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همنشین بهار
خالی
بندی نوين «نئوکان ها» و در بوق و ُکرناکردن خاطرات آبگوشتی موسوم
به «زندانی تهران»، به کوتاهی زندانيان سياسی نيز، برمیگردد
که کم و بيش دوز و کلک مزبور را میشناسند امّا دم برنمیآورند. پشت
فتواي خميني و قتل عام سال 67 آنطور که بايد و شايد مطلّع نيست و نمیداند در دخمههای
«واحد مسکونی» و قبرهای زندانهای جمهوری اسلامي چه
گذشت ــ «ازمابهتران» در صددند اين خاطرات آبگوشتی را به ۳۰
زبان
ترجمه کنند. ديروز به فرانسوی، امروز به سوئدی و فردا و پس فردا به
هلندی و پرتقالی و چینی...تازه میحواهند از اين
دروغ بزرگ، فيلم سينمائی هم، (لابد به سبک قصّه سوزناک سنگام)،
بسازند و همه را فيلم کنند! جالب اینجا است که شرکت زنجيره ای Chapters/Indigo «چپترز اينديگو»، (هوادار امثال «شارون»
و «نتان یاهو»،) به حلواحلوا کردن این خاطرات آبگوشتی مشغول
است، *** کسانی که همزمان با جار و جنجال «نئوکان» ها، با
داستان سرائی و «ژاندارک بازی»، رنج و شکنج زندانيان سياسی را
به دروغ و دغل میآلايند، فرق چندانی با بازجويان و شکنجه گران
ندارند حتی اگر عليه آنان سوز و گداز سر داده، از مُدرنيته و فمينيسم دَم
زنند و بنيادگرائی مذهبی را زير سئوال ببرند. برای من ترديدی در تهی بودن قصّه
هائی که «خانم مارينا نمت»، سرهم بندی کرده، وجود ندارد و انتقادم
را به مسئولين محترم راديو زمانه و تلويزيون CBC
و CNN گفته ام و معتقدم بايد بر سر انتشارات پنگوئن هم که بی
توجه به سوداگری و مال اندوزی دغلکاران سنگ بنای اين دروغ
بزرگ را گذاشته است، فرياد کشيد. «ژاندارک سازیِ» همزمانِ فاکس نيوز، سی ان ان،
سی بی اس، بی بی سی، و...، بی دليل نيست و
اشتباه محض است تصّور کنيم برای مقابله با زن ستيزی مرتجعين، صورت
میگيرد.
مگر تا کنون خاطرات زندان نداشته ايم؟ چرا سی ان ان
و بی بی سی، يکبار در باره آن ها صحبت نمیکنند؟ *** در کنار اشارات نويسنده محترم کتاب «نه زيستن نه
مرگ» که در مقاله زير: «زندانی
تهران». چوب حراج به خاطرات زندان پوچی ادعّاهای خانم «فريبا نمت» را نشان داده
اند ــ در مورد: ناصر رحمانی نژاد، سجاّدی، حميد
اسديان، احمد افشار، ناصر کاخساز، علی آبادی، بهروز حقی، حميد
حميد بيگی، ابراهيم دينخواه، فرج سرکوهی، عباس مظاهری،
هادی روشن روان، مرتضی محيط ، مجيد دارابيگی، فريدون شايان،
محمود دولت آبادی، حشمت رئيسی، حميد توکلی، محسن يلفانی
و هوشنگ عيسی بيگ لو را به داوری میطلبم. ۲- زندانيان رژيم گذشته که در رژيم
جديد، جانب آخوندها را گرفتند بر خلاف تصّور بيشتر ما، انگشت شمارند و مطمئن
هستم امثال احمد پورنجاتی و عزت شاهی و هادی خامنه ای و
شيخ باقر فرزانه و علی دانش پژوه و آخوند سعادتی و حسين زاده و
منصوری و «محمد جودو» (مهرآئین = داودآبادی) و حسن پور و
محمود جواديان و جلال رفیع و ابراهيم سولگی...، هم ــ (در بین
همفکران خود)، فردی را به نام «علی موسوی»، که سه سال و سه
ماه، زندانی بوده و سه ماه قبل از انقلاب آزاد شده / دو متر قد و نود کيلو
وزن داشته / آثار تازیانه و شلاق بر پشت اش تا بعد از انقلاب باقی بوده!!!
و بعد از انقلاب به سمت آنان رفته، سپس بازجو و ترور شده باشد، نمیشناسند
تا چه رسد به صدها زندانی سياسی که از این رژیم فاصله
گرفتند و بسياری از آنان زنده هستند و میتوانند همين دروغ نويسنده
را که به تنهايی کل کتاب را زير سئوال میبَرد، افشاء کنند. ۳- و امّا، «آرش» که گویا در ۱۷ شهریور سال ۵۷ در میان شهدا
بوده است!! ــ
(يک قاچاقچی مواد مخدر به نام «علی
مژده کار»، که بعد از انقلاب فراری شده بود، با دوز و کلک دوستانش در ميان
شهدای ۱۷شهريور گنجانده
شد و حتی کوچه باشگاه واقع در حوالی ميدان سرآسياب دولاب در منطقه
چهارده تهران را، به نام وی نامگذاری نمودند که اخيرا با اعتراض
دسته جمعی مردم محل ــ از ليست شهدا حذف شده است.) *** «ماکارنکو»سازی از شکنجه گران و
ادای ژاندارک را درآوردن، توهين به شور و شعور همه زندانيان سياسی
است و اينکه کتاب مزبور توسط بنگاه انتشاراتی پنگوئن يا آمازون
تبليغ ميشود و BBC – CBC - CNN
و فاکس نيوز و ديگران توی بوق میکنند، دروغ و دغل نهفته در آن را
نمیپوشاند. که در زندان زنان بوده و زير و بم آن را ديده و توصيف
نموده و ادبّيات زندان را پُربار کرده ااند ــ لاف و گزاف های اين کتاب را
زير نور بگيرند. *** زیرنویس:
گزارشی از «مجله مکلینز» Macleans که بعد از گریز به خانم
«هلن اسفندیاری»، به کتاب «زندانی تهران» هم اشاره کرده و
بخشی از آنرا آورده است: (در پایان خانم «مارینا نمت» خطر
اینکه ممکن است ترورش کنند را از زبان شوهرش آورده و باز هم مخاطبین
خود را رنگ کرده است.)
'Prisoner of This is ths same prison Heleh
Esfandiari, an American woman of Iranian birth has found herself in.
[...] send a post card to Heleh Esfandiari, simply saying you are thinking of
her and giving her you address...
'Prisoner of One woman's account of her years in The Revolutionary Guards, the shock
troops of the Ayatollah Khomeini's totalitarian Islamic state, came for The guards curtly told I woke from a dreamless sleep with a
sharp pain in my right shoulder. Hamehd stood over me, kicking it. After I
was blindfolded and taken outside, Hamehd instructed me to hang on to the chador
of a girl who was standing in front of me. I held on, she started to walk,
and I limped after her. My feet were burning as if I were walking on broken
glass. We walked on, and the cold wind whipped against me. Each step was more
difficult than the one before. I stumbled over a rock and fell. Resting my
head on the frozen earth, I licked the snow, desperate to relieve the
bitter-tasting dryness of my mouth. Rough hands forced me back on my feet. Where are they taking me? "Walk properly or I'll shoot you
right here!" Hamehd barked. I struggled on. We were finally told
to stop, and someone removed my blindfold. An intense light shone into my
face and blinded me. After a few seconds, I looked around. A spotlight cut
the night like a white, sparkling river. Blending into ghostly shadows, black
hills surrounded us; we seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. There were
four other prisoners with me: two girls and two young men. Four guards were
pointing their guns at us, their faces expressionless as if carved out of the
darkness. "Move next to the poles!" Hamehd yelled out, his voice
echoing against the hills. Twenty feet away, a few wooden poles reached out
of the ground. We were to be executed. The cold feeling inside my chest
paralyzed me. One of the two male prisoners began
to recite a part of the Koran that asked God for forgiveness. His voice was
deep and strong. The other young man was staring at the poles. One of his
eyes was swollen shut, and there were bloodstains on his white shirt. "Next to the poles right
now!" Hamehd repeated, and we silently obeyed. Sorrow filled my heart and lungs
like a thick, suffocating liquid. One of the girls started to run.
Someone yelled, "Stop!" But she kept on going. A gunshot tore
through the night, and she fell to the ground. The girl moved onto her side,
and her back curved in pain. "Please ... please don't kill me," she
moaned. The snow covering her chador glittered in the clean, white light.
Pointing a gun to her head, Hamehd stood over her. She covered her head with
her arms. The girl standing next to me began
to cry. Her deep screams seemed to rip her chest. She fell to her knees. "Tie the others to the
poles!" Hamehd yelled. One of the guards lifted me off the
ground and another tied me to the pole. The rope dug into my flesh. I was so tired. Is dying going to hurt as much as
being lashed? Hamehd was still pointing his gun at
the injured girl. "Guards! Ready!" I heard a car speeding toward us and
opened my eyes. There was a loud screeching noise, and a black Mercedes came
to a stop right in front of the guards. Ali stepped out of it. He went
straight to Hamehd and gave him a piece of paper. They spoke for a moment.
Hamehd nodded. His eyes focused on mine, Ali walked toward me. I wanted to
run. I wanted Hamehd to shoot me and end my life. Ali untied me from the
pole, caught me, lifted me, and walked toward the car. I could feel his
heartbeat against my body. I uselessly tried to struggle out of his arms. "Where are you taking me?" "It's okay; I won't hurt
you." Ali dropped me in the front
passenger seat of his car and slammed the door. I tried to open it, but it
wouldn't open. He jumped in the driver's seat. I began punching him, but he
held me back with one hand. Guns fired as we sped away. I opened my eyes to a light bulb
shining over me. Ali sat in a corner, staring at me. He said he had gone to
Ayatollah Khomeini, who was a close friend of his father's, to have my
sentence reduced from death to life in prison. The Ayatollah had given the
order. I didn't want the Ayatollah to save
me. I wanted to die. Feeling the weight of his stare on
my skin, I held the blanket covering me so tightly that my fingers began to
hurt. He finally stood up. Every muscle in my body tightened. "Are you afraid of me?" he
asked. "No." I swallowed. "You don't need to be." The longing in his eyes was real. For almost two decades Marina Nemat
neither forgot nor talked about those memories. When she left Evin, she
returned to what she calls a happy but "distant" family. She had
had a lonely childhood, her only sibling a brother 14 years older and away at
school, her parents busy with their work (father a dance instructor, mother
the owner of a beauty salon). Sipping tea in the living room of
her home in Aurora, Ont., Nemat recalls how resolutely her family refused to
ask her about Evin, and how impossible she found it to start that
conversation. "It was a 20-year journey, that walk out of Evin,"
she says matter-of-factly. "You remember that other woman I met?"
she asks, referring to another prisoner released at the same time, a woman
who wouldn't budge from the prison gates until Marina took her hand and led
her away. "She was the wise one," says Nemat. "She knew better
than me there's no going back." Then, in 2000, After he rescued her from Hamehd's
firing squad, Ali disappeared from Evin, volunteering for front-line service
in the Iran-Iraq war. Four months later he was back, with a heart-stopping
proposal. He had left the prison to get her out of his thoughts, he said, but
to no avail; now he knew he wanted to marry her. Ali didn't expect her love,
at least not at first, but he did expect her acquiescence: she belonged to
him now that he had saved her life. And if she thought suicide was a way out,
he warned her, he would then jail her parents and execute Andre, a fellow
Christian with whom Such was Although Ali's father bought the
newlyweds a house, rumours of possible attacks on Evin officials drove them
back to the safety of the prison, where Ali lived among the guards and Marina
among the prisoners, who did not know of her marriage or later pregnancy. On Sept. 26, 1983, Ali and I went to
his parents' for dinner. At about 11 o'clock, we said good night to everyone
and stepped outside. It was a cold night, so Ali's parents didn't come out
with us. As we walked toward the car the loud sound of a motorcycle filled
the night. I looked up to see it come toward us from around the corner. Two
dark figures were riding on it, and as soon as I saw them, I instinctively
knew what was about to happen. Ali also knew, and he pushed me to the ground.
Shots were fired. Ali was lying on top of me. Barely able to move, I managed
to turn to him. "Ali, are you okay?" He moaned, looking at me with shock
and pain in his eyes. My body and legs felt strangely warm, as if wrapped in
a blanket. His parents were running toward us. "Ambulance!" I yelled.
"Call an ambulance!" His mother ran back inside. His
father knelt beside us. "Are you okay?" Ali asked
me. My body ached a little, but I wasn't
in pain. His blood was all over me. "I'm okay." Ali grasped my hand. "Father,
take her to her family," he managed to say. I held him close. His head rested
against my chest. If he hadn't pushed me, I would have been hit. He had saved
my life again. "God, please, don't let him
die!" I cried. He smiled. I had hated him, I had been angry
with him, I had tried to forgive him, and, in vain, I had tried to give him
love. He struggled to breathe. His chest
rose and fell and then was still. The flashing lights of an ambulance
... a sharp pain in my abdomen ... and the world around me disappeared into
darkness ... I opened my eyes. One by one, round
droplets fell from a clear plastic bag into a tube. Drip. Drip. Drip. I
followed the tube with my eyes; it was connected to my right hand. The room
was dark except for the faint glow of a night light. The door opened, and a
blinding light expanded and reached me. A middle-aged woman wearing a white
headscarf and a white manteau came in. "Where am I?" I asked her. "It's okay, dear. You're in a
hospital. What do you remember?" "My husband is dead." My husband is dead. Dear God, why
does this hurt so much? A doctor appeared and told me I had
lost my baby. Whatever was left of me crumbled. Ali's father, a kind and decent man,
honoured his son's last wish and got his widow out of Evin -- two years, two
months and 12 days after she entered it. Marina and Andre married -- an
insane risk under a regime that considered a marriage between a Muslim woman
and a Christian man punishable by death -- but Marina, if not yet prepared to
speak, was ready to act. Eventually, the couple made it out to "Now," she says, her story
told, "I am at peace with myself." Her family has been supportive,
though also a little afraid. "My husband says I could be shot, and
maybe that's true. But I should have died years ago. If they come for me,
let them come. ***
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