By Narges Mohammadi*
*Narges Mohammadi, the 2023 Nobel Peace Prize laureate, wrote this in 2018 in the notorious Avin prison, where she remains in jail, after a three-day release on bail. In it, she reflected on coming home after three and a half years, during which her husband and two children had gone into exile in Paris. The intimate letter offers a glimpse into her grappling with the personal costs of her struggle for freedom and human rights in Iran.
This English translation of her letter is published in collaboration with the London-based outlet Aasoo, where the original Farsi text appeared on October 2, 2018.
After three and a half years, I [again] open my house’s door. Without Ali and Kiana there, it feels as if this is not the home where they brutally took me away [from my kids]; I hear my kids’ voice, their “Maman! Maman!” calls.
All of a sudden, a weight so heavy lingers on my heart that I don’t hear my friends’ voices who have gathered to welcome me, trying to compensate for my husband and children’s absence. But my eyes are searching for something else. My eyes are drawn to a couple pairs of flip flops, a few centimetre-long small pink flip flops of my dear Ali and Kiana. I pick them up and press them to my chest. I am stuck in time, in the time of these flip flops on my daughter’s little feet. I saw Kiana on Skype [call]. She has grown up; her hair is long and her face has changed. Ali has changed too; my little son with curly hair is now a tall man.
I realize what I have lost in these three and a half years.
I come closer and see the measuring tape I had attached to the wall to observe their growing up, centimetre by centimetre, until the last one. I asked Ali how tall he was. He said 161. I have lost 40 centimetres; 40 centimetres that I haven’t seen, that I haven’t registered; 40 centimetres that I haven’t celebrated.
I enter the bedroom. Kiani’s Elsa doll and Ali’s kind tiger are lying on their beds. The bed sheets are untouched.
For me, it feels as if everything has stopped in that 88 months ago. The closet is filled with toys for 5-8 year olds. On the closet door, there is a school timetable: Farsi from 8 a.m. to 9 a.m. I asked Kiana about her classes in Paris; 8 am to 9 am for French. But I have frozen in that 8 – 9 a.m. Persian class. I realize what I have lost in these three and a half years. My children have grown up, they have changed. They only talk about their dad now. Their mother is absent from their daily lives, from putting them to sleep and waking them up; from their going to school; from their shopping and playing schedules; from making dinners. I am not even privy to their little secrets anymore. Just as things stopped for me three and a half years ago, so has my role in their lives.
Oppression burns your body and pains your soul. While one might be visible, the other, just as wounded and festering, is hidden.
Oppression ceases your living. It activates the distances and suppresses the arrivals and the togetherness. Oppression burns your body and pains your soul. While one might be visible, the other, just as wounded and festering, is hidden. Oppression doesn’t torture you only in prison and exile; through suppression. It dries up humans’ [your] very existence, everywhere all the time, from every dimension.
I Didn’t See My Kids Grow Up
By Narges Mohammadi*
*Narges Mohammadi, the 2023 Nobel Peace Prize laureate, wrote this in 2018 in the notorious Avin prison, where she remains in jail, after a three-day release on bail. In it, she reflected on coming home after three and a half years, during which her husband and two children had gone into exile in Paris. The intimate letter offers a glimpse into her grappling with the personal costs of her struggle for freedom and human rights in Iran.
This English translation of her letter is published in collaboration with the London-based outlet Aasoo, where the original Farsi text appeared on October 2, 2018.
After three and a half years, I [again] open my house’s door. Without Ali and Kiana there, it feels as if this is not the home where they brutally took me away [from my kids]; I hear my kids’ voice, their “Maman! Maman!” calls.
All of a sudden, a weight so heavy lingers on my heart that I don’t hear my friends’ voices who have gathered to welcome me, trying to compensate for my husband and children’s absence. But my eyes are searching for something else. My eyes are drawn to a couple pairs of flip flops, a few centimetre-long small pink flip flops of my dear Ali and Kiana. I pick them up and press them to my chest. I am stuck in time, in the time of these flip flops on my daughter’s little feet. I saw Kiana on Skype [call]. She has grown up; her hair is long and her face has changed. Ali has changed too; my little son with curly hair is now a tall man.
I come closer and see the measuring tape I had attached to the wall to observe their growing up, centimetre by centimetre, until the last one. I asked Ali how tall he was. He said 161. I have lost 40 centimetres; 40 centimetres that I haven’t seen, that I haven’t registered; 40 centimetres that I haven’t celebrated.
I enter the bedroom. Kiani’s Elsa doll and Ali’s kind tiger are lying on their beds. The bed sheets are untouched.
For me, it feels as if everything has stopped in that 88 months ago. The closet is filled with toys for 5-8 year olds. On the closet door, there is a school timetable: Farsi from 8 a.m. to 9 a.m. I asked Kiana about her classes in Paris; 8 am to 9 am for French. But I have frozen in that 8 – 9 a.m. Persian class. I realize what I have lost in these three and a half years. My children have grown up, they have changed. They only talk about their dad now. Their mother is absent from their daily lives, from putting them to sleep and waking them up; from their going to school; from their shopping and playing schedules; from making dinners. I am not even privy to their little secrets anymore. Just as things stopped for me three and a half years ago, so has my role in their lives.
Oppression ceases your living. It activates the distances and suppresses the arrivals and the togetherness. Oppression burns your body and pains your soul. While one might be visible, the other, just as wounded and festering, is hidden. Oppression doesn’t torture you only in prison and exile; through suppression. It dries up humans’ [your] very existence, everywhere all the time, from every dimension.