On that Monday I accompanied the mothers, wives and children of political prisoners to the meeting hall of Evin prison in Tehran. In the waiting room, I saw other activists, and Dr Maleki and Mr. Nourizad.
The atmosphere in the hall was tense and tears were visible in the corners of many eyes which stared at the door, hoping for it to open so they could see someone bring them the news of their children or an imminent meeting with them.
The previous day was international mother’s day but none of the mothers in this room congratulated each other. I heard Akbar Amini’s mother calling her son’s name and beating her chest in grief. She had just returned from meeting her son when she saw his bruised head and neck from behind the glass. She was so overtaken with grief and shock that she continuously repeated his name to herself.
Mother Amini has diabetes and had collapsed three times during this visit when she came to see her son, twice before and once after the meeting. We called an ambulance and they said she should be taken to a hospital. But she refused to leave saying she first wanted to see her son. An emergency doctor who had come to attend to her said that her condition was serious and that she needed to be taken a hospital immediately. Only then was her name announced on the loudspeaker, asking her to go to the meeting are to see her son. She left hurriedly and a few minutes later we heard her cries and screams: the cries of a mother shocked to see the injuries on her son’s body. That is when she collapsed for the third time. They then took her to the hospital.
On the other side of the hall sat the mother of Saeed Matinpour, who was continuously crying and said a few words between her sobs. She collapsed too and some people came to help her, as some brought drinking water. “Mother, please get up, Open your eyes, dear mother,” someone said trying to recover and console her.
Mother, what a beautiful but painful word. I feel the pain that these and other mothers have felt. Tears form in my eyes too.
Saeed’s mother said that she saw her son after he had been kept in a solitary cell for nine months. She said at first she could not recognize him; he had lost so much weight. She then asked her daughter in law, “Why did they say there will not meeting for the next three months: “Have they done something to my son?”
An elderly woman with a pale face asks me why they were not allowing them to meet their children. “I come from the town of Borujerd and have travelled 18 hours,” she says adding, “I will not leave until I see him. I hear they have beaten our children. Why?” She is the mother of Mohammad Davari.
Still another mother raises her voice. She is the mother of Soheyl Babadi. She is restless and can’t sit still. “I have only one son, Soheyl. I must see him,” she says.
In another corner a mother is comforted by her daughter. The emergency doctor who was attending to Akbar Amini’s mother also takes a look at this mother; her son’s name is Mehdi Dowlati. The doctor tells the daughters to take their mothers to a hospital without delay.
The loud voice of several mothers is heard in the hall again; they are all asking to see their children. They chant, “Allaho Akbar” and “Release the political prisoners.” Repeatedly. I feel the earth shake under my feet. I notice Dr Maleki sprinkling water on a mother while holding a cane.
Mr. Nourizad is seen listening to the grievances of a mother. Alireza Rajai mother returns from seeing her son and while being held by her other son who is consoling her. She is in tears and moaning. “Dear Narges, they beat up Alireza. Who do we complain about this?” she asks. “To God,” is my answer. She then asks why God does not address their pain.
Hossein Ronaghi Maleki’s mother is sitting next to the mothers of Davari and Matinpour, both shedding continuous tears. She talks of her son’s illness and is concerned about his health. Every so often, she recites prays and walks up to the prison guards to repeat her request to see her son.
The mother of Saeed Zeynali arrives, her face covered with tears. She hugs the mother of Saeed Matinpour who asks, “Have they beaten your son too?” Mother Zeynali responds with an “I don’t know, maybe,” amid her sobs. Mother Matinpour asks Zeynali, “Do you have a visit today?” to which she is told, “I wish my Saeed was in Evin too and was here for him.” These mothers, like others, exchange views and their grief, even though they neither know each other nor the children of each other. But they share one feeling: a mother’s love for her children.
To see these mothers craving to see their imprisoned children on mother’s day is not easy. And I am bewildered how the rulers of this land can be indifferent to so many mothers whose tears flow from their faces because they cannot see or be with their children.
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