the Iranian border, the arrival of journalists with cameras and microphones, the three-day quarantine at the Bakhtaran garrison, and finally the prisoners’ reckoning with fellow Iranians who had tormented their comrades during captivity—among them the cutting of Ali Koppel Tehrani’s ear, punishment of an Iraqi informant, the beating of Keyvan who ingratiated himself by striking other prisoners, and the chastisement of Fazeli, who had tormented the wounded in the infirmary.
Another noteworthy aspect of his testimony is the naming of fellow Iranians who, by collaborating with the Iraqis, compounded the prisoners’ suffering—betrayers, in his words. Among them: Ali Rahdari (a dismissed gendarme from Zabol, head of Dormitory No. 6), Hasan Kashani (in charge of the kitchen, favored by the Iraqis), and Esma‘il (who at times beat the youths, betrayed several Guardsmen, and entertained perverse designs toward a younger captive—so much so that fellow prisoners once attempted to kill him, though he survived).
Sabzali’s description of the various cables employed by the Iraqi officers is strikingly vivid:
“The Iraqis possessed several types of cables. One type was as slender as a pencil or pen. Along this thin cable, they would tie several knots and fray its tip into thin strands. When it struck, it felt as though it set one ablaze, flaming the flesh as if branding it with fire. It also produced a piercing sound. Another type consisted of thick, heavy cables whose function was self-evident. They also had both braided and solid-core cables. The tip of these would be stripped bare, then bent with pliers into the shape of a hook—resembling a fishing hook or a butcher’s meat-hook. When they lashed with such a cable, the hooked tip would embed itself in the flesh, and as the cable recoiled, it would tear out both meat and blood. Their minds overflowed with such fiendish contrivances. Their thoughts constantly revolved around torture and pain. When they gathered together, they would gleefully and with relish speak of cables, of methods of striking, of angles of blows, and the like. They would even advise each other on how to strike in ways that would maximize both pain and noise. At times, they even placed bets on the beatings inflicted upon us.” (pp. 111–112)
The narrator was ultimately liberated on 30 August 1990, after nearly two and a half years of captivity, and returned to his homeland.
Alongside the many merits and wealth of information contained in this volume, certain shortcomings are also discernible. Among them:
- The interviewers abstained from recording the dates of the twelve interview sessions with the memoirist. This omission undermines the reader’s ability to fully grasp the temporal context that shaped the narrator’s recollections, for it is well established that the political, social, and cultural climate of any era leaves profound impressions on the memory of the witness, influencing both what is emphasized and what is omitted. The tides, currents, and pressing issues of an epoch invariably shape the manner and degree to which recollections are conveyed. Furthermore, on page 6, the narrator’s release is incorrectly recorded as 1989 rather than the correct 1990.
- Ramazanpour’s memoirs are divided into eleven chapters, listed solely by number, without the numbering offering the reader any interpretive significance. It would have been preferable if, instead of numerical headings, each chapter bore a descriptive title—thus orienting the reader to the specific phase of captivity being recounted. For example, instead of “Chapter 1,” one might have used “From Birth to Joining the Basij,” and instead of “Chapter 2,” “Military Training and Presence on the Western Fronts.” Such titles would have provided the reader with greater clarity and engagement.
- On page 9, Ramazanpour erroneously places his initial acquaintance with the Basij, its local base, and the mosque of his neighborhood at the time when “I was in my final year of high school, preparing to obtain my diploma.” This would place him at age 18, in 1983. Yet, a few lines later, he mistakenly recounts his involvement with the Basij of his hometown of Babol immediately following the bombing of the Prime Minister’s Office on 30 August 1981, which would place him at age 16. Then, on the following page, he describes his participation in decision-making sessions of the Basij command, where he represented the local commander—while explicitly stating, “I was no more than 13 years old.” It is evident that either the memoirist or the editors, the Shir-del brothers, displayed a lack of precision. Notably, on page 12, he states that he was dispatched to the front in June 1983). Thus, one cannot rely upon the chronology given in pages 8–12, which thrives with inconsistencies.
- On page 24, a footnote regarding the “Mohammad Hasan Khan Bridge” identifies it as dating to the 12th century, but erroneously continues, “Later, during the Ghaznavid era, a brick-and-mortar bridge was built in its place.” This is factually inaccurate, as the Ghaznavid dynasty belonged to the 4th–5th centuries AH.
- Although the narrative proceeds chronologically and the narrator discusses Operations Karbala-4 and Karbala-5 (December 1986), even recalling that his son had by then turned two years old, at the outset of Chapter 5 (p. 39) he suddenly speaks of taking leave to spend Nowruz 1986 with his family. Clearly, the correct year should be 1987.
- On page 65, the narrator recounts: “They brought us lunch on a large tray and said it was called ‘qas‘a.’ We sat around it. The food was rice topped with a bean stew.” Here, both the narrator and the editors have erred. In Arabic, qas‘a simply means a bowl or dish, whereas bean stew is called fasuliya—a red stew made of white beans and meat. One wishes the editors had at least consulted a person versed in Arabic and Iraqi culture to avoid such errors. Curiously, on page 72, the editors write: “They called the aluminum platters in which we placed food ‘qas‘a.’”
- Another inconsistency appears on page 65: “The camp commander was Captain Naqib-Jamal.” In Arabic, naqib itself denotes the rank of captain. Thus, the proper form should have been “Captain Jamal,” with a footnote clarifying that naqib in Arabic corresponds to the Persian rank of sarvān (captain). Alternatively, “Naqib Jamal” could have been left intact, again with explanation in a footnote. As it stands, the text redundantly repeats the rank.
- On page 119, the Iraqi officer is quoted as saying: “Tabaakhin ro.” Both narrator and editors, unfamiliar with Arabic, transcribed the phrase incorrectly. The correct form is “Tabaakhin ruhu,” meaning “Cooks, go.”
The book Matbakh: Memoirs of Iranian Prisoner-of-War Baba-ali (Sabzali) Ramazanpour, authored by Hassan and Hossein Shir-del, was published by Sooreh Mehr Publications in 2024 in 164 pages.
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