Odi's Story - Journey from Iran

Odi, from Iran, courageously shares with us his story of political imprisonment in Iran, his difficult voyage to London, and his struggle towards asylum and a new life for himself and his family in the UK.  We are publishing his account in instalments, starting with how his journey began.  This is a very personal account but one that is representative of the horrors and challenges faced by so many asylum seekers around the world. 

When I was in Iran, I was working for the Education Department, teaching computer science to 16 and 17-year-old boys.  During the breaks, I would speak about history because the boys were hungry for real history that wasn’t in books.  Because I was working for the state, it was a problem that I spoke about history and also that I resisted going to Friday prayer.  In Iran, religion is inherited and has more to do with your identity than your faith.  I went to the mosque when I was a boy because my father hit me, but I never understood why I had to be scared of God or why I had to pray in Arabic and not in my own language, Farsi.  

I was eventually arrested, I stopped receiving wages and insurance, and I was told that I wasn’t allowed to work.  I wasn’t fired, but I didn’t know what I could do.  I had a wife and young son to support, so I started teaching privately from home, but we had an awful life with no money.

I found another job as a civil servant working in IT.  I was a supporter of the Reformist political group of Khatami, who was in power before Ahmadinejad.  The current regime tortures and kills people in the name of Islam, but Khatami stood for democracy and cooperation among countries.  I continued to support Khatami after Ahmadinejad came to power and started speaking to my colleagues about the group.  

The Iranian Authority began to secretly monitor me and, after two years, arrested me without any warning.  At four o’clock in the morning, members of the Iranian Authority pushed in the door and attacked my house like they were arresting a killer.  They searched the house and collected our documents, pictures, notebooks and reading material, even outdated newspapers from the bin.  My son was crying, and they told my wife to sit down and shut up.

They told me to put on some clothes and then they covered my eyes and put me in a van.  I didn’t know what I had done and worried for my wife and son.  I asked them what my crime was and they just told me to shut up and let them do their job.

We got to where we were going after an hour or two, and when they were moving me from the van, they hit me with whatever they had.  It was 2 or 3 minutes, but for me it was 2 or 3 years. 

Inside, there was a narrow corridor where just one person could pass.  They lined up and hit me with pipes as I crawled down the corridor.  When I reached the end, they said, “Back again.”  The third time, they knocked me unconscious with a piece of wood to my head. 

I woke up naked in a cell.  They asked about my involvement with the Reformist group and how it related to my IT activity at work.  There were lots of tortures.  They said, “You have a big mouth and we are here to close it” and “We have plans to move you to another prison. You can never see your family. You can never get out. It will be your last house.”

They didn’t give me any food, and on the third day, they covered my eyes and brought me to a room.  In Iran, they always cover the eyes of political prisoners.  You can’t see anyone, not even other prisoners.  You can just hear people.  They put me near a wall and sprayed ice water on my body for five minutes.  I was pinned to the wall by the water pressure.  While I was still wet, they put me in a van and moved me to Evin prison.

I was in Evin for three months, in Section 209 for political prisoners.  When I got there, they left me alone in a cell for five days.  Nobody came or brought food.  There was a toilet and sink, and it was very dark.  Sunlight came in from a small circle in the roof, and there was a little lamp.

On Day 6, they covered my eyes, tied my hands and pushed me to another room.  It was completely silent and when I put my shoulder to the wall, I couldn’t feel anyone.  Then I felt someone in front of me.  A group of people pushed me to the center of the room and kicked me around like a ball.

The interviews started in Evin.  There were huge tortures and they told me lots of horrible things.  They banged the baton on the door of my cell and didn’t let me sleep.  They used hot and cold water.  They hung me from the ceiling by one leg and put my head in and out of water.  They tied my hands and feet and slammed my head against the wall.  When they pushed my head into the corner of a wall, I needed stitches from the GP, who worked for the Iranian Authority.  It was the most horrible time in my whole life.  I was crying, and they said, “We are your God today. Shout as loud as you can; no one can hear you.”

I had numerous interviews in three months, but I didn’t have anything to say to them.  They tried to connect me to anti-Muslim, anti-government groups outside the country, the Mojahedin.  They couldn’t find anything on me.  I was released because my father was able to bribe a judge with his friend’s beautiful, two hector garden in the country.  I know I was very lucky to get out and that lots of political prisoners don’t have this luck.

My father met me outside the prison at 9 o’clock one night in summer of 2008.  I said I wanted to go see my wife and son, but my father had sent them to another city for their protection.  I still haven’t seen them, but I talk to them on the phone.  My son says he doesn’t know me and that if I’m his father, I should be there with them. 

My father arranged everything to get me out of Iran.  He gave money to the "Agency," which moves people illegally from one country to another, and I made it to Karachi, Pakistan by car, motorbike and van.  After about a week, some guys brought me a fake passport, ticket and border card.  The next day I went to Karachi airport and, straightaway, to Ataturk airport in Istanbul.  I covered my face with makeup to cover the bruises.  The immigration officer at Ataturk looked back and forth from my passport to my face and asked what happened to me.  I said I fell down, and after some more questions, he put a stamp in my passport.

A guy came to the airport to pick me up.  He had my fake passport name on a sign and said, “Don’t speak" and "Follow me.”  He brought a car and we went to a motel.  My father paid for my rent, food, etc.  The Agency didn’t let me come out of the house because the Iranian Authority was operating very well in Istanbul.  They told me to just wait because my face and neck were still very bad.

After seven months, they let me leave.  They sent me by lorry to a big garage, and a driver took me to England.  It took between 20 and 28 days because the driver stopped three times for a few days each time.  I was in the back of the lorry with bread, dates, water and a piece of plastic to use as a toilet.  I say I came to this country in shit...