Editor's Note: Alan Court spotted this letter from Siamak Namazi to the editor of the Economist and kindly passed it on to us. It is a good reminder that Wednesday, 18 September, will mark the one year anniversary of Siamak's release following 8 years of imprisonment in Iran.
"You may have seen this letter to the Editor of The Economist from Siamak. I thought you would enjoy it
Best Alan"
Life in a Tehran jail
I am a former American hostage in Iran. I was recently contacted by a former cellmate, a European hostage who was just released from Iran’s notorious Evin prison. His message included a picture of the latest Economist, proudly declaring it was the first item he asked for upon release. It was an inside joke between us, rooted in the dark days of our captivity when your newspaper became our unexpected beacon of hope.
During the last couple of years of my imprisonment, a wealthy inmate with a knack for sneaking in luxury items offered me a generous favour, to bring me one item of my choice each week. To his surprise, I requested neither a long-missed food item nor an item of clothing. I wanted copies of The Economist. I was immediately hooked, as were the other foreign and dual-national hostages who eagerly awaited their turn to read. Slowly, I expanded my underground paper route to other sections of the prison, including, on occasion, the women’s ward. Who knew that distributing magazines could feel like running a covert intelligence operation?
When my benefactor left, I was too hooked to let go and decided to keep our intellectual lifeline alive, even if it meant learning how to smuggle things into an Iranian prison. It took a while, but my resourcefulness eventually paid off. I managed to bring in a copy of The Economist more or less on a regular basis, although it required constantly finding new smuggling routes when the old ones were shut.
On occasion, my “mules” would get intercepted and the precious cargo confiscated. That only meant I had to argue with the prison officials so much that they would eventually relent and return the goods. In fact, they got so tired of my constant haggling that, at a certain point, they allowed me to bring them in officially. But I quickly learned that the official channel took months to clear, so I reverted back to the far more efficient smuggling system. These contraband copies of The Economist became our secret treasure, offering a respite from the monotony of captivity. We devoured the articles cover to cover, momentarily forgetting our dire circumstances and feeling a sense of normalcy. The impact of your publication was far more profound than I can ever express.
This letter serves as a belated but heartfelt expression of gratitude for the intellectual nourishment you provided us during those dark days, connecting us to the world outside. Though you were denied a few years’ worth of subscription fees, I hope you can forgive this captive enthusiast.
Siamak Namazi
Washington, DC
Editor’s note: September 18th is the first anniversary of Mr Namazi’s release from eight years in Iran’s Evin prison.
Best Alan"
Life in a Tehran jail
I am a former American hostage in Iran. I was recently contacted by a former cellmate, a European hostage who was just released from Iran’s notorious Evin prison. His message included a picture of the latest Economist, proudly declaring it was the first item he asked for upon release. It was an inside joke between us, rooted in the dark days of our captivity when your newspaper became our unexpected beacon of hope.
During the last couple of years of my imprisonment, a wealthy inmate with a knack for sneaking in luxury items offered me a generous favour, to bring me one item of my choice each week. To his surprise, I requested neither a long-missed food item nor an item of clothing. I wanted copies of The Economist. I was immediately hooked, as were the other foreign and dual-national hostages who eagerly awaited their turn to read. Slowly, I expanded my underground paper route to other sections of the prison, including, on occasion, the women’s ward. Who knew that distributing magazines could feel like running a covert intelligence operation?
When my benefactor left, I was too hooked to let go and decided to keep our intellectual lifeline alive, even if it meant learning how to smuggle things into an Iranian prison. It took a while, but my resourcefulness eventually paid off. I managed to bring in a copy of The Economist more or less on a regular basis, although it required constantly finding new smuggling routes when the old ones were shut.
On occasion, my “mules” would get intercepted and the precious cargo confiscated. That only meant I had to argue with the prison officials so much that they would eventually relent and return the goods. In fact, they got so tired of my constant haggling that, at a certain point, they allowed me to bring them in officially. But I quickly learned that the official channel took months to clear, so I reverted back to the far more efficient smuggling system. These contraband copies of The Economist became our secret treasure, offering a respite from the monotony of captivity. We devoured the articles cover to cover, momentarily forgetting our dire circumstances and feeling a sense of normalcy. The impact of your publication was far more profound than I can ever express.
This letter serves as a belated but heartfelt expression of gratitude for the intellectual nourishment you provided us during those dark days, connecting us to the world outside. Though you were denied a few years’ worth of subscription fees, I hope you can forgive this captive enthusiast.
Siamak Namazi
Washington, DC
Editor’s note: September 18th is the first anniversary of Mr Namazi’s release from eight years in Iran’s Evin prison.
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