The following is an excerpt from Azam Haj Heydari's book The Price of Remaining Human.

I think however much I speak of and write about Khoemeini’s ideology, that my father and brother were so devoted to, and however much I explain how this ideology makes a human so cold-hearted and emotionless to one’s family, wife and children, I still haven’t said enough. My father never showed any emotions or kindness. He believed if you give a child a kiss, it will become impudent. I don’t remember him kissing me or my sister even once. In those days, I didn’t understand the roots of these behaviors. I didn’t understand why my father and brother not only were so wretched, ruthless and senseless to me and my sister, they treated my poor mother in the same merciless manner, a mother who endured so much hardship for them. In those days I didn’t realize that misogyny, as the heart and soul of the Middle Ages-minded mullahs, is the source of such conduct.

My mother’s quick death was the result of such misogyny and lack of emotion.

My mother was complaining about pain in her chest for a few days. Although, as we all knew well enough that there would be no doctor until her sickness became serious, neither she herself nor us even thought of taking her to a physician. Until one day when she became seriously ill and fainted in the house yard. I ran to her and tried to help her up and take her inside, yet I couldn’t because I was too small. I ran inside and told my brother that mom had fainted in the yard. He carelessly said she had probably eaten some stale food or something, nothing to worry about. My father, who always thought of “going to heaven”, was reading the Quran at the time and continued to do so not giving a damn about my mother/acting completely indifferent to my mother’s condition. When I saw they had no reaction and my mother’s life or death literally meant nothing to them, I begged my neighbor’s wife for help. With the help of my older sister and after some delay, we took my mother to a hospital near our house. She had suffered a heart attack and needed to be transferred to a special heart hospital, yet we were too poor to afford the expenses. Therefore, my mother was hospitalized in that government hospital near our house which was short in special equipment for the treatment of heart patients. This woman, who had gone through much pain in her life, suffered two more heart attacks in the next 5 days and passed away. All this took place while my brother was financially well off and could easily afford her transfer to a special hospital and save his own mother’s life.

With my mother’s death, my sister and I lost our main supporter and pressures of life started to seriously increase on us. Our only companion that partially filled the void of my mother for us was my sister Mahin who was 11 years older than me.

The events and activities of the 1979 revolution in Iran were mainly led by the youths. They were the brave and fearless who were in the frontlines in every scene and sacrificing their blood day in and day out. After the victory of the revolution, this time these dauntless patriots were killed and massacred in prisons not by the Shah, rather by Khomeini and his henchmen. Everyone remembers September 8th, 1978, known as “Bloody Friday”, where Tehran witnessed a blood bath. I remember quite well that my father and brother on that day didn’t allow us, the younger members of the family, to go and join the protests, due to the fact that Shah’s regime had announced martial law and everyone knew that day was different from anything ever seen before.

On that day, I couldn’t stand staying inside my home. I was near my doorsteps crying and begging my father and brother to allow me to go and join the people. Yet they wouldn’t allow it, saying it was too dangerous and I would get killed. In those days, although I was a 20 year-old young woman with a diploma education, I didn’t dare to leave my house and do anything without their permission, always fearing the certain consequences. However, when I heard the news about people being killed, men and defenseless women with their children in their arms, and also seeing those who participated in that demonstration, I deeply regretted it. I kept on blaming myself for not going and waiting for my father and brother’s permission.

On that day, I felt something changing inside. From the next day, I started to participate in demonstrations without my father or brother’s permission.Of course, I still did this secretly, going and coming back in a way before they returned home. Little by little, I could feel my confidence build up by participating time and time again in public protests and meeting men and women who were ready to go the limits and pay the ultimate price for freedom. Growing up as an insulted woman under cruelty, I found all my suppressed wishes coming true in the revolution and its slogans. I thought I found the “Missing Link” of my life in the revolution, and the endless ranks of the people in the protests. All this was due to the fact that not only mentally, but also physically I was always literally held captive in my own home. My world was limited from my home to the school near our neighborhood.

The only profession that my social and family status allowed me to ever even think about was teaching. Therefore being a teacher, especially in a girls’ school where I wouldn’t be in contact with unfamiliar men, was allowed in my father’s opinion. Also, the income coming from this profession was a serious help for our poor family and my father naturally couldn’t oppose. Yet I do have to say that I personally was very fond of teaching because I loved the kids and I was always looking for ways to help them, especially those of poor families.

I came to realize how such a poverty, much deeper and more excruciating than I ever faced, was destroying the lives of millions in Iran. Such poverty and deprivation that first and foremost victimizes women and girls. I have chosen to fight against the dictators ruling my country for the freedom of such deprived children, and the people of my country as a whole. My struggle will continue till the day I will be able to bring freedom to my people.

Azam grew up in the slums of south Tehran. Her father, a religious fanatic, was a supporter of hard-line mullahs opposed to her education. Supported by her mother, an educated and clairvoyant woman, she obtained her diploma. At 13, she narrowly escaped a forced marriage with a mullah. In 1978, Azam, then 20, joined the People's Mojahedin. She became actively involved and met other oppressed women who had been involved in anti-Shah demonstrations. She spent seven years in prison, eight months of it squatting, blindfolded, in a cage. Tortured physically and psychologically, Azam refused to collaborate as her interrogators demanded and chose to resist. She fled her family to fight the fundamentalist mullahs and now she is residing in Camp Ashraf in Iraq, home to 3400 members of the Iranian Resistance.