Some weeks ago I found myself talking to Richard Radcliffe. We'd just watched Nazanine's Story.
It was
a play about his family and events of the past 3 and half years. The
play was
about the arbitrary detention his of wife Nazanine in an Iranian jail.
She'd been detained at Tehran airport on her way home to London from a
regular visit to her family with her then 21 month old daughter. The
play was a reinactment of her story; beginning with her detention in Iran in April 2016 to the present. In real life her daughter Gabriella
had just returned to live in London with her father Richard Radcliffe;
Nazanine's husband. The 5-year old girl is now disconnected from her
mother and
the family she has known for the past 3 and a half years and Nazanine is
still in Evin prison for allegations of plotting
against the Government of the Islamic Republic of Iran.
I saw the play at at the Lakeside Theatre, University of Essex with my Iranian
born son Ben. I'd had mixed feelings about going to see the play. Part
of me wanted to ignore the horror, to turn away, to close my eyes and put
my hands over my ears so as not to hear their cries, not to remember. I
didn't want to get upset and get distracted from my mission to just get
on with my life. To get on with my life because I'm not in Evin prison
today. I often think to myself - hey, I'm not in prison today - but
it's never a very happy or particularly liberating realisation. Because there's Nazanin Zahari
Radcliffe and at least 30 other dual nationals whose lives are being spent in arbitrary detention in
Iranian jails.
Since first hearing the alarming news of
Nazanine's detention I'd been closely following the horror as it unfolded. Those
headlines in the Guardian, giving updates on Nazanine's story, somehow
served to ease
my breath, her trials and their anguish gave me an uncomfortable sense
of well-being. Following their story allowed me to relax and
take stock of where I was at. I was not in prison. There's an episode
in my
life-story that I don't talk about much. I keep it quiet because it's an
experience that is awkward to share. It remains buried: deep under a
pile of more easily relatable anecdotes and life experiences. At times when I
have told and I've been left feeling like some kind of paranoid fantasist.
I've learned that it's best to keep it
light-hearted and easily
digestible. It's become a survival story.
Now I'm safe. I'm living another episode of my life as a
regular, ordinary person. Living in a secure home with a job that just
about pays the bills. I didn't act on that job offer from the Iranian authorities: I'm not a spy and I'm not in
prison. Life is OK for me these days. The panic attacks are less
frequent and my body is less uptight and my outlook is more often upwards at
the clouds and I worry less about what could be lurking around a corner or in the shadows. I can now walk up and down the
streets in daylight and at night, cycle around town and hop on and off
buses and trains with feelings of glorious anonymity. These days I don't give a second thought to carrying or using a mobile phone. Some habits haven't changed. I still like to run. I feel
safe if I can run. So I keep fit and alert. I've learned to
expect the unexpected and to feel safe in the knowledge that I'm
prepared ... just in case.
I'd wanted to watch the
play with my son Ben. I wanted Ben to know what it is to be half Iranian;.to
have 2 bloodlines from politically opposed countries; to hold 2
passports and to have 2 allegiances. I'd
hoped the play would communicate what it means to be a trans-national.
Watching the play, I'd felt a deep connection to their story and wanted
to talk to Richard Radcliffe who'd been sitting in the front row; watching actors portray the horror of his life over the past 3 and half
years. After the performance Ben and I walked down the steps of the auditorium and approached
Richard who was in conversation with actors, the producer and
academics from the Human Rights Centre.
We got his
attention. He looked at me and shook my hand kindly. There was so much I
wanted to say; but just as his wife is stuck in Evin prison the words
were stuck in my head. I tried to say thank you for sharing ... but thanking
him was offensive, as if we'd been suitably entertained by this horror.
My next thought was to say I can't imagine how horrific this is for you. No, I couldn't say that because I could imagine it. Maybe I could say I understand what you're going through. Fuck, no I don't really understand, my experience doesn't justify saying that I understand
their experience. My understanding is a very superficial understanding
of their deep and ongoing torment. Then I came up with the word
connection. Yes, that's it, I feel connected to your ... Oh shit, to their ... what? He'd been using the work story
but I couldn't use that term, this isn't just a story, it's real and
traumatic and is ongoing, he's living it. It's their life. I can't say
it's a story to his face. Neither can I simply say that I liked the play, it
would be like saying thanks, that was entertaining. What's on at
Lakeside next Tuesday? I couldn't even bring myself to say it was good, or engaging, or informative. A simple thanks seemed wrong, thank him for what? For sharing his experience of ongoing deep trauma? I
looked at Richard, knowing his wife is locked up in Evin prison, looked
around at the others; the actors in the play, the host from the Essex
Uni Human Rights centre, at my son Ben standing beside me and then I
looked back at Richard, noticing his thinning hair and said,
'I feel a deep connection with your case'.
Watching
the play, shaking hands with Richard Radcliffe and hearing of the
family's new challenges as their daughter Gabriella adapts to life in
London all enabled me to express huge my sense of relief. But that
sense of relief is matched by feelings of guilt. Guilt is an odd
feeling. Why should I be feeling guilty just because I'm not in prison
today? I suppose it could be
understood as survivor's guilt. It's survivor's guilt because it was her that happened to get picked. Nazanine's detention is arbitrary.
arbitrary |ˈɑːbɪt(rə)ri|
adjective
1 based on random choice or personal whim, rather than any reason or system: an arbitrary decision.
Nazanine Zaghari-Radcliffe was in Iran to visit her family. She wasn't there to plot against
the regime. Her detention is arbitrary and cruel. It's an unbearable
injustice inflicted on her and her family.
