On 23 June 2025, while a full-scale war was underway between Iran and Israel, Tehran’s Evin Prison was hit by an aerial strike – an attack that not only targeted a security facility but struck at the dark heart of the Islamic Republic’s apparatus of repression.
An introduction by Nima Bahrami
Evin has long symbolised torture and execution of political dissidents in Iran. Much like the Bastille once represented royal despotism in France, Evin has come to embody theocratic tyranny and war crimes in Iran.
This prison has housed countless political activists, human rights defenders, lawyers, journalists, and writers. One of the prisoners is Reza Khandan; a prominent human rights advocate, the husband of Nasrin Sotoudeh (recipient of the Sakharov Prize). One of the most recognised civil society figures in Iran, for years Khandan has been imprisoned for openly supporting women’s rights and civil liberties.
Amidst the chaos of war Khandan’s eyewitness account reached me. This is part of that account–from Greater Tehran Prison a voice from the depths of darkness that must be heard.
Reza Khandan’s ordeal, in his own words
[ed. note: Bylines Scotland has authenticated that Reza Khandan wrote the following. Not one word has been altered]
After the war broke out, my wife passed me information indicating that, according to law, all prisoners in war zones must be immediately released. I cited this law in a letter to the head of the judiciary, calling for the release of inmates.
The next day, after much insistence, we managed to meet with the prison’s director and discussed all the possible risks ahead. But no release was granted. Finally, days later, the prison was attacked. The authorities – not the attackers – were responsible for the deaths of prisoners, personnel, and guards. They created this tragedy. And yet, the true disaster was still to come.
Late that night, quite suddenly, it was announced that the inmates would be transferred elsewhere immediately. Our prison lacked basic facilities, and over the years, prisoners had managed – at great personal cost – to secure meagre resources for survival. This forced relocation meant losing even those small provisions.
That night, Mr Farzadi and Mr Hayat-al-Gheyb (the director of Evin Prison and the head of Tehran province’s prison system) appeared before our cells, backed by armed personnel pointing their weapons at our chests. They ordered us to be shackled together with handcuffs and leg chains. Not a single wounded prisoner had been taken to hospital, not even the critically injured.
We were chained. Only one hand was left free to carry our personal belongings and several large bags. The buses were parked far away. By 3am, we reached them. I had to abandon one of my large bags en route, as I couldn’t carry everything with just one hand.
In the dead of night, airstrikes resumed. Panic overtook everyone. The fact that we were shackled together meant we could not move or seek shelter. The chains were so tight and painful that with every small movement, we would lose balance, and the shackles dug deeper into our ankles, drawing cries of pain from every prisoner.
We boarded a bus – only to find its tyre was flat. Due to destruction on the main route, we were forced to take a detour through the prison’s unsanitary waste dump. There, in the middle of the filth, we were told to change buses. It was an excruciating transfer.
The stench of the garbage was unbearable even for a minute, yet they kept us there for over an hour. By 4am, we were en route to another notorious prison. As we passed the destroyed main gate of Evin – blown apart in the strike – I whispered to my friend Reza Valizadeh, who was shackled beside me, that I believed Evin had passed into history. A prison whose history was steeped in crime and brutality. A symbol of violence and oppression.
A long night’s journey to a bleak future
Evin may be over, but torture, arbitrary arrest, and execution in Iran’s prisons are not. Only the location of the crimes is changing.
Our transfer under aerial bombardment was extremely dangerous. The long convoy of buses could easily have been mistaken for military transport and become a target. In the darkness, explosions echoed all around us. Eventually, we reached our destination – terrified.
A long line of shackled, wounded, and traumatised prisoners was formed. Armed guards walked past us with threats and contempt. Innocent prisoners – now captives of captors – reminded me of scenes from Nazi Germany and forced labour camps. The treatment we received was without precedent. The worst kinds of violence, abuse, and humiliation – our human dignity trampled.
We were walking into a bleak future. The sound of our chains was a grim toll, heralding even harder days ahead. We were prisoners – innocent, and held captive by injustice. We were the human shields of those who had taken us hostage.
I can say with certainty that no regime in history has committed such betrayal against its own citizens. They were pointing their weapons at our heads. We had not slept for more than 24 hours, and had not had a single sip of water in over nine hours.
It has now been several days since we entered this new prison. Still in shock from the bombing and the horrific transfer, we were met with the harsh reality of our new hell. Violence and intimidation had arrived before us, ready to “welcome” the new inmates.
The place is overcrowded, disorganised, unsanitary, and infested with flies and insects. There is no peace. The prison water is salty and foul-smelling, making these hot summer days even more unbearable. The halls are bursting, and with the threat of war resuming, it’s likely this new prison will be the next target – with us, again, as the regime’s human shields and propaganda tools.
The authorities remain deaf to our legal demands.
In closing, I wish to pay tribute to the female prison doctor who used to visit every Tuesday and examined prisoners for free. After the prison was bombed, we initially heard she had died in the blast. But later, we learned she had been critically injured – and if she survives, she may lose her arms and legs.
Also, the bus driver who brought us to this new prison found a scrap of paper on the floor of the bus – dropped by a prisoner – bearing a name and phone number. This kind-hearted driver called the number to let the prisoner’s family know he was alive – even though he didn’t know him.
I mention this last to remind us that even amid darkness, violence, war, and hatred, the beautiful face of humanity and kindness can still shine through.
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