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.
آيا کتاب مزبور که با تبليغات زنجيره ای حلوا حلوا می‌شود، واقعّيت های زندان و
رنج و شکنج زندانيان سياسی را به بازی نگرفته است؟ آيا اين کتاب به تمامی
زندانيان سياسی ايران، به‌ويژه زندانيان سياسی زن جفا نکرده است؟ آيا به همه
کسانی که زير شکنجه‌های طاقت فرسا جان دادند توهين نکرده است؟
در حاليکه افکار عمومی دنيا هنوز از،
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،
و روابط عمومی دانشگاه تورانتو، (کانادا)
School of
Continuing Studies هم
ــ «جايزه مارينا» !! را بر سر زبان ها انداخته 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.
حتّی
ماجرای غم انگيز خانم «زهرا کاظمی»، (که نويسنده کتاب با بهره‌کشی از ظلم بزرگی
که به ايشان رفت، رگ خواب خواننده خارجی را در دست گرفته) ـ نمی‌تواند تنها
انگيزه اين بزرگنمايی باشد. (رویاروئی
مردم ستمدیده با استبداد زیر پرده دین، به معنی همسفره شدن با طالبان نفت و
دلار و همزبان شدن با «نئوکان»ها که آزادی برایشان تجارت است و بس ــ نیست.)
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:
• بازجوی شيفته ايشان: «علی موسوی»، و
• (آرش)، دوست خانم فريبا نمت، که (به روايت کتاب) ــ در هفده شهريور
۵۷
در ميدان ژاله جان باخته است
ــ
نکات زير را يادآور می‌شوم تا نشان دهم چرا کتاب «زندانی تهران»، پوچ و بی
محتوا است.
***
۱-
زندانيان زمان شاه هيچ زندانی
را به نام «علی موسوی» (بازجويی که نويسنده کتاب از او «ماکارانکو»، ساخته و
همسرش شده و بعدا هم ترورش کرده اند) ــ نمی‌شناسند.
برای اطمينان از اين موضوع همه زندانيان سياسی زمان شاه بخصوص آقايان:
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.
من برای نوشتن مقاله ای پيرامون زندان شاه که با عنوان «قصّه سپاس و فتنه
اهل بخيه»، در آرش ۹۹،
درج شده، مجبور بودم اسامی زندانيان زمان شاه را مرور کنم، همچنين پيش از
انقلاب ــ در اوين، بندهای مختلف قصر، کميته مشترک، زندان ساواک اهواز ، مشهد و
سه شهرستان ديگر زندانی بوده ام و جز «علی موسوی گرمارودی»، (که به خاطر کتاب
«عبور»، به زندان شاه افتاد و ترور هم نشده است!!)، «ابوالفضل موسوی»، که
مارکسیست بود و هم پرونده سیروس نهاوندی (و برخلاف نهاوندی و دیگر خائنین،
مقاوم و شریف ماند)، و نیز يک نفر به نام «محمد موسوی» که خيلی «لاغراندام» و
ضعيف بود و قدّی حدود ۱۵۰سانتيمتر
داشت، و يک سال زندانی گرفت ــ موسوی ديگری نمی‌شناسم.
از زندانيان زمان شاه خواهش می‌کنم اگر اشتباه می‌کنم بنويسند.
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
در
حادثه ميدان ژاله تهران «ميدان شهدا»
۶۴
نفر در روز هفده شهريور
۵۷ جان باخته اند. (و
دقيق تر بگويم ۶۳نفر)
(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.)
البّته در همان روز ۱۷
شهريور در ۱۵
نقطه ديگر تهران نيز مجموعاًً
۲۴نفر
در درگيری‌ها کشته شدند.
بنابراين تعداد کل شهدای
۱۷
شهريور سال
۵۷
در سراسر تهران ۸۸
نفر و دقيق تر ، ۸۷
نفر است که نام و فاميل همه آنان ثبت شده و نامی با اسم «آرش» وجود ندارد.
بگذريم...
در يک کلام ليست جانباختگان در
۱۷
شهريور سال ۵۷
فردی با اسم «آرش» را ندارد.
***
«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.
شايسته است همه زندانيان رنجديده و ازبندرسته، که بازی‌های اين زمانه پُرنيرنگ
را می‌شناسند و می‌بينند:
چهره سازان اين سرای درشت
رنگدان ها گرفته اند به کف
ساکت ننشينند.
شاسته است بخصوص «خانم‌ها منيره برادران، فريبا ثابت، گلرخ جهانگیری، پروانه
عليزاده، مينا انتظاری، مريم نوری، مژده ارسی، نسرين پرواز، مرجان افتخاری،
مينا رزين، شادی امین، شکوفه مبينی، پانته‌آ بهرامی، شيرين مهربد، ستاره عباسی،
هنگامه حاج حسن، عاطفه اقبال، اعظم حاج حيدری، صبا اسکويی، عزیزه شاه مرادی،
سودابه اردوان، نازلی پرتوی، شهرنوش پارسی‌پور و ...» ــ
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.
در پايان اين را اضافه کنم که برخلاف روايت قصّه «بدون دخترم هرگز»، در اين
داستانسرائی، خانم مارينا نمت، از مردم ايران به زيبائی ياد کرده که نيکو است،
اما افسوس که خيال بافی، بر آنچه در اين کتاب واقعی است سايه افکنده و کلّيت
داستان از اساس دروغ، و روايت وارونه‌ای از زندان‌های جمهوری اسلامی است.
***
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 Tehran': Once upon a time in Evin
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 Tehran': Once upon a time in Evin
One woman's account of her years in Iran's most infamous jail
Marina Nemat is only 42 now, and most of the events related in her book happened over the course of just 26 months a quarter of a century ago. That hardly sounds like a classic memoir, yet Prisoner of Tehran (Penguin) is one of the finest ever written by a Canadian. Nemat's heart-rending account of her time in an Iranian prison touches on some large issues, particularly the power of religious fanaticism to lead good people to do evil acts. But the memoir's brilliance and grace lie more in its intimate scale, in the way it deals with the burden of memory, the need to bear witness and the strange byways of the human heart. But before all else, Prisoner of Tehran is simply an astonishing story.
The Revolutionary Guards, the shock troops of the Ayatollah Khomeini's totalitarian Islamic state, came for Marina in her family's Tehran apartment on Jan. 15, 1982. She was just 16, but her "crimes" had caught up with her. Marina had stood up in math class and asked the fanatical new instructor for more calculus and less Koranic preaching. She had dangerous friends, too, schoolmates with older brothers involved in leftist political movements. And Marina was a Christian to boot, thanks to two Russian grandmothers who had fled the Bolshevik Revolution.
The guards curtly told Marina's tear-stricken mother that they were taking her daughter to Evin, the political prison north of the city that is probably the most feared place in Iran. A centre of torture and death under the Shah, Evin continues to fulfill the same function for the new regime: in 2003, Canadian-Iranian journalist Zahra Kazemi, caught taking photos outside the prison, was dragged inside, beaten, raped and murdered. From the moment Marina arrived at Evin, blindfolded and hands tied, events began to unfold at terrifying speed. She met her two interrogators, who were interested in supposed "Communist sympathizers" at her school: Ali, a man in his late 20s who seemed intrigued by his Christian prisoner, and Hamehd, the 40-ish torturer. When she couldn't provide the answers they wanted, Hamehd lashed Marina's feet with an inch-thick cable until they were a swollen mass of blue-red flesh and she was almost unconscious. Ali intervened and had a doctor inject her with painkillers. But the respite didn't last long.
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). Marina had been happiest going to church or shopping with her grandmother, or at the family's cottage by the Caspian Sea. There she rode her bicycle, played tennis and, as she grew older, went to parties where teenagers played Bee Gees music, all everyday occurrences in the Shah's haphazardly Westernized Iran, where women in chadors jostled with women in miniskirts on Tehran sidewalks.
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, Marina's mother died. "That changes you, that wakes you up. I realized my mother never knew me, and that I could die tomorrow and what then? Who would have known me? I kept surviving, but what did that mean?" Nemat knew, with a sudden certainty, that she had to tell her story. So many others had died without acknowledgement, like her friend Taraneh, called to her death over the prison loudspeaker, about whom Nemat writes with helpless, elegiac sorrow: "If I screamed until my throat bled, if I hit my head against the wall until my skull cracked, it would not save her. We listened for gunshots, and soon they came, as if glass clouds were falling from the sky." But bearing witness for the mute dead was one thing, for her own experiences quite another. "I knew I'd have to say everything, no more hiding, no more keeping anything back." And that would include the parts far more painful and difficult to discuss than her torture or near-execution.
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 Marina was in love before her arrest. When she bowed to the inevitable and accepted the marriage, Ali turned the screw its final, inevitable notch: she would have to convert to Islam, a necessity both for him politically and to mollify his own "horrified" family.
Such was Marina's introduction to what was possibly the strangest development in her entire ordeal. She could only guess what Ali's family, rich Islamist merchants, would make of her as a prospective bride for their only son. "I thought they would hate me," she says, "until I went to their house for the first time. His mother opened the door, a tiny woman in a disorganized chador, with her grey hair peeking out and pity in her eyes. She made me feel, after five months in Evin, like a human being again." So even as life with Ali had its nightmarish aspects -- Nemat graphically describes what can only be called her rape on her wedding night (she was 17) -- she had gained something she had always longed for. "For someone like me who always wanted to feel part of a family, it was wonderful. They had their arms wide open, and made me feel like a daughter."
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.
Marina was torn in two, and to an extent still is. "I didn't want that baby," she says now. "It was my real life sentence, something that would keep me tied to Ali forever. But when I lost it, I realized how much it meant to me. And Ali too. I realized how much I missed his companionship, his understanding of me and, yes, his protection. I didn't like the idea that maybe I had loved him, and I don't know now if that was true." There was much good in him, Nemat says. "I still think of him often."
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 Canada, settling in Aurora. Andre began work as an engineer and Marina as a Swiss Chalet waitress while raising their two sons. And Prisoner of Tehran gestated in Marina's mind.
"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.
***
خواهش می‌کنم با کليک در اينجا و نظر خودتان، مرا راهنمائی کنيد.