Execution Before Execution S. Rouzbeh ۱۴۰۵/۰۵/۱۰ How has the Islamic Republic turned the anticipation of death into an instrument of torture, intimidation and power? How has the Islamic Republic turned the anticipation of death into an instrument of torture, intimidation and power? S. Rouzbeh – I remember the morning of 21 June 1981. When we turned on the radio, they were reading out a statement from the Revolutionary Prosecutor’s Office at the start of the programme. The names of those executed were announced one after another: a long list that seemed to have no end, perhaps numbering more than a hundred. This went on for several days in Tehran and other cities. Even after all these years, I still remember the executions of several friends and teachers of mine. With every name, a corner of one’s heart ached. This was not simply the reading out of a few names. Each name was like an axe blow to the roots of a family, wounding a mother, a father, a spouse, a child and a circle of friends. Among the names, I heard Saeed Soltanpour: a poet, writer and playwright, and a member of the Iranian Writers’ Association, who was arrested at his wedding and later shot by firing squad. Three days later, the Ettela’at newspaper published photographs of some of those executed, whose identities were not even known to the authorities. The statement asked families whose children had gone missing to go to Evin Prison with their identity documents and photographs to identify them. It said they had been arrested during a demonstration. In other words, they had arrested and executed people, and after killing them, they asked their families to look at photographs and say which face belonged to their child. The violence was such that they did not even know who these people were, and had arrested them merely for taking part in a demonstration against the regime!!! This was not just the killing of a few people; it was organised violence against families and society. A mother might have learnt from seeing a newspaper photograph that her child was no longer alive, without having had a final visit, a phone call or a chance to say goodbye. I have recounted this historical event, which I witnessed myself, because I wanted the younger generation to know that the regime has not changed; rather, from the very years of its formation, it laid its foundations with executions. In those days, many political executions were carried out by firing squad, because there were not enough gallows. Later, hanging became the predominant method and was also used on a large scale in the 1988 massacre of political prisoners. The method changed, but the regime’s logic did not: rushed trials, secrecy, keeping families in the dark, and using death to frighten society. From that day to this, throughout these forty-seven years, whenever the Islamic Republic has found itself under pressure, it has once again turned to prisons, torture and execution. But perhaps the most horrifying part of an execution is not the moment when the bullet is fired or the rope falls around someone’s neck; it is the time when a person is forced to live through their own death again and again before it happens. Much has been written about execution over the years: the right to life, forced confessions, unfair trials and the political use of the death penalty. But one of execution’s most hidden dimensions has received less attention: the creation of an expectation of death. For many prisoners, execution does not begin when the sentence is carried out; it begins the moment they are told they may be killed tomorrow. From then on, every footstep in the corridor, every opening of the cell door and every sudden transfer may signal the end of life. For months, the Islamic Republic has tortured the families and the public by keeping the children of Ekbatan under a death sentence and in expectation of its execution. In the prisons of the Islamic Republic, it is not only the wait for a sentence to be carried out that is at issue. According to accounts by some former prisoners, they have sometimes been taken to the gallows several times as a form of psychological torture. A prisoner has been told: “Get ready. We’ll execute you tomorrow morning.” They do not know whether their family has been informed, whether they will be allowed one last phone call, or whether they will have a chance to say goodbye. They may spend the entire night imagining their death, be taken to the place of execution, and then be returned to their cell. This is not merely a threat; it is forcing a person to experience their own death repeatedly. There are also reports indicating that the strain of waiting to be executed can wear down a person’s body before the sentence is carried out. Hojjat Ostad-Asiabi suffered a heart attack on the execution platform. Khasmorad Saeedi Garavand also suffered a stroke and died after being told he was being transferred for his execution. And 24-year-old Alireza Sepahi, who suffered a stroke and whose sentence was temporarily not carried out, are examples of this torture; their bodies collapsed under the strain of imagining death before the rope ever reached them. A short while ago, I spoke with someone who had spent some time in an Islamic Republic prison in the 1980s, waiting to be executed. He said that he had neither killed anyone nor taken part in an armed operation. His alleged offence was political activity and distributing a few magazines and writings. He said: “For months, every night I went to sleep thinking that perhaps tomorrow it would be my turn. Because I had a purpose, I was not afraid of death; but every footstep, every opening door and every sound in the corridor could mean the end of life. At night I had nightmares and suffered from anxiety, tension and a nervous breakdown. Perhaps I was not afraid of execution itself; it was being taken to the brink of death several times that did me the most harm. Even after I was released, my life and my family’s life never returned to normal. I came out of prison years later, but my mind was never free.” This account reveals the meaning of “execution before execution”. A person may be released from prison or survive the carrying out of a sentence, but the gallows can remain in their mind. Footsteps, a door opening and the darkness of night may recur in their nightmares for years. Execution does not punish only one person. The prisoner’s father, mother, spouse, children, sisters, brothers and friends are also drawn into that same suspended time. Every ring of the telephone may bring news of death; every visit may be the last, and every goodbye may be final. In political cases, the message of execution reaches beyond the family, too. The government seeks to frighten thousands by killing one person; by taking a prisoner to the brink of death, it seeks to silence protest in society and kill society itself. But the outcome is not always what the government wants. Sometimes the name of the person executed finds its way into the collective memory, the family becomes a campaigner for justice, and fear gives way to anger and solidarity. Execution is not only the moment when the heart stops. It can begin at the moment of arrest, continue through nights of waiting and mock executions, reach the home and family, and remain for years in the memories of those left behind. The noose may be placed around the neck of only one person, but its shadow falls across the mind of a family and the psychological security of a society. And sometimes someone who survives execution is still executed in their mind every night, years later. But the story of the Iranian people’s struggle does not end with this wound. Many of the activists of the 1980s generation, despite witnessing firing squads, prisons and gallows, did not abandon their ideal of freedom. They stood firm at a time when society was deprived of free communication, independent media and widespread international support. The price of this resistance was high; but their experience was passed on to the memory of later generations. The great difference today is that Generation Z and Iran’s younger generations are not merely heirs to the suffering of the past; they have the experience of several generations before them, have wider communication tools at their disposal, and know that their voices can pass beyond prison walls and the country’s borders. They may be wounded by the pressure of execution, repression and waiting for death, but they are not necessarily broken. The support of families, campaigners for justice, a large part of society and Iranians abroad also shows them that they are not alone. In his message of 30 Dey 1404, corresponding to 20 January 2026, Reza Pahlavi said to the people of Iran: ‘We will not allow our grief to turn into despair… We will turn this mourning into conscious anger and an unbreakable will.’ In the same message, he stressed: ‘You are not alone. Your steadfastness has changed history… We are closer than ever to the end of this regime.’ These words do not mean denying the psychological wounds caused by execution. Waiting for death can harm a person and their family for years. But conscious anger is different from blind anger; conscious anger can turn mourning into a demand for justice, fear into solidarity, and a sense of helplessness into an organised will for change. Throughout these forty-seven years, the Islamic Republic has sought to frighten thousands by killing one person. But a generation that has learned from the past, is hopeful about the future, and wants a vision and a plan for the era after the Islamic Republic can change this equation. The noose may end one person’s life and wound a family psychologically, but it cannot execute the desire for freedom. As long as the names of those who have lost their lives remain alive, the pursuit of justice continues, and new generations follow the path of struggle, the government’s aim of turning execution into complete silence has not been achieved. Victory should not be taken as certain or cost-free; but today’s hope is more than a wish. It rests on historical memory, national solidarity and the will of a generation that wants to break the cycle of fear. That is what enables people to turn their mourning into conscious anger, and their anger into a force to continue the struggle and attain freedom. Source: https://srouzbeh.com/en/posts/archive-91c86d31-080e-05d7-9cbd-dba09cfd8c84 Please credit the author and link to this edition.