The interrogator leans over Reza. “My name is Assadollah Lajevardi,” he says.
Reza is bloody and bruised. Scratches on his face, ropes across his wrists. The room is the non-descript gray of torture chambers everywhere. This is Iran’s Evin Prison — a building that’s easy to enter, but impossible to leave.
“Now,” Lajevardi says, “what is my name?”
Reza begins to repeat the name back to his interrogator but Lajevardi backhands him before he finishes. “Reza,” his tormentor says. “Why can’t you show me the decency of remembering my name? My name is Assadollah Lajevardi … but here in Evin they call me Hajj Agha. Now, what is my name?”