My Dear Navid

You don't know me, and I had never heard of you until the end of March when I read that you had been sentenced to one year in prison, presumably having been arrested at some point before March 30th 2010. And so, we are perfect strangers, yet I feel we know each other very well.

I could list a thousand questions: when did they arrest you, and where, what were you charged with; did you have a lawyer, a legal, fair trial; were you allowed to call home, have you had any visits from your family? But Navid, I do not need to ask, and even if you could, I do not need you to answer.

Every day since the fraudulent elections last Summer, I have read accounts of other prisoners. Enough to piece your story together for myself. I imagine you on the streets on 22 Khordad, one of millions thronging every inch of footspace yet so careful not to step on toes. I was there too, watching 15 seconds of precious video; the flash of a V sign, the furl of a banner.

I imagine you on the many days and nights that followed, as Summer faded to Autumn and then as Winter set in. Sitting with your friends, discussing all the might haves and could haves and should haves. Everything debated with intelligence and logic, all reports scanned with a critical eye, cleverly dismissing the blatant lies and subtle propaganda. I was there too, posting my little snippets of news and, less often, my far flung opinions. I imagine that we were both angry at the same reports of cruelty, both inspired by the creativity of the green banknote protest, both amused by the same jokes and cartoons.

I imagine you in the quiet of a darkened room, the slight frown betraying your concern for those who were beaten, brutalised, murdered, as you half whisper your promise to carry on their struggle. I knew about your oath and I swore to keep it with you, and the thousands of others like you.

I imagine you as you grasp your father's arm, your clear gaze meeting his. "Be careful." "Don't worry." "I won't." Easy lies you told each other that made it OK not to have 'that' conversation.

And now, my dear Navid, I imagine you in your cell. Your mind has become your library. Your memory has become your refuge. I want to write to you, but people tell me not to, that it would be a bad idea, that you would never receive the letter anyway. But when you think back over those times we spent together yet apart, I will be there with you again. And when you can't remember every detail, I will remember for you.

Posted via web from lissping