They say that writing about a painful memory brings with it the pain of letting go. It was painful, but not as painful as the regret of not letting go.

I was a 27-year-old student who, along with “Arman”, set off for the Azadi Terminal to join our photographer friends’ camp in one of the northern provinces. Our departure time was delayed due to my slow preparation and the bus being late, so we ended up getting off the bus around midnight near Rezvan Shahr to take the secondary road that would lead us to our friends. It was dark and our phones had no signal, so we didn’t know the way. We went towards a restaurant and asked for directions from the owner of the area. It seemed like we were going in circles and taking a long route. The road was deserted and they said it was unlikely for a car to pass by at this hour. We had nowhere to stay. We asked the restaurant owner for a guesthouse or hotel. With a harsh tone and a condescending look, he said there was no place to stay here. We went towards a stall nearby and received the same response

We couldn’t come up with a better option. We decided to spend the night like this and continue our journey towards the camp in the morning. We set off towards the address we had been given. Along the way, we comforted each other that it was just one night and it would pass. At the beginning of the park, there was a bench and several people were drinking tea. Their eyes were on us. Several tents were set up, almost far apart from each other – and it seemed like everyone was asleep. We went to the last tent to avoid their gaze and prepared to sleep with some distance between us. It was a hot summer night and the mosquito bites were unbearable, but I kept my eyes on the moon. I pulled my legs closer to my stomach and slowly drifted off to sleep.

I don’t know how long my eyes were closed, but with the sound of footsteps getting closer and closer, I woke up. At the same time, Arman jumped up and stood. There were five of them. I looked around. I could see the lights of the bench from a distance, but I couldn’t see anyone. Arman said, “What do you want?” They didn’t look like thugs or officers. One of them stood up and said, “What’s your relationship with each other?” Arman said, “Who are you to ask?” He took out a card from his pocket that couldn’t be seen clearly in the darkness and said it was from a certain Basij place. I couldn’t hear the voices and my eyes couldn’t see clearly. I thought they had caught us and if they found out, it would be a disaster for my family.

He asked again, “What is your relationship?” Silence fell. He came closer and said in a commanding tone, “Come with me towards the car,” but there was no car in sight. I was desperate. I was willing to do anything to not be taken to the police station. One of them was looking at us closely. He had noticed our closeness. Arman pulled me aside and whispered something in my ear. Arman suddenly jumped up and became agitated. He started shouting and one of them immediately punched him hard in the face and the other held a knife to his throat.

I didn’t understand my situation. I didn’t know where I was. I couldn’t even guess what that person had said or what had happened. The only thing Arman found the opportunity to say was, “Run away”; but it was too late.

When they were taking me and dragging me through the forest, when I would get caught on the thorns of the trees and fall into the flowers, my gaze was towards the moon…

That night, 5 people violated me in front of my eyes. But what happened to me was not just the violation of 5 people; everything that happened to me afterwards was also a painful violation.

After they set us free, we ran towards the light that was shining from afar on the road. My eyes were still fixed on the moon when suddenly I fell into a ditch full of thorns. It was so deep that my head was submerged in darkness and thorns. I grabbed onto the thorns and pulled myself out with the help of my arms. We reached the road. Arman was waving his hand for someone to stop. A white Pride car hit the brakes. We hurried towards it. I couldn’t understand myself. There were three people. When I looked at their faces, at first glance I saw the same person who had stood next to that bench near the restaurant and led us towards that cursed forest. I screamed involuntarily and ran backwards. My clothes were covered in dirt and thorns.

In the darkness of the night and the blackness of the forest, I was screaming and asking for help in the middle of the road. A passing truck slammed on its brakes when it saw me. We went towards the truck and quickly climbed up. Arman followed me. We told the driver to take us in a direction where we could go to Rasht. The Pride was still chasing us and one of them was talking on their phone. We hadn’t even gone 5 kilometers when the highway police ordered us to stop. The officer who came up was not a highway police officer. They took all three of us to the station; me, Arman, and the truck driver.

It was still dark outside. My clothes smelled of dirt and mud. The soldier next to me recoiled and said, “What a foul smell you have!”

We went to the shift officer’s room. Arman looked at me and said, “Get out so I can call you.” He gestured for me to sit down and said, “Well, tell me what happened?” I was shaken. I couldn’t believe I had found refuge. I calmly said, “I was assaulted. 5 people assaulted me.”

• Where? When were they?

• I don’t know who they were. In the forest.

• Which forest? What were you doing in the forest at this time of night?

I defined the situation. He paused and said, “A healthy woman is asleep at this time of night in her own home.” I said, “That’s not true,” but he didn’t let me continue and said, “Did that boy assault you?” I said, “No, he had a knife to his own throat.” He said, “Are you sure he didn’t invite his friends over to your place?” I said, “No, he’s not that kind of person at all.” He chuckled.

He said, “What did they look like?” I described their faces. The person next to him said something calmly. They recognized them. I said, “They showed us their Basij cards.” He said, “Anyone can show you a card, but it doesn’t mean it’s valid.” I asked, “So how do you know them?” He lifted his gaze from the paper on the table and said angrily, “I don’t know them!”

I revisited their faces in my mind again. They didn’t resemble a Basiji, but I was sure I knew their officer. As I stepped out of the door, my ideals went inside. I could hear the insults and humiliations being thrown at me, but the pain was overpowering. I couldn’t do it. My feet were hurting. The muscles in my thighs were so tight that walking was excruciating. There was pain between my legs and it was inflamed.

I wanted to lie down on the bench, but one of the soldiers calmly said, “Get up. If he sees you, he’ll get very angry.” He was short. I remember his face well. His hair was buzzed and his face was covered in dirt and grime. He had a sympathetic look in his eyes. He asked, “Can I get you some water?” I said, “No.” Then, like someone who has committed a crime, I straightened myself out so as not to add to my guilt. I didn’t know what my crime was. Perhaps it was my fault for being a victim of group assault, and that’s why no one showed me any mercy. I was a criminal.

It was morning. The soldiers were lined up in the courtyard. Before the ceremony, the officer said, “Wait behind the building until I call for you; if he sees you now, it will be bad.”

I didn’t know why things were going wrong. What had I done wrong? What was my crime? Why was no one looking at me? Why wasn’t anyone telling me if I could survive this pain or not?

We waited behind the building until they called out to me and said to wait behind the door… My legs were in excruciating pain. My thigh muscles were burning and I was trembling. I crossed my legs and gathered myself. This helped ease the pain in my legs. Suddenly, the door opened. The intimidating figure of the angry police chief was standing in front of me. Without saying a word, he kicked me off the chair and onto the ground, saying, “You don’t have a mother’s house to limp around in.” As he walked towards his office, he muttered under his breath, “Worthless!”

I looked at him from the ground. He was scary and disgusting. I stood up and stood still. I knew there was no place to talk. The soldier gestured for me to follow him. Before I entered the room, he had already started talking. He was talking loudly and saying things that I couldn’t hear or understand. I knew I was the only one who could help me and I was caught up in how! Among his words, I asked, “Can I call my family?” He said, “You have a family too!? Yes, you can,” and gestured for them to give me the phone.

It was early morning and I was thinking about calling Gorgan and telling my father what had happened with the 5 people and what I was doing there and what had happened to me, he would calm me down. I knew the old man couldn’t handle this news. I adored my father. He was 70 years old. A kind and traditional man. He wasn’t strict, but he prayed 17 rakats of prayer every day and every time he raised his hands to the sky and the first thing he always said was, “Oh God, give us honor, dignity, and health.”

During that time of scarcity and mental and physical crisis, the only thing that came to my mind was the friendship we had in Rasht. “Mr. Shad” was a colonel in the Revolutionary Guard and held the rank of commander. He was an influential person and the only one who could help me in this time and place. I took his number and after a thousand hesitations and a thousand twists and turns in my words, I told him what had happened. He said, “Tell me where you are and don’t write anything down or tell anyone else.”

When I hung up the call, the soldier said I had to go see the commander again. As soon as I entered, he started speaking angrily and condescendingly. Before he could finish his sentence, the phone rang. The officer next to him looked at the number carefully and answered it. I knew it was Mr. Shad and he had called from a special number for the Sepah. He gestured for me to go outside. After about fifteen minutes, the guard brought me back inside. His tone was completely different, as if he had transformed into a different person. He calmly said, “Your phone is ringing, answer it.” I answered and it was Mr. Shad. He said, “Stay calm. Everything will be okay. If you needed something, you could have told me. If you want to talk to me, they will allow you to make a call. I am following up on your case.” And he hung up the phone. The station chief told

I was feeling dizzy and nauseous as he kept talking and I didn’t respond to any of his words, just stared at him. Until he said, “Do you want to forget about this whole thing? Do you want to erase last night’s events from your life?” I was confused. I asked, “What do you mean?” He replied, “I mean I won’t write about what happened. This way, your and your family’s honor will be preserved, and you will never have to deal with a case where everyone knows what trouble you’ve gotten into.”

For me, someone who at that moment saw nothing but himself, this offer was a way to compensate for the damage to the family. It’s as if I have hurt someone or embarrassed someone with this incident.

I didn’t have the power of analysis and decision-making and I couldn’t see myself. They hadn’t taught me to see myself. The talks of that hornless and tailless monster, who cunningly kept repeating to me, “Protect the honor of your family,” led me to accept and not speak of the group assault and the events of that night.

I accepted the offer. Arman was angry and kept saying, “You shouldn’t do this.” It was as if I had turned my back on myself; I firmly said, “No! I have made my decision” and went the other way.

The truck driver was standing in a corner and pleading with the officer to let him go. He told me, “Tell my sister that I didn’t do anything wrong. I just wanted to help. I have to deliver my cargo.”

The officer, ignoring his words, went to the room. After half an hour, a car arrived. They took us to a building. They covered my head with a cloth and asked me questions. They said, “It is written here that you were arrested with some disrespectful people in a truck. Is that true?” I said, “Yes.” Arman was furious. He clenched his teeth in anger and turned his face away.

They took all three of us to court. Mr. Shad had sent someone to accompany us to court. He had brought his pay stub with him to take care of things. It seemed like he knew as well.

The judge asked us. He asked the questions and answers that I expected. He said, “Why is your appearance so disheveled and dirty?” I said, “I fell on the ground in the forest.” He looked at me suspiciously. He said, “Did this boy attack you?” I said, “No.” He asked, “The driver?” I said, “No, I don’t know him. He just gave us a ride.”

The dream was forgotten. His voice rose and he said, “Why did you take the people’s daughter to the forest?” He told the story. The judge chuckled and said, “We hear these stories every day. Tell me what trouble she caused that she is in this state? If you don’t tell the truth and I send her to the medical examiner, I will have your father brought in.”

• Believe me, I didn’t do anything. I love him.

• If you love him/her, then why don’t you marry him/her?

• He/she doesn’t want it.

• You have to marry him under these circumstances.

• What reason does he have if he doesn’t want to do it himself? Do you have to force us to do it?

• Do you know philosophy? If I come to this conclusion, will you agree to it, right here?

• If he doesn’t want to, I won’t do this.

• You are wrong. Do you even have a hand in this? Did you shamelessly gossip about someone’s daughter?

I came in the middle of their conversation and said, “Mr. Judge, he hasn’t done anything to me.” He raised his voice and said, “Then what were you doing in the forest? What were you doing outside at midnight? Don’t be afraid, if someone has done something, tell me.” He emphasized that if I tell him, he will marry us. It seemed like this was one of the options available in the court for punishing a perpetrator – to marry them and take the victim back to their bed. I said, “No, he hasn’t done anything and I don’t want to marry him.”

I couldn’t stand it anymore. I wanted it to end soon. Finally, he said to bring the salary slip and promise not to do such a thing again.

Before the person that Mr. Shad had sent entered the judge’s room, a soldier was speaking with the judge in a low and fast voice. I had seen him at the base; he was the same soldier who had greeted me. It took a while. Mr. Shad’s colleague went inside. It took a while. When he came back, he said, “The judge did not accept. He wrote a detention order for your guardians to come and investigate.” The world was spinning around me. I asked, “Why?” He said, “He didn’t give an explanation.” I sat on the ground with my knees on the floor and looked at the days passing by.

Afterwards, I realized that the soldier had told the judge what we had initially said and had personally informed the judge about the incident.

They took us. It’s not possible to talk about what happened and what I saw during the 8 days in prison. But I will never forget the moment when I was waiting for my father in the visiting room. He entered the room. I looked at the ground. He came towards me and paused for a moment. I didn’t look at him but I could see his old hands. He opened his arms and cried softly.

After 8 days, the judge closed the case. I don’t know how he had investigated, but if he had any doubts that I had been assaulted, why didn’t he send me for a medical examination? Why didn’t he ask why the driver picked you up in the middle of the road screaming? Why didn’t he try to convince me to talk to him honestly and not make me feel safe so I could defend my rights? That judge sentenced me to 74 lashes for the crime of having an illegal relationship. Lashes that could be bought with money. They also counted the 8 days in prison. We paid the rest and I returned home to my father’s house with a case in which I had been convicted.

After that, my parents never asked me what had happened. No one ever told me to come to them if something was bothering me. It was as if by not punishing me, they had shown great kindness. But my older brother came to me a few times. He said, “Tell me everything that happened.” He said, “If someone did something, you have to speak up. I’ll help you.” But for me, the matter was already over. The peaceful atmosphere of the house was the only reason I was there. I kept quiet and every time he came, I pretended like nothing had happened.

Three days after my return, my mother took me to see a gynecologist for an examination and tests. She went in before me. The doctor didn’t ask me what had happened, why I was bruised, or why I was in pain. He wrote a prescription and said, “Hopefully there is no problem,” and gave me some medicine for the pain and inflammation. My mother thanked God, but she still didn’t say or ask anything about what had happened to me. She could see the pain and bruises on my legs, the inflammation in my genital area. She could see me curling up at night, but she didn’t come to me. However, one time she came into my room without saying anything. I was lying down. She sat next to me and ran her hand through my hair. She said, “Don’t be upset. We are here for you.” That was enough for me; my parents’ approval.

The house was quiet and sad. My sisters looked at me with concern. Everyone was cold and kind. The atmosphere seemed calm, but I slowly started to notice changes. The first change was my phone. My father said he had left it in prison. I don’t know if he had left it or not, but he could buy me a new one. It took 4 months to buy it. Of course, it wasn’t important to me. It took 6 months to look at my life again. I wanted to go back to Tehran and continue my work, but I couldn’t even finish my sentence. My father frowned and said, “No! You’re staying here.” No matter how much I fought, it was useless. For 5 years, I did everything I could and tried every way to return to the life I believed was my right, but I couldn’t reach it. My father did everything he could for my progress, but there were too many limitations. He