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I read about Mr. Khamenei’s recent visit to a security prison from the days of the ancient ‎regime, then called the Komiteh Moshtarak (joint committee). Memories of 33 years ago ‎inadvertently came to my mind when we were cell mates in that prison. I have written the ‎details of those days in my memoirs, which I hope to publish soon.‎

The prison guard showed me into the cell and loudly shut the door behind me. When I got ‎up, I picked up my jacket and put on my glasses. I saw a very think man with a long ‎black beard and wearing glasses sitting on the black blankets piled up in the corner of the ‎cell. From the turban that he had made from his prison shirt I understood him to be a ‎cleric. On seeing me, he got up and welcomed me with a smile. He extended his hand and ‎told me his name: “Seyed Ali Khamenei.”‎

This was the first time I was in such proximity with a cleric. To me, a cleric was someone ‎who would always be on his pulpit with a mind that was thousands of years away from a ‎communist like me.‎

I extended my hand and involuntarily said: “I am a communist and my name is … ”‎
My new cell mate smiled and made me sit next to him on the blankets. When it was our ‎turn to go to the bathroom outside the cell, he would firmly position his turban and wait ‎for a guard to lead him out. The guards on the other hand would remove the turban – as if ‎they were carrying out special orders - and offensively lead him out of the cell. On one ‎occasion, Sagh Bad One (a pseudo name for a guard that I call “bad dog number one”) ‎would grabbed his hair and pulled him out of the cell to the end of the corridor. Most of ‎the evenings, my cell mate would face the small window, whisper passages from the ‎Quran, recite his prayers and read blessings. He would these things while crying, bitterly ‎and for a long time. It was this religious behavior that would sit well in my heart. ‎Whenever sadness took over me, I heard a voice: “Get up Hushang, let’s go for a walk.”‎

With my imprisonment, I had left behind the biggest love of my life. In prison, I did not ‎know for a long time that soon after my arrest, she had left for the UK to continue her ‎studies. I had been forfeited of my love. When I spoke of her, my cell mate spoke up and ‎told me of his love encounter and marriage.‎

My knowledge and interest in literature, and particularly poetry, was a good basis for our ‎long talks. It was through this that I learned that he has a special expertise in modern ‎literature, particularly poetry. Sometimes I sang the revolutionary hymns that I had ‎learned from my prison days in Ahvaz, which he enjoyed listening to. On a number of ‎occasions I passed on my journalistic knowledge to him. He always listened with interest ‎and asked very specific questions. One of the lessons that I narrated to him was this.‎

Don’t pay attention to the headlines. In the body of the text, look for words which are ‎used in special ways, etc.‎

He listened carefully and learned. He was deeply attached to smoking. Every prisoner got ‎one single cigarette for the day and since I was not a smoker, I gave him my quota. He ‎would carefully split the two cigarettes into six pieces and light each piece with absolute ‎passion. ‎

We also exchanged jokes sometimes. He welcomed the good ones and laughed with a ‎loud voice. On one occasion Sagh Two (dog number two) heard us laugh. He rushed to ‎the cell, opened the door and slapped each one of us. He did not like dirty jokes. He too ‎told me some jokes and … .‎

The cell that we shared witnessed this atmosphere for about a month. Mr. Khamenei was ‎taken out of the cell on one or two occasions, during this time and I too was interrogated ‎once.‎

Three months passed. A passage that seemed longer than three years. I did not again ‎experience such attachment or closeness to anyone in such a short time. One day, the ‎door of the cell opened and a guard called out my name: “Pick up the blankest and be ‎ready … .” This meant that my cell was being changed.‎

Khamenei and I hugged and cried. I felt my cellmate shaking. I thought it must be ‎because of the winter. I took off my jacket and insisted that he take it. He wouldn’t. But ‎he did and put it on. We hugged again. I felt warm teardrops and he said: “In an Islamic ‎republic, no teardrop will fall from an innocent … .”‎

So when I heard, after 33 years, that Mr. Khamenei had visited the former detention ‎center where we both were prisoners, I really wanted to ask him, “Do you remember ‎those days?” I would then tell him that when the Islamic republic came to power and you ‎became its president, agents of your regime came and arrested me again, and even took ‎me to the same prison.‎

Have they told us what they did to me and to others like me? The things that the ‎interrogators of the Islamic republic did to us paled what the torturers of the Shah’s ‎regime had done to us. They kept me in solitary confinement for 666 days. They hanged ‎me from my hands or feet for nights. I attempted suicide three times.‎

My interrogator wanted me to confess that I was a spy for the British. Then confess that I ‎was a spy for the Soviets. And he succeeded in forcing me to such coerced confessions. ‎They hung me from the ceiling, and forced me to eat my excretes.‎

I do not know whether the workload of the leader of the regime allows Mr. Khamenei to ‎read the tale of his former cellmate. I can even provide some specifications of the ‎interrogator. In those days, I think he was the deputy minister of intelligence and then ‎became ambassador of Iran in Tajikistan. Yes, I am talking about Nasser Sarmadi Parsa. ‎You can ask him what he subjected me to.‎

But it was not just me. Thousands and thousands of other women and men found ‎themselves in the same predicament as me. In fact I was one of the lucky ones to escape ‎death. Thousands of others, mothers, adolescents, crouching old men, etc were hanged. ‎

How I wish that as you walked in the corridors of the old detention centre, I could tell ‎you that those who created the “correctional” centers are among the same people whose ‎history of cruelty has been turned into museums for people to see.‎