Not a breath of air rises from the walls of Evin prison, destroyed by the blind fury of Israeli bombs. How could it? There is no water, no infirmary, no administration, no guard post. The large gate, once so feared, has been pulverized and dissolved into thin air. The first two floors of Wing 4, where the political prisoners were held, were blown away by the explosion. The guard post has been destroyed.

So has the library, that treasure trove of knowledge patiently accumulated, book by book, over decades of resistance. The works of Plato and Aristotle, the verses of Persian poets, classical literature, swept away, buried under the rubble. Even Le Petit Prince (The Little Prince), the only book in French, the one that had welcomed me like a friend when I emerged from the hell of Section 209, now lies beneath the rubble.

Among the dead are some of the worst interrogators, perpetrators of torture and humiliation. They will not be missed. And yet, should we rejoice in their loss? Do they not also leave behind mothers, children, grieving faces? No political prisoner wished for their death. We do not offer them our hatred. We leave them our pity.

Trapped in a despised system

At the very heart of the impact, the medical staff were struck down. I remember the compassionate gaze of Dr. Mossaheb, the kindness of the nurses, their quiet courage as they passed clandestine news to the families of the disappeared.

Many guards died. Often young men, some of whom confided their shame at escorting me before a criminal judge. Boys trapped in a system they despised, with no way out in a ruined economy.

And what became of Mr. Ahmadi, the exuberant admissions officer, warm and deeply humane? Is he still alive? Or has his smile, too, been buried in the dust?

What did they hope to liberate by bombing Evin, if not even more anger and pain?

You have 64.53% of this article left to read. The rest is for subscribers only.