By Roxana Saberi
In early 2009, Roxana Saberi, an American journalist born to Iranian and eastern mom and dad, used to be pressured from her domestic in Tehran, secretly detained, and falsely accused of espionage—then sentenced to 8 years in felony. among Worlds is the gripping and inspirational precise tale of her harrowing imprisonment and the religion that bought her via it, till a global outcry helped safe her liberate. alongside the best way, Saberi won energy from different prisoners—brave girls jailed for his or her pursuit of human rights similar to the liberty of speech and faith. This memoir of her fight to be real to herself whatever the effects additionally bargains penetrating insights into Iranian society, the Islamic regime, U.S.-Iran family members, and the ancient adjustments sweeping Iran this present day. among Worlds is a undying, common tale of the rigors and triumphs of the human spirit, in addition to a dramatic, illuminating account of the continued conflict for freedom in Iran.
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Additional info for Between Two Worlds: My Life and Captivity in Iran
Javan stuck a sugar cube between his teeth and raised his cup to his lips. “So tell me more about these interviews you’ve been doing,” he said, slurping his tea and leisurely crossing his legs. “As I said, they were for my book,” I told him. “I interviewed a wide variety of people: artists, women taxi drivers, veterans from the Iran-Iraq War—” “It’s not possible you could be conducting so many interviews only for a book,” the agent interrupted, taking another sip and setting down his cup. “But I am,” I objected.
All right. But…” How could I signal to him that I was in danger? We were supposed to have dinner that evening for his birthday, and he knew I wouldn’t miss his birthday for anything. ” “OK,” he repeated, sounding a bit distracted and apparently oblivious to my hint. “Call me when you can a little later. ” And just like that, he hung up. Devastated, I returned the phone to Javan. His eyes, steady and penetrating, were pinned on me. ” “I don’t know how else to tell you, but I have nothing to do with the CIA,” I insisted.
Similar to the day before, my interrogator would pose a question, I would verbally answer it, and then I would write down my reply, all in Farsi. Once in a while, another interrogator would jump in with a comment or question. By listening to the different voices bombarding me from behind, I concluded that at least four men were in the room. I wrapped my chador tightly around me. Accounts of sexual assault in Iran’s prisons were not uncommon, and I didn’t know if these men would touch me, or worse.