Twenty-one year old Ali Mahin Torabi’s case has received extensive attention inside and outside Iran. According to Amnesty International he has been convicted of a murder committed when he was 16 years old and is now at risk of imminent execution in Tehran, though Iran is a state party to international treaties including the Convention on the Rights of the Child (CRC), which expressly prohibit the execution of child offenders.
Walls, only walls. I am surrounded by walls. I cannot forget any of the terrifying moments of these last few days. I don’t want to think about how time is running out. Only a few more days…
From the first day of my arrest, five years ago, until now, the sky is all I can see. During all these unbearable moments, I can only stare at the endless fences of my prison. I can only see its towers and its barbed-wires which pierce my heart. Do you hear the bleeding of my wounded heart?
I am sick. I am cold. The essence of my youth has been shattered. Every moment of my tedious life is filled with rancor. I am tired. These repetitious days pull my existence apart. It’s to live or to die — it’s†the only thing I can think of. The only thing that slowly destroys whatever is left of me.
Every time I remember the pain that I am putting my parents through, I just want to die. I have already written my will. I have accepted my destiny. But I am going to pray, before they put the noose around my neck. I am going to put my hand on the Koran and I will pledge that I haven’t killed Mazdak, my classmate and my friend. It is true that I had a knife in my hand, but I didn’t kill him.
The weakness of my defense and the lack of a complete examination of the evidence have brought me here, into †this hopeless situation. I have heard that Mazdak’s mother has forgiven me, but I don’t know why his father doesn’t want me to live. I am trapped between life and death. During all these years the weight of the sin I haven’t committed has been on my shoulders. I am tired. All days are all the same. I look at the sky and pray.
Yesterday, someone showed me a copy of the Iran newspaper. It seems that now people are praying with me. I read every line and every word†expressing the compassion of these ordinary people, and I cried. I felt relieved, as if I could see an approaching sunrise.
Yes, my instincts tell me that at the end of this black night, a warm sun is going to shine in the sky. At the other side of my prison’s high fences there is a mountain and the mountain watches over me. No, even closer! God has enveloped my heart. God is calling my name. I call him to prove my faith to him. To show him that I still do exist, as long as he is with me. I still believe that God, from behind the bars of my cell, is observing my frozen hands. I am not leaving. I can hear him. I still believe that my sole share of life shouldn’t be living this way; living in a cage. I still believe that God is hearing my prayers. I truly believe it.
It is fall and I have almost forgotten how the trees look now. I miss the free world. I miss the fall and every moment of my life is full of passion. But there is no more time left. I have to go. And I don’t want to. Even my cellmates pity me and pray for me. The nightmare of death doesn’t leave me alone, but for the past few days I just try to hide my agony. If on my day of execution, Mazdak’s father forgives me, I promise I will be like a son to him
My mother brought me a book of Hafez. “My Ali will survive,” she said. Now I dream of her and what she said every night.
I miss the smell of my home, the smell of my notepads and my books. If you found my computer notepad, please write on it: “I wished I could have become an engineer.” But I didn’t. Today I opened my book of Hafez and made a wish. It said: “I have vowed if one day my sorrow and unhappiness ends, I will sing and I will dance forever”.
If I am forgiven, each cell of my body will celebrate the gift of life. But for now, destiny and the will of Mazdak’s father and mother still own my youth.
Translated by Azarin A. Sadegh
