Leila Sadeghi had no idea of the danger that awaited her when she returned to Iran for her father’s funeral. As a translator of feminist articles the regime had put a target on her back. She was now trapped in Iran.
I stood at the Tehran airport immigration desk in my black raincoat, wearing a hijab that fully covered my hair, trying to avoid any trouble from the authorities. The airport officer held my passport, lifted the entry stamp, stared at the screen in front of him, put the stamp back down, looked at me, then took my passport and asked me to follow him to the airport security office.
I could see my brother through the airport glass doors, waiting to pick me up. He was wearing black and was unshaven. I’d never seen him like this before.
Iranians wear black for a while after losing a loved one, as black is a symbol of sorrow and loss. Men also tend not to fully shave, showing their grief over the loss of their loved ones.
I had been crying and thinking about my dad throughout the 18-hour flight from Australia. He had suffered so much, and I had already said my goodbyes to him, as early-onset dementia had taken him from us almost five years ago. My mother and sister had cared for him for so long.
While I’d been standing in front of the airport security officer, I kept staring at my handbag, my phone in it. My mouth was so dry, I couldn’t breathe, and my heart was beating so fast. Little did I know that for the next six months it would keep beating like this.
Later, I realized that what I was feeling was called anxiety and fear.
I could still see my brother through the barriers as my passport was confiscated, and I was told I was not allowed to leave the country. They told me to report to the Evin Prosecutor’s Offices to follow up because my case would be investigated by the notorious Iranian Revolutionary Guards. But I was “free to go—for now”, they said.
I had left my 13-year-old son with my husband back in Australia, to be with my family for my father’s funeral. And now, all I could think about was my boy. All the grief and sadness had been replaced by fear and confusion.
For the last few years, I had been translating feminist articles (cartoons, film reviews and biographies of strong international female figures) alongside a small group of dedicated Iranian women’s rights activists who’d all been forced to leave Iran. My friends and family had warned me there would be consequences for this work, but I hadn’t listened. At the time I had called them cowards.
And yet, here I was—so scared and shaken, like a sparrow who had lost its wings.
Who was the coward now?
That night in Tehran, the only person who could bring me comfort was my six-year-old nephew. I kept hugging him, seeking calmness, as he was the only member of my family who wasn’t in shock—either from losing a father or from my possible imprisonment.
Friends and relatives visited us constantly to offer their condolences. I would hug them and sob so hard, my shoulders shaking in my black outfit. They weren’t sure how to comfort me for losing my dad—because it wasn’t just him, I was grieving. I was mourning my freedom, my lost wings.
As soon as my dad’s funeral was over, I went to the office of Evin prison to get my passport back.
There was chaos in that infamous building. Families, friends, and lawyers of political prisoners were begging officers for answers—demanding to know why their loved ones had disappeared or why they had been incarcerated in solitary confinement for months without any charges.
I saw so many men and women from The Opposition—people who I had been following on social media—being summoned to Evin for interrogation, only to leave in tears.
Later, when I read The Uncaged Sky by Kylie Moore-Gilbert, the Australian academic, I realized that while I was at Evin Prison chasing up my passport she was imprisoned there, in solitary confinement, being interrogated.
After several visits to Evin and enduring the staff’s humiliating behaviour, I was told to go back home and wait for them to contact me.
Every now and then, a man would call my mobile phone, asking for my contact details. Once, my sister received a similar call from a man requesting my information. Then—silence.
Every knock on the door made me jump. I kept expecting the Revolutionary Guard to storm my mother’s apartment and arrest me.
Some days impatience would get the better of me, and I’d go to Evin, trying to approach the officer in charge of my case. And so, the vicious cycle continued.
My mental state was deteriorating—anxiety, fear, and guilt consumed me.
My husband and son were in shock, thousands of kilometres away, and my family in Iran was deeply worried about me. I had only told a few close friends about my situation—everyone else assumed I had decided to stay longer to support my mum.
I tried reaching out to a few women’s rights activists for help and comfort. Some told me, “You should have mentally prepared yourself for this. Be brave, and do not contact us again—it’s not safe. You are being watched”.
After three months, I received the call I had been dreading. I was asked to attend a “meeting” (interrogation) in an unnamed building.
My brother and sister-in-law drove me there. My lawyer had already advised me about how to prepare for the meeting. However, by the time we arrived at the address, I was already scared to death.
The building had no signage indicating any connection to the Revolutionary Guard. It looked just like a regular four- or five-story residential building in the centre of Tehran. I rang the bell. The heavy iron gate opened—they had obviously been expecting me.
At the reception, I was asked to hand in my mobile phone and any other devices I had on me. Then, I was directed to a bare, carpeted room, accompanied by a fully covered young woman. She asked me to take off my shoes, checked inside them, and then scanned my body with a device similar to those used at airports or in movies.
Next, I was led into a room with a large rectangular table. Two bearded young men—much, younger than me—were already seated behind it. I was asked to join them, along with the young woman. I suppose her presence was meant to imply that I was “safe” because a female staff member was in the room.
They began by asking about my family, my son, how long I had been living in Australia, and the status of my residency. At first, they were softly spoken and gentle, but then the questions escalated. They began accusing me of having connections with women’s rights activists outside Iran, of being paid by Western governments to translate and publish articles on social media. I denied all of it.
The man who seemed to be in charge raised his voice. “It looks as if you don’t want to return to your son and husband. You’re not being cooperative.”
He continued, “I have documents proving that you assisted Iranian activists overseas.” Then, he turned his laptop screen towards me. A couple of unopened PDF files were displayed.
“Look at them,” he said. “This is the evidence. Don’t expect to see your family anytime soon”.
And then they let me go…back to silence again.
I missed my 13-year-old son so much that I would burst into tears whenever I walked past a teenage boy on the street. I stayed up until midnight, so we could video call after he returned from school.
Often, I remember guiding him through making pizza dough, just like we used to do together. Once the dough was ready to rise, he would go to the supermarket with his dad to buy the toppings, and I would finally go to bed.
The next morning, I would wake up to photos of the pizza they had made—without me there. And once again, I’d burst into tears.
Every week, I went to Evin and waited for hours, hoping to speak with the clerk in charge of my case. But he refused to talk to me, instructing the receptionist to tell me they were still waiting for a response from the interrogators. Only after this would Haj Agha (Chief Prosecutor of Evin) remove the “ban” from my case and I could have my passport back.
I had even started considering the possibility of leaving the country illegally.
Nightmares wouldn’t leave me alone—I was on my knees.
After six months, on my last visit to Evin, in a state of absolute hopelessness, I was unexpectedly given a clearance letter and referred to the passport office. I couldn’t believe it. As soon as I got my passport back, I bought a one-way ticket to Sydney.
I suppose, from their perspective, I had already been punished enough. And since I wasn’t yet an Australian citizen, I held no real value to the Revolutionary Guards or the Iranian regime because I couldn’t be traded in a prisoner swap for some terrorist imprisoned in the West.
My family and friends, both in Iran and Australia, were ecstatic. At the departure gate, as I watched the officer stamp my exit permission, I knew I wouldn’t return to Iran for a long time.
Flying back home, I revisited the horror and trauma of my story. Yet, I knew mine was just a drop in an ocean of pain and suffering—thousands of innocent people in Iran still fighting for freedom and basic human rights.