The 370th Night of Memories -2

Iranian Oral History Website
Translated by Mandana Karimi

2025-9-5

The 370^th episode of the “Night of Memories” program was held on July 24, 2025 (2 Mordad 1404 in the Iranian calendar) at the Sooreh Hall of the Hozeh Honari (Art Center) with the theme “Muharram at the Frontline.” In this program, Reza Afsharnezhad, Seyed Saleh Mousavi, and Ramin Asgari shared their memories. The program was hosted by Davood Salehi.

The first narrator, Reza Afsharnezhad, continued his speech with a meaningful memory: Around 1985 (1364 in the Iranian calendar), we were returning from a patrol in the Kurdistan region when we were ambushed. The driver and the person sitting next to him were immediately martyred. By the time we tried to get out of the vehicles, take positions, and fight, it was too late. They had surrounded the vehicles, leaving no place for a fight. The anti-revolutionary forces captured us and transferred us to one of their bases located in Iraqi territory. They had constructed a cave-like shelter with strong iron doors inside the mountain. That was their prison. They kept us there.

They subjected us to severe interrogations and torture. For example, one of their tortures involved cutting the side of the calf with a knife and then pouring boiling water on it. They wanted to force us to talk this way. They caused us a lot of suffering. They gave us one meal a day. Imagine a bowl of thick noodle soup (Ash Reshteh) mixed with 10 liters of water—that was our food. I was 15 at the time and experienced this level of brutality at such a young age. When the Iran-Iraq war ended, I was 18. Our food was always like that one meal. Also, the shelter was very cold and damp. You know how cold Kurdistan is.

Besides this, they also forced us to do hard labor. They made many of us work. One day, when they had taken us out for labor and the work was done, we were returning. In Kurdistan, the rocks are layered like sheets. My foot slipped on a rock, and the rock hit the leg of one of the Komala members (anti-revolutionary group). It hit exactly the leg of the angriest and harshest one among them. He came forward, slapped me, dragged me, and kicked me while shouting vulgar insults. I knew he would react immediately. I quickly apologized, trying to calm things down, but it had no effect.

He beat me severely, and the only reaction I had was to look him in the eyes. That was it! The only thing I could do because my pride was deeply hurt—especially by the insults. Eventually, they threw us back into the shelter, locked the door, and while I was sitting there, suddenly I felt my patience run out. I started complaining, saying, “What kind of situation is this? We came to fight. If he had faced me on the battlefield, I would have known what to do.” There were about 15 or 16 prisoners — some were from the army, some from the Revolutionary Guards, and some Basij members! An old man around 65 or 66, who was not a fighter, had been captured by the anti-revolutionary forces while bringing humanitarian aid to the front by his car. He told me, “Son, thank God. Pray it doesn’t get worse.” I replied, “Dear sir, what is there to be thankful for? Our food, this watery soup, the cold, the wet blankets... and on top of that, insults.

We can’t do anything. They beat us humiliatingly. Sometimes people get beaten with sticks and whips, but this was humiliating slaps and kicks.” I told him, “What is there to be thankful for?” He said, “No, son, pray it doesn’t get worse.”

He was older, so I said, “Yes, you’re right,” but I didn’t believe it. I thought it couldn’t get worse. Ten minutes passed, then they opened the shelter door and told me to come out. They took me out with more beatings. The same look I had given that man earlier had offended them and they saw it as insolence. They took me to a corner of their base. There was an iron cage about 60 cm by 60 cm—just a small cube made of very thick iron bars! They crushed me and threw me into that cage. They locked it securely. I was under extreme pressure, and after that experience, I developed claustrophobia. Even now, just recalling those conditions without thinking, it’s very hard for me. It was winter in Kurdistan, cold and rainy. I stayed in that cage for 72 hours—no water, no food, in severe cold. Then I remembered the old man’s words, “Son, pray it doesn’t get worse.” At least there we had shelter. They still gave us that watery soup with 10 liters of water. Most importantly, the presence of other fellows was a source of strength. I shared this memory to teach a lesson: even in the hardest conditions, be thankful to God and know that it can get worse. Surely God will open the way. This was a memory from captivity that I shared.

To be continued…