Sam Mahmoodi Sarabi

Forget it, but I won’t forget.

I have hit the wall so that I remember… so that I don’t forget.

I want to remember this curse… Even if one day everyone forgets and only a few friends remain, they will say it was a nightmare. They will say he spoke the truth. They will say he shouldn’t have been bound like this. They will say it’s not possible for all the pitchers to break over this unfortunate person… It doesn’t matter.

I am shocked against the wall and I remember when my friends were talking about Ahmadinejad in prison and the man who was deceiving them had to pray for him and be a sacrifice in negotiations where no food will be served at their family tables.

“It is not appropriate for Zarif to be a representative of the opposition.”

I am leaning against the wall and tracing the cursed line of this wall back to 16 years ago. I am leaning to remember the third floor of Tohid and the long lines of 21 Tir detentions and the memory of Nader, who would occasionally talk about the cigarette he smoked in his closed hands in the cell. And when I imagined those days, I couldn’t remember what happened during the time of intoxication. Did I also smoke those cigarettes? Maybe during the time of intoxication, the blessing of nicotine cannot be appreciated… I am leaning to remember the walls of Seoul and its first floor, where I trembled like a willow and was ready to say that Akbar, the unfortunate one, betrayed me… Until after his death, I hit myself every day, reminding myself that I wasn’t the man who sold out his comrade for a moment of peace after a beating, and every night for 10 years, I dream of him and wake up crying, trying

“Smell of dirt! It’s time to clean you up!”

I remember the tempting food I ate to prevent even a small hunger and weakness during my strike, and I regretfully gave in and received a beating for insulting the blessings of God…

I remember the taste of my stomach’s blood that tasted bitter for a long time… I remember the taste of sewage that entered my throat from my brain and the fear of an open bottle of Zamzam forced me to swallow that disgusting taste…

Antar Harumzadeh, now you understand who you are dealing with.

I remember the day they sent me for further research, 209, and luck was on my side as they let me take a break and smoke a Magna cigarette until they returned. I thought I was the luckiest man for being able to handle these things this way… I remember Majid Tavakoli and Roozbeh, how they laughed at my reaction after Mohammadi Moghadam’s suicide and how they put their heads together because of my protests! I remember that suffocating cough after eating beans, and Majid, who never followed proper bathroom etiquette, just so we could laugh at him…

Are you winking at us???

I want to remember when the distracted interrogator asked me if I had been a guest at his brothers’ before, I hit under it that I was an operative and my head was under my feet and he could investigate and two days later I had diarrhea because of fear of investigation… the job when I pulled into narrow places that the filth came up 11 years ago. Or prayers that I used to recite with my team for peace after masturbation due to stress.

Let me remember the constant seizures while smoking, cell number 84 on the second floor, cell number 240, where every day the sound of a man’s crying and wailing could be heard. He thought that now was the time for his Friday afternoon cry to bring about the arrival of Imam Zaman and “Fak Kol Asir” to fulfill the broken heart of his mother, who had been living in the nation’s house after the death of her husband with difficulty… Let me remember the day when I was punished for not accepting the interview in front of the camera and when I was going to the cell, I thought I was a hero and I could hit Masoud on the head.

After the release of the confessions of imprisoned journalists, you realize who you were working with.

And I convince myself that it’s good that I didn’t go in front of the camera this time. It was risky because if I had gone, there was no one else to blame but myself…

I remember the hatred I had for so-and-so because of their 9-page monologue against myself! I remember myself, when I didn’t hear from the old man responsible for food, I thought the night before the sound of arrows and guns was coming to save me, the hero, from these people, and I would increase my last interrogations on their shoulders, unaware that the sound of the Wednesday fireworks had deluded me into thinking I was a hero…

“I am not someone with information, dad. Like you, I am a prisoner and I came here to work.”

Let me remember the night when I broke the light bulb on top of the cell door with the handle of my toothbrush, pretending to commit suicide and drawing lines on my hands, face and head to save myself from isolation and be taken to cell 241 in front of Masoud and Siamak, so I could curse this cursed mustache and let the apple fall on the wounds on the back of my lips…

I was stunned against the wall, remembering the time I saw Ramin in the courtyard of the quarantine of Band-e Haft. Later, you told me that I was a fool and you were surprised, saying that you had seen me somewhere. Everyone burst into laughter, saying that the person in front of them doesn’t know Ramin, the flag bearer… Or the constant fighting of Mohammad Reza and Afshin, who after reminiscing about their youth, would start punching and kicking each other.

Oh dear mother…!

I remember Afshin with his everlasting smiles.

Our uncle is a servant to Morteza Aghili. Let’s go and get a chickpea from Majid Tamjid’s culture, so that he doesn’t stray away from the prison culture for us.

I remember Hadi Saber’s classes on the history of the nationalization of the oil industry, where it seemed like he was reading from a textbook without any enthusiasm. He would shout, “I complain about all of them!” for us…

I remember the month of Bahman when that cursed afternoon the news of Hadi Saber’s death shocked us… I remember my insistence on going on a hunger strike and the conditional strike of Mr. Baqi until I left the strike so that the old groom would not remain in prison in protest of the death of the champion. I want to remember Emad Bahavar with his complete prayer every Friday that, according to my uncle, he held in Beit-ul-Fijaj.

Is Stalin going to take a shower to wash away his sins?

Cigarettes in the bathroom should remind me after turning off and playing with water, Papa would sit with the hope of news of Agha’s death… My snoring and Arash Honarvar, who had annoyed Dr. Farzin… The smoke of morning games and repeated statistics that brought the voices of Haj Reza and Mr. Roshan…

Or the banned books that came under the name of Mehdi, we go to prison to meet Ali Malekhi Qompez, so I can reduce the liberals on you… The pain and bleeding of the homeless that you take away my peace and Dr. Asadi was the one who cried thinking of his children and his sobs made Akbar Amini “broken”…

During cleaning, Doodra would play games that would force Uncle Majid Rezaei to make up for it… Uncle Javad Lari and his bracelet made from date pits for the bride so that I could go to the father of the woman I loved, who was a cook, yes! I myself made this with my own hands in memory of his daughter, by peeling dates after breaking fast and before dawn, so that he would be satisfied to give his daughter to a man 11 years older…

Oh beautiful girl, Niloufar.

Remember the day that after three sleepless nights, I brought my strange self in front of the interrogator every day until my mother’s satisfaction, so she would return Mrs. Pourazizi’s bail and release me temporarily until the new bail arrives. I could go and see Band, Abdullah, the captain, Hajji Moghiseh, Dr. Rajai, Mr. Reza, and Mr. Arab and spend a few days with Siyamak and make the people doubt my sanity, thinking, “Could it be that Sam has finally taken action?”

Why did you come???

No

We should not forget.

Even if one day our existence is denied. Even if the delicate and spiritual ones, along with many of our old comrades, sacrifice themselves in the hope of lifting the sanctions.

Mr. Mosaddegh! Whether you approve or not, a political prisoner, whether a journalist or not, cannot be denied.