If the night had a cement ceiling...
The world of prison is not only a world of walls. It is also a world of minds isolated far from society behind high walls, living only with the memories of loves and loved ones.
In the exercise pen of his cell block, Hamid, who prefers to use this name to ensure his safety, is busy sanding a rough piece of wood, hard and black like a piece of rock. He is alone, immersed in a world far from this one. He says this way he is distracted and calmer, and that it makes being separated from his wife and adolescent daughter more bearable.
This is Cell Block 350 of Penitentiary No. 3 in Evin Prison, known by most people as the 'political ward.' Over the past four and a half years the ward has hosted many well-known and unknown activists and today it still imprisons numerous prisoners of conscience. This is a group very different from ordinary inmates, even though they are very different from each other as well— different in class, political views and type, from common people to political radicals, journalists, poets and painters.
Some went to prison because they presented their art as protest. Others, right here in the prison, have put their art in the service of protest.
The Wall as Newspaper
Talking of “prison art” often brings to mind tattooed arms and limbs or perhaps cigarette holders engraved with images of legendary lovers. We often hear that they teach prisoners some craft or vocation in prison to prevent them from reverting to crime upon release. But what about political prisoners? Can you imagine Heshmatollah Tabarzadi, the jailed democracy activist, sawing wood to make chairs? Or Bahman Ahmadi Amouee, the imprisoned journalist, doing embroidery so that he would quit journalism after he is free?
The reality, however, is more depressing than this image. Cell Block 350 is an enclosed and isolated place and its inmates are kept apart from other blocks and the general facilities of the prison. To prevent letters or political statements from escaping to the world outside, the inmates are not permitted to use the workshops or even the sports facilities of Evin prison. (The public phone was removed a few years ago and sending or receiving mail is forbidden.)
In this cramped environment, reading and writing are the only diversions that the prisoners have. But even though most political prisoners are studious people of culture and intellect, how much can they read and how much can they write to occupy themselves? After a very short while this cycle becomes depressing. “In 2009 when I was just arrested, we had no facilities in the ward,” says one of the former inmates of Cell Block 350. “The guys turned bricks into weights for body building. The warden was a harsh person who harassed us constantly. One day he put 10 or 15 of us into solitary.”
In the aftermath of the 2009 elections and the Green Movement protests, Cell Block 350 was overflowing. The cells were crowded and even on the floors there was not enough room to sleep. The old-timers said that it was “exactly like the eighties.” But as tensions eased the remaining inmates slowly learned to make better use of the endless days of incarceration. Around the beginning of 2011 Nader Karim Juni, the reformist journalist, started a modest wall-mounted newspaper where he and other jailed journalists were allowed to write small pieces, including poetry. Poetry contributors included Ghasem Sholeh-Saadi, a former member of the parliament and a professor of law, journalists, political activists, poets, and writers. Mohammad Javad Mozaffar, director of a publishing house, started a story-writing competition which was reported on the internet. The inmates even organized book groups.
Music Therapy
Personal projects provided another major source for diversion. Many books have been translated in Cell Block 350, some quite worthwhile, including Andrew Fagan’s Atlas of Human Rights by Mehdi Khodaee, a jailed student, the complete poems of Nizar Qabbani, the late Syrian diplomat and poet, and books on Iranian history.
On holidays and other occasions the prisoners used musical they had fashioned themselves to hold concerts. The political ward has witnessed many good musicians, some still there, like the rapper Amir Ehsan Tehrani. Tehrani was sentenced to a year in prison because he published two songs with themes about human rights. He and another inmate, Hooman Moussavi, composed a song together and the night they were released they sang it for the fans who had gathered in front of the prison gates.
Masood Pedram, a Ph.D. in political science, has written and performed songs, two of which are dedicated to Hoda Saber, the journalist who died in Cell Block 350 as a result of his hunger strike and the harsh beatings he endured.
Last year, a group of actors decided to put on a show on Friday afternoons for their fellow inmates to perhaps dilute the poison of the sad nostalgia that descends once the sun sets on the Iranian weekend. They called it the “Flower Tour” and featured Ramin Parchami, an actor who along with Jafar Panahi, the renowned director, were amongst the most popular cinema celebrities of the Green Movement. “Flower Tour” was one of the few real entertainments that the political prisoners could enjoy. According to latest reports, however, the new warden banned it around midsummer.
Listen below to a piece of Iranian traditional music that was secretly recorded in Cell Block 350, published for the first time by Iranwire.
The Subversive Coconut
“While working on wooden plaques, especially when I listened to the music on radio, I went into a kind of trance. Sometimes, without warning, I would feel dreadful and did not understand why I was still alive...but when I showed my work to my family during visits, I noticed a glow in their eyes that motivated me to work more.”
Hamid is one of the most renowned etching artists to emerge out of Cell Block 350. He has been free for a long while, but his voice still trembles when he talks about the time he spent in prison. As an adolescent he worked with wood for a while, he says, but the works he created at Evin are something else entirely: one piece is an engrave plaque for his family, the other a yarn doll. They are made from the thick, hard wood of coconut shells, the only kind of wood that once in a while enters the cell block among other fruits.
“We created all kinds of patterns,” Hamid says. “Some designs we took from magazines and newspapers, or the guys came up with them themselves. Once Hooshang Rezai (who has now been transferred to another prison and is condemned to death) engraved the face of Mir Hossein Moussavi on a coconut wood plaque, and it was very good. They sent the plaque outside and it seems that a website posted a picture. Afterwards they would not let coconuts into the ward for a while. The warden would say, ‘you'll engrave the faces of Moussavi and Karroubi again and we would be reprimanded!’”
“Working on the coconut shell was one of the most difficult things that you could do,” says another former prisoner. “But when it was done, I was no longer tired. At first I wanted to make gifts for my wife and children, but little by little it became an amusement. Of course I made gifts for the wives and the children of other inmates in the ward so they could please them.” After a pause, he continues: “Whenever I see one of my works saved by my family or the family of another prisoner and they still thank me for its gift, I feel proud of myself because I have been able to bring a smile to our suffering families, thin as that smile might have been.”
This skill has been handed down to talented new prisoners and many have become masters, including the same Hooshang Rezai. The tools are contrabands and are very difficult to acquire. “The tools are very difficult to get,” says Saman, who like other former inmates cannot allow us to use his real name. “We are also pressed for the raw material. For example, during the 22 months that I spent in Cell Block 350, only two times were were coconuts allowed in. Towards the end, because we were short on sandpaper and shells, our works became very small, which of course had the advantage that our panels became more delicate and more elegant. When we looked at the finished product, it was enjoyable.”
“When one of the fellows was released, others inherited the tools, worn scrapers or files. Our tools were very primitive. For example, we made a scraper from a nail and the tube of a ballpoint pen. The nail pierced my hand so many times that blood flowed and my left thumb became larger that the right one! But it was worth it, because I made mementos for many of my associates. The same for each member of my family.”
“We had a very hard time getting liquid glue,” sighs Hamid. “A while ago I was in front of a store and saw a display full of liquid glue. I rushed inside to buy a few tubes, but then I remembered that I was no longer a prisoner! For the past few days I’ve been thinking of setting a small workshop in my room and occasionally doing woodwork in remembrance of prison days. I have put things that I made at Evin in front of the mirror of my bedroom, so I can continue to live with them.”
The Imprisoned Dolls
Gholam Reza Khosravi is one of the most popular inmates of the cell block, not only because of his lovely manners but for his mementos: The hats of Mr. Khosravi! He is condemned to death but has kept his own morale high and makes simple and elegant hats from old jeans, adorned by his signature and a little poem in his own handwriting.
Making bracelets with the date kernels (or olive pits, if they are available) is another one of Mr. Khosravi’s crafts. He and a couple of others have made the most intricate ornaments by cutting the kernels.
Another interesting story, however, is that of prison dolls, yarn dolls with striped outfits, blindfolded, with green handcuffs. One of the experts at this craft is Hooman Moussavi who now lives in Norway. (See his note at the end of this article.) Born in the ancient city of Shiraz, his father was executed before he was born. Moussavi was arrested during the events of 2009 and spent close to three years in Evin. He did have enough time to learn the craft of working with yarns. He made numerous colorful bracelets, rings, necklaces, headbands, and dolls which are now kept as mementos across the homes of most former prisoners.
“I learned the art of old timers,” he says. “In prison I read a lot of books and tried my hand at writing, but the days would not end. So by making dolls and bracelets for my cellmates I occupied myself. This way I both gave souvenirs to my friends and kept myself sane. Now that I have been released I don’t know who makes souvenirs for the families of my fellow prisoners.”
In the cell block for women there is no shortage of artists. An imprisoned wife, Motahareh Bharami, who is married to Mohsen Daneshour Moghadam, another prisoner of Evin, makes dolls out of fabrics. The most impressive works are from Mahsa Amr Abadi who makes them for her imprisoned husband Masood Bastani. Mahsa leaned fretwork and woodcarving in the women’s ward and has created exquisite artifacts by carving poems by Ahmad Shamloo, one of the most celebrated Persian poets of the twentieth century.
The painter Majid Sadeghinejad created a logo for Cell Block 350 and sketched the portraits of political prisoners, but the publication of some of his drawings on news sites prompted the authorities to limit his activities. Shahram Eliasi, a Kurdish activists, makes artifacts by using beads. A tie made by Shahram became famous when Ghasem Sholeh-Saadi, a former MP, wore it when he wanted to register as a presidential candidate (authorities sent Sholeh-Saadi to Cell Block 350 later.) Using beads, the phrase “Cell Block 350” along with the tricolor flag of Iran and the image of a scale, representing law and justice, adorn the tie.
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