Elahi, a former political prisoner writing under a pseudonym, details a sleepless night in the Iranian capital
I
t’s 5am on Thursday 12 March. I was finally falling asleep after a day full of fear when the phone rang. Terror rushes through me. It’s not the right time for a call. Someone must need help – or maybe they are alone and frightened.
I answer the phone, exhausted. It’s my younger sister. She is crying and cannot speak. My heart breaks into a thousand pieces. I haven’t seen her for many days. When I was released from prison, she had gone to another city to take care of our mother.
She returned on her birthday. But then the war began, and we remained separated in two different homes in Tehran.
