TEHRAN — "Excuse me, Miss, but here in my hand I have a warrant for your arrest," said a middle-aged man with a few days' growth of beard. "Please do not make any noise as you walk calmly to the Mercedes parked at the corner."
When the man approached me, I had just left a bookstore. It crossed my mind to resist, but I thought better of it.
In the car, I was flanked by two broad-shouldered men in black jackets. The man with the arrest warrant drove up Enqelab Avenue and waved the arrest warrant to assure me they were not kidnappers. "We are from the judiciary branch, and everything will be done within the framework of Islamic law," he said. "Do not worry. The whole thing should not last more than a couple of hours."
I was annoyed but relieved, and not especially surprised. Arrest and interrogation of anyone who writes stories critical of the regime has become commonplace in Iran. I am a blogger, and I have written often and honestly about life in my country, so it's an occupational hazard.
When we arrived at our destination, I was left standing outside with the late December sun penetrating the blindfold they had insisted I wear. The cold and fresh air suggested northern Tehran, which meant Evin, the most notorious prison. I stood there for about half an hour, my calf muscles aching.
"Excuse me, how long do you think I will be kept here?" I asked the next person who spoke to me.
"It depends on you," he replied. "If you cooperate, it will be brief."
I was led down a spiral staircase. A woman with a velvet voice asked me to strip and handed me a prison uniform.
"But they told me it won't be more than a few hours."
I was photographed and asked my height, weight, eye color and the number of children I have. "I am single," I said. All this was humiliating.
"That's why you are making trouble for our system," the woman said. "If you were married, you would not have time to write such nonsense."
I was led to a cell, and a heavy, solid metal door was closed and locked. The cell was about 12 feet by 12 feet, with a small sink. The walls were blank, a recently painted cream color. Two gray blankets were folded on the floor. The ceiling was barred. Guards peeped in through a hole in the door every 20 minutes or so. I curled myself in a blanket. I had been expected home at noon. What do they want from me?
On my second day in confinement, I asked a guard, "Do you know why I am here?"
