A continued prison letter from Sharifeh Mohammadi (Read Part I)
During the weeks when the verdict was under review by the Supreme Court, what tormented me the most wasn’t just the fear of execution. It was knowing that you—my son, and Grandma Sarvar—still didn’t know what had happened. You were unaware of the unjust sentence hanging over my head.
What gave me strength was the truth I carried deep inside: that I had committed no crime. None. I had only stood beside my fellow workers—men and women whose backs have been broken by the weight of unjust systems and exploitative elites.
Is that a crime?
Are there not thousands of others who do the same, peacefully and legally, around the world?
If this is a crime, then it is only because they chose to twist truth into guilt, and justice into death.
Time passed.
Autumn came again. December arrived. It had been a full year since my arrest. Still no resolution. Still I remained in a legal limbo, not knowing what fate would decide for me.
Then came winter. February once again.
Another birthday for you, my darling Aydin.
Once again, I would not be there. But this time, I wanted to give you something made with my own hands. A gift stitched with love and longing: a blanket, knitted with finger yarn, one loop after another, each woven with hope.
I stayed up until 3:00 a.m., working to finish it in time for the in-person visit—something rare and precious. I had even managed to make a small cake from the prison commissary.
That moment, seeing you and your father and placing the gift in your hands… that was my celebration. That was my survival.
This is what sustains us in prison.
Not just food or sleep. But these flickers of connection, of love, of memory—reminders that the outside world still exists, and that we still belong to it.
Let me tell you about my father once more.
He carved stone all his life. For palaces. For the rich. For those who would never know his name.
Yet he taught us dignity, resistance, and pride. He taught us never to accept humiliation, never to confess to a lie—even if forced.
He died a poor man. But with his head held high.
And I—your mother—have tried to live by that same principle, even here.
Even as I face death.
Even as my body weakens, but my spirit grows stronger.
Today, I am writing not only for you, Aydin. I am writing for every child separated from their mother by injustice. I am writing for every woman, every laborer, every prisoner of conscience who sits in darkness simply for loving justice, peace, and humanity.
Let the world know:
I was sentenced to die. But I am still alive.
And as long as I breathe, I will hold onto the truth. I will not be silent.
If I must leave this world, let it be known that my only “crime” was loving life.
Was dreaming of freedom.
Was standing up for others.
Was being a mother, a daughter, a worker—and a human being
Sharifeh Mohammadi
From inside the walls of Iran’s prison system
Sentenced to death, but full of life
Stand With Sharifeh. Help Us Stop Her Execution.
Sharifeh Mohammadi is a mother, a worker, and a voice for justice — now sentenced to death for her courage.
But her story is not over — unless the world stays silent.
We’re calling on the international community, human rights allies, and every person of conscience to act:
✅ Join our campaign to demand international pressure on the Iranian regime.
✅ Write to your representatives — insist on diplomatic action to save her life.
✅ Share her story — let the world know her name and her courage.
✅ Donate to support our campaign — your contribution helps fund legal support, international advocacy, and awareness efforts to stop this execution.
Together, we can make the difference between silence and survival.
Stand by her side. Act today.
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