Houra Nikbakht, Political Prisoner: “The Middle East Needs ‘Women, Life, Freedom’”
Hengaw: Wednesday, November 27, 2024
Houra Nikbakht, a female political prisoner serving her sentence in Tehran’s Evin Prison, has penned a letter stating, “The Middle East needs ‘Women, Life, Freedom.’” In this letter, which Hengaw has received, she reflects on the cases of Pakhshan Azizi and Verisheh Moradi, two Kurdish political prisoners sentenced to death. She asks, “Where can two Kurdish Sunni women take their pleas for justice?” The full text of her letter follows:
From the northern end of “Yadgar-e-Imam” Highway, I write from Evin Prison.
From one of the grim legacies of Khomeini and from within the women’s ward of Evin.
Last year, after visiting a doctor for symptoms that revealed no clear physical issues, I was prescribed travel, yoga, desert walks, and surrounding myself with joyful people to improve my health. Now, I find myself here—where none of those remedies are possible—but alongside courageous, resilient, and hopeful women of Evin.
Evin is neither a utopia nor the dystopia some portray for political leverage. It is a prison, but within its confines are extraordinary women whose strength defies the despair around them. Among these women, Pakhshan Azizi and Verisheh Moradi stand out—two individuals condemned to death (state murder).
I first met Pakhshan Azizi in the courtyard of the ward. It wasn’t the prematurely white hair—whitened by the harshness of her experiences—that made me think she was years older than me. It was her unique composure and maturity that gave that impression. When I asked her, “What are you accused of?” she gave a bitter smile and replied, “Being a woman and a Kurd.”
Until the day the news of her death sentence spread through the ward, I continued to believe she was much older than me. Strangely, even now, I feel as though I’m standing before a woman who has lived twice the life I have.
You have to be incredibly strong to ensure no one speaks ill of someone who shows no regard for your well-being. You have to possess immense greatness to care for everyone around you, even while living under the shadow of a death sentence, never letting your role as a social worker falter for even a moment. And it takes extraordinary courage to repeatedly urge your fellow inmates not to mention your name in their #NoToExecution slogans, and to insist that anyone writing about you must also highlight the plight of others condemned to death.
Pakhshan deeply believes that only her body is imprisoned—her mind, thoughts, and emotions remain free, extending across the Middle East. She is a woman who, from childhood, has borne the stigmas of being labeled a separatist, a non-citizen, and a second-class individual. Arrested in 2009 under similar accusations, Pakhshan has always fought for a dignified and free life. Through her conduct in prison, she has shown that she fears not death, but a life without honor.
The announcement of her death sentence did not alter her daily routine in the slightest. Her schedule for meals, hygiene, exercise, and study remained completely unchanged. She demonstrated that her resolve and dignity were unshaken, even in the face of the gravest of threats. A woman who endured months in solitary confinement—without books, without contact, without visitation—yet still finds the strength to cook dinner in large quantities for the #NoToExecutionTuesday campaign.
What Pakhshan has experienced in her confrontations with ISIS is beyond what most can imagine. She is a woman destined to be a social worker, bound by an unwavering sense of duty that transcends borders she never considered valid in the first place.
The first time I saw Verisheh, whome we call Ciwana at her request, was in the hallway of the ward. Her calm demeanor, impeccably tidy appearance, and the careful coordination of colors in her outfit, right down to the small clips in her always-braided hair, immediately caught my attention. For a mind accustomed to stereotypes, she presented the image of a woman so composed and unshaken that nothing, as the saying goes, could ruffle her. Spending more time with her, without fully understanding the struggles she has endured, only deepens this naive impression: she has a passion for writing and editing, striving to write in flawless Persian, her second language. She frequently orders books and reads avidly. With meticulous care and patience, she makes kafi golilvank (a traditional handicraft). Even during her twenty-day hunger strike, no sign of distress was visible in her speech or demeanor—only her emaciated face and body revealed the toll it had taken on her spirit.
You must make an effort to understand why and how she ended up here. Her tears, which flow when recounting the interrogations and execution of Farzad Kamangar, shatter any naive assumptions you may have, reducing them to ashes.
The fact that, after all these years, the same interrogator who questioned Farzad also interrogated her brings a proud, defiant smile to her face. At approximately 39 years old, she believes that resistance is not something that begins in one place and ends in another; rather, life itself is an ongoing struggle. For her, resistance is not about picking up a weapon or confronting individuals—it is about fighting against the vicious cycle of life.
When Verisheh speaks of the days she spent in Rojava and Kobani, you can’t help but think that if advocating for women’s rights involves what she has done, the title of “women’s rights activist” seems almost superficial for many others.
For her, Rojava was a turning point in understanding the essence of womanhood, and the scars she carries from her time there are a badge of honor. She still yearns to explore the depths of what it means to be a woman and continues to fight for a revolution of thought. Though fragments from her injuries remain lodged in her body and cause her discomfort, she chooses to preserve them as a memento of Kobani. Verisheh boldly declares, “I will continue to fight until every form of oppression against women, from Kurdistan to Balochistan, from Iran to Afghanistan, is eradicated, and until the ideals of ‘Jin, Jiyan, Azadi’ (Woman, Life, Freedom) are realized.”
She stands accused of rebellion, merely for being a woman, a Kurd, and seeking a free life.
Verisheh is condemned because she chose a way of life that rejects rigid political boundaries—those defined by a singular language, a uniform culture, a monolithic religion, and a one-dimensional interpretation of history.
The intricate puzzle of my life was missing the piece of living in Evin. I had to come here to witness the beauty and grandeur of these extraordinary women. I had to come to understand that the struggle is far broader than I had ever imagined. I had to stand alongside these women and shout in the courtyard of Evin, “The Women’s Ward of Evin / United and steadfast / Until the death penalty is abolished / We stand firm to the end.”
These are women who fear nothing, who refuse to remain silent, even within the confines of prison.
The puzzle of life for every inhabitant of the Middle East needs the piece of abolishing the death sentences of Pakhshan, Verisheh, and every woman and man fighting for freedom. It yearns for the liberation of figures like Pakhshan and Verisheh and is deeply dependent on Jin, Jiyan, Azadi—Woman, Life, Freedom.
Now, let the Middle East answer: Where should two Kurdish women, raised in Sunni-majority regions, take their cries for justice?
“To whom does the grain of wheat complain when the judge is a chicken?”
To a place where men from the central authorities, carrying identification defined by the dominant religion, sit in judgment.
Women who are deemed insignificant for central power but bear the heaviest weight of accusations when verdicts are handed down.
Women whose crime is binding woman, life, and freedom together.
“O life, I shall not live with you,
unless I adorn you with freedom.”
Houra Nikbakht
December 2024
Evin Women’s Ward
