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http://www.google.com.ng/imgres?imgurl=http://www.ncr-iran.org/en/images/stories/2014/people/reyhaneh-jabbari-in-court.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.ncr-iran.org/en/news/human-rights/17423-euro-mps-condemn-jabbari-execution-call-hassan-rouhani-moderation-a-myth&h=200&w=300&tbnid=SAXjYqv4aNNpTM:&zoom=1&q=reyhaneh+jabbari&docid=9nVAGGQxc8mglM&hl=en-GB&ei=sJKDVJGSKIS7Ubb7gAg&tbm=isch&ved=0CCoQMygEMAQhttp://www.google.com.ng/imgres?imgurl=http://i.telegraph.co.uk/multimedia/archive/02887/Jabbari_2887273b.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/middleeast/iran/10776179/Iran-rape-victim-bound-for-gallows-unless-she-changes-story.html&h=387&w=620&tbnid=OmZ0DceiXHHUuM:&zoom=1&q=reyhaneh+jabbari&docid=8z08lFuuSxzeGM&hl=en-GB&ei=sJKDVJGSKIS7Ubb7gAg&tbm=isch&ved=0CCgQMygCMAIhttp://www.google.com.ng/imgres?imgurl=http://i.huffpost.com/gen/2208886/thumbs/o-JABBARI-facebook.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/2014/10/26/reyhaneh-jabbari-letter_n_6049846.html&h=1000&w=2000&tbnid=81CmI6ComRltwM:&zoom=1&q=reyhaneh+jabbari&docid=Bvnx47hZXVATEM&hl=en-GB&ei=sJKDVJGSKIS7Ubb7gAg&tbm=isch&ved=0CCkQMygDMAM27 year old Reyhaney Jabbari was executed on Saturday October 25th by hanging in Iran seven years after she
killed a man that she claimed had attempted to r*pe her. Before she was killed, Reyhaney wrote a very
emotional letter to her mother, asking that her organs be donated to those who need them. See the full text of
the letter after the cut...
The full text of the letter was translated by the National Council of Resistance of Iran:
Dear Sholeh, today I learned that it is now my turn to face Qisas (the Iranian regime's law of retribution). I am
hurt as to why you did not let me know yourself that I have reached the last page of the book of my life. Don’t
you think that I should know? You know how ashamed I am that you are sad. Why did you not take the chance
for me to kiss your hand and that of dad?
The world allowed me to live for 19 years. That ominous night it was I that should have been killed. My body
would have been thrown in some corner of the city, and after a few days, the police would have taken you to
the coroner’s office to identify my body and there you would also learn that I had been r*ped as well. The
murderer would have never been found since we don’t have their wealth and their power. Then you would
have continued your life suffering and ashamed, and a few years later you would have died of this suffering
and that would have been that.
However, with that cursed blow the story changed. My body was not thrown aside, but into the grave of Evin
Prison and its solitary wards, and now the grave-like prison of Shahr-e Ray. But give in to the fate and don’t
complain. You know better that death is not the end of life.
You taught me that one comes to this world to gain an experience and learn a lesson and with each birth a
responsibility is put on one’s shoulder. I learned that sometimes one has to fight. I do remember when you
told me that the carriage man protested the man who was flogging me, but the flogger hit the lash on his head
and face that ultimately led to his death. You told me that for creating a value one should persevere even if
one dies.
You taught us that as we go to school one should be a lady in face of the quarrels and complaints. Do you
remember how much you underlined the way we behave? Your experience was incorrect. When this incident
happened, my teachings did not help me. Being presented in court made me appear as a cold-blooded
murderer and a ruthless criminal. I shed no tears. I did not beg. I did not cry my head off since I trusted the
law.
But I was charged with being indifferent in face of a crime. You see, I didn’t even kill the mosquitoes and I
threw away the cockroaches by taking them by their antennas. Now I have become a premeditated murderer.
My treatment of the animals was interpreted as being inclined to be a boy and the judge didn’t even trouble
himself to look at the fact that at the time of the incident I had long and polished nails.
How optimistic was he who expected justice from the judges! He never questioned the fact that my hands are
not coarse like those of a sportswoman, especially a boxer. And this country that you planted its love in me
never wanted me and no one supported me when under the blows of the interrogator I was crying out and I
was hearing the most vulgar terms. When I shed the last sign of beauty from myself by shaving my hair I was
rewarded: 11 days in solitary.
Dear Sholeh, don’t cry for what you are hearing. On the first day that in the police office an old unmarried
agent hurt me for my nails I understood that beauty is not looked for in this era. The beauty of looks, beauty of
thoughts and wishes, a beautiful handwriting, beauty of the eyes and vision, and even beauty of a nice voice.
My dear mother, my ideology has changed and you are not responsible for it. My words are unending and I
gave it all to someone so that when I am executed without your presence and knowledge, it would be given to
you. I left you much handwritten material as my heritage.
However, before my death I want something from you, that you have to provide for me with all your might
and in any way that you can. In fact this is the only thing I want from this world, this country and you. I know
you need time for this. Therefore, I am telling you part of my will sooner. Please don’t cry and listen. I want
you to go to the court and tell them my request. I cannot write such a letter from inside the prison that would
be approved by the head of prison; so once again you have to suffer because of me. It is the only thing that if
even you beg for it I would not become upset although I have told you many times not to beg to save me from
being executed.
My kind mother, dear Sholeh, the one more dear to me than my life, I don’t want to rot under the soil. I don’t
want my eye or my young heart to turn into dust. Beg so that it is arranged that as soon as I am hanged my
heart, kidney, eye, bones and anything that can be transplanted be taken away from my body and given to
someone who needs them as a gift. I don’t want the recipient know my name, buy me a bouquet, or even pray
for me. I am telling you from the bottom of my heart that I don’t want to have a grave for you to come and
mourn there and suffer. I don’t want you to wear black clothing for me. Do your best to forget my difficult
days. Give me to the wind to take away.
The world did not love us. It did not want my fate. And now I am giving in to it and embrace the death.
Because in the court of God I will charge the inspectors, I will charge inspector Shamlou, I will charge judge,
and the judges of country’s Supreme Court that beat me up when I was awake and did not refrain from
harassing me. In the court of the creator I will charge Dr. Farvandi, I will charge Qassem Shabani and all those
that out of ignorance or with their lies wronged me and trampled on my rights and didn’t pay heed to the fact
that sometimes what appears as reality is different from it.
Dear soft-hearted Sholeh, in the other world it is you and me who are the accusers and others who are the
accused. Let’s see what God wants. I wanted to embrace you until I die. I love you.