Date: Sun, 30 Dec 2001 10:43:27 -0500 (EST)
Subject: Wash. Post: Disappearence of Pourzand


---------- Forwarded message ---------

This is a letter by Azadeh Pouzand (The daughter of the well-known Iranian
human rights lawyer, Ms. Mehrangiz Kar) which was published in the
Washington Post today. Her father, Mr. Pourzand, the director of a
cultural center in Tehran was abducted in Tehran about a month ago and his
whereabouts are not known, although it has been speculated that he has
been arrested and held by the Iranian interior ministry. Please send
copies to friends as you see fit. It is important that this is publicized
as much as possible - pressure from the outside has resulted in the
release of other political prisoners in Iran. Ms. Kar is presently in
United States for treatment of breast cancer.

_________

The Washington Post

December 30, 2001, Sunday, Final Edition

  HEADLINE: Tell Me, Where Is My Father?
  BYLINE: Azadeh Pourzand

  BODY:

  An open letter to His Excellency Seyed Mohammad Khatami, president of the
Islamic Republic of Iran.

  Dear Mr. President:

  I am a 17-year-old Iranian girl. My introduction to politics came through
hearing your televised campaign interview when I was 12. On Election Day, I
accompanied my parents to vote. Full of hope and great expectations, we
drove across town while my father told us stories about the past and my
mother looked at the gathering crowds in the street with her writer's
eyes. My sister boasted that she was old enough to vote, and I felt like
becoming a political activist but had to struggle with my birthdate. When
I was a year old, my  father was imprisoned for the first time. He was not
a thief, he was not a smuggler, he had committed no crime. Like so many
other law-abiding Iranians, he became a prisoner who had no idea why he
was in prison.

  When I was 6 he was hauled off to prison a second time. I remember
banging my white child's shoes against the wall and shouting, "Don't tell
me my father is traveling. He is in Evin Prison. Don't tell me about his
room, he is in a solitary cell." Once again he was freed -- a thin, tired,
quiet man. Once a vibrant, gregarious talker, he had turned into a
passive and indifferent listener.

  I was 15 when my mother, Mehrangiz Kar, a lawyer and women's rights
activist, was imprisoned. A few months earlier, my sister, Leily, had
hurriedly left the country, leaving all her hopes and dreams in Iran.
Government agents, or those who pretended to be government agents, had
driven sleep from her eyes and peace from her heart.

  So it was that my father and I were left alone to keep each other
company. Family and friends spoke of me as a strong young woman. Only the
walls in my room shared my fear and frustration as I sobbed
uncontrollably and banged them with my fists.

  When my mother was finally released, I still wanted to see your smiling
face and hear your words on government television, Mr. President -- no
matter that it was the same government television that had so recklessly
distorted my mother's statements and slandered and insulted her.

  Not long after she had secured her release from prison by posting
back-breaking bail, my mother was diagnosed with cancer. I was 16 and could
hardly wait now that I could vote for your election to a second term.
Casting a ballot for the first time in my life was a thrill. I carefully
wrote "Seyed Mohammad Khatami" and became an adult. I am now accompanying
my mother, who has traveled abroad to seek treatment for her illness.

  A month ago we heard the news of my father's disappearance. Mr.
President, my father, Siamak Pourzand, born Nov. 24, 1931, was taken by
unknown agents as he was seeing off some guests at his sister's house. He
has not been heard from since. The last time my mother and I spoke with
him, he told us that he was being followed by men on motorcycles and that
he was in danger. We hadn't known what to do to help, and we feel helpless
now.

  My mother sits in a corner quietly and waits for the phone to ring. I
know well that a cancer patient has no hope of survival if she is tense and
agitated. I don't know what to do for either of my parents.

  This morning I woke up terrified. I had dreamed that an interrogator had
slashed my father's neck, and I was running around hysterically trying to
find a way to keep him alive. He called me back to him saying, "It is no
use, stay with me for a few more moments."

  The road to Evin Prison has a sharp turn called "the repentance curve."
If I ever pass that road, I will repent crimes that I have not committed so
that I will not be taken in innocent and come out guilty. My only request
of you, Mr. President, and fortunately you are still president, is to make
an inquiry about my 70-year-old father's physical and psychological
health and let me know how he is and where he is being held. I impatiently
await a reply from your office.

  Respectfully,

  Azadeh Pourzand
  First-time voter





                                




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