A prison letter from Sharifeh Mohammadi, an Iranian woman with Death Sentence for her activism
With love for life, and in remembrance of all those who cherished and still cherish human values and dignity.
Spring, the green army of beauty and grace, arrives once again. And you—full of vitality and joy—welcome it with open arms. You dance with it, casting away all that is dark, ugly, and impure. This, to me, is the true meaning of life.
My dearest ones,
It’s been over 15 months since that ordinary autumn day—December 5, 2023—when I was arrested in the street, in a car, while returning home like any other day. I always thought I couldn’t bear the distance from my beloved son, Aydin. But now I realize, like many other mothers, that not only have I endured the separation, but also the pain and suffering unjustly imposed upon me.
These afflictions were born from false reports and baseless accusations—lies meant to strip me not only of my freedom but of life itself.
Sometimes, when I look back at what happened during those endless hours and days of interrogation, I’m struck with disbelief. How could individuals—those who call themselves experts of a large ministry—be so shallow, so irrational in their judgment? Despite solid evidence that countered their claims, they stubbornly insisted on pursuing unjust charges.
There were countless interrogations—long, repetitive, and exhausting—in Rasht. In a small, windowless, airless cell barely two meters across. Each minute passed like an hour. It was pure mental torture.
They wanted to force me into confessing to something I had never done—into accepting ties and actions I was completely unfamiliar with.
In those days, time had no meaning. There was just day following day. I imagined myself with you during every occasion. On Yalda night—the longest night of the year—I sat alone in solitary, crying over a small plate of snacks my cellmates had sent me. I remember the sweetness of pumpkin dessert mixing with my tears. That was my Yalda, without Aydin.
In solitary confinement in Rasht, I used to sing “Bahare Delneshin” (The Lovely Spring) aloud, imagining Aydin practicing music. In my mind, I stood beside him, watching his fingers move with the rhythm of hope.
I worried that in my absence, on the anniversary of your great-aunt’s passing, Grandma Fathi would be left alone and grieving. But Aydin and Siros, despite the circumstances, did not let her be alone. I’m proud of you for that.
Day after day passed. I held onto the hope of being released and returning home. But one night, to my disbelief, I found myself in a car with three male guards, heading through the dark roads toward Bijar.
January 4.
No words were exchanged—except when I asked for rest breaks because of back pain or for lunch.
Siros, you have no idea what I went through until I was finally handed over to Sanandaj prison. For any woman, no matter how strong, the darkness and uncertainty of not knowing what comes next is soul-crushing.
When we arrived at Sanandaj, it felt like I had stepped into a safe haven—but it was still prison. Still solitary confinement.
The next day, interrogations resumed. Same questions. Same baseless accusations. All meant to crush my spirit and force me into submission.
They didn’t know I was the daughter of a laborer. Since childhood, I’ve seen the calloused hands of my father—who used a sledgehammer to carve stone his whole life. He worked without a single day of social security coverage. No pension, no safety net. Only the hope that his children would one day live better lives.
He told us stories of carving the palace walls of Shemiran, building homes for the wealthy, while he lived in poverty, earning nothing but dust and shattered pebbles—some of which would lodge in his eyes as he worked. At night, Grandma Sarvar would sit by his side and rinse his eyes with tea, preparing him for another day of labor.
A lifetime of work. Sometimes sick. Sometimes unemployed. But always proud. In the end, he died with dignity.
Aydin, being raised by your grandparents—by such noble, resilient people—made me strong too. Their spirit flows through me, even here behind bars. I am not broken. Life still pulses within me.
I ran during winter yard time in Sanandaj—alone, in slippers, surrounded by snow—because I had to stay strong. For you. I stood on tiptoe, trying to see the snowy mountains. One day I asked the driver who took me to interrogations what mountains they were. He told me they were the Abidar Mountains.
I thought of hiking with my comrades, and of singing “Hamrah Sho Aziz” hand in hand on the summit.
I began dreaming again—this time for your birthday. February 14, 2024. But the day came and went, and I was still far from you. I only managed to hear your voice.
Happy birthday, my sweet boy.
With a blindfold over my eyes, I closed them and turned toward the wall. All three of us blew out your birthday candle together—in our minds. I know what you wished for. And I’m sorry I couldn’t make it come true.
Two months in solitary in Sanandaj passed. Just before I was transferred back to Rasht, an intelligence officer placed a mirror in front of me. I hadn’t seen my face in three months. In that mirror, I saw a stranger.
He told me the bruises were gone.
He was right. The bruises on my face were gone. But something remained—deep inside my chest. A darkness that will never fade.
I had lost 14 kilos. One of the interrogations had left the right side of my face entirely bruised. According to the guards, even prison management had refused to accept me upon arrival. That was the state they delivered me in.
Then, the day came. A cold, snowy day. A visitation behind the glass. I saw you and Siros. That moment was everything. A lifeline. Then, waiting again—for court. And after that, waiting for a verdict.
I truly believed I would be acquitted. I had done nothing to deserve otherwise. My only crime was living. Loving life. Loving people. Fighting for dignity. For workers. For women. For the voiceless.
Then came the call:
“Siros, tell me! What did they decide? Has the verdict come?”
He hesitated. He choked up. I kept insisting.
And then he said it.
Ashad-e-Mojazat.
Maximum punishment.
What? What does that mean? How long? Why are you hesitating?
“Sharifeh… they’ve sentenced you to death. Hanging.”
What?! What crime have I committed that warrants such a sentence? How is this possible?
Silence fell over the entire cellblock.
My fingers, my toes—they began to freeze. I lay on the bed. I remembered how, before Grandpa died, his limbs had also turned cold. I had thought he was just chilly. I covered him with blankets and rubbed his hands.
Now I understood.
And then… I heard laughter.
Little Shayan, the baby of the ward, was tugging at my blanket, giggling. He had just learned to stand. That tiny laugh brought me back to life.
“Get up,” I told myself. “Pick him up. Love him. He has done nothing wrong.”
And I did.
Maria said, “Sharifeh, get up… Shayan is calling you.”
I carried him on my back and began to sing. The same songs I used to sing for you when you were little:
“O people, let us live with kindness… Let unity bind us across all faiths and tongues…”…
(Read Part II)
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