'I Survived An Iranian Prison'

My gut was telling me it was time to turn around.

It was a beautiful summer's morning in July 2009 and my boyfriend Shane and I were hiking in Iraqi-Kurdistan with our friend Josh.

I know it sounds like an unusual travel destination - when people think of Iraq, they think of a warzone. But Kurdistan, in the north, is pro-American and often referred to as "the other Iraq". The New York Times named its green mountainous areas one of the world's top travel destinations, and a million tourists visit a year.

When we'd arrived in the city of Sulaimaniya the night before, everyone - our hotel manager, cab drivers - had told us that a waterfall in Ahmed Awa was the place to go. So we'd set off that morning, expecting a short day trip.

It was a sunny day, and the scenery was beautiful: tall, golden grass and dark green trees. But after a couple of hours I started to get nervous that we'd hiked too long. We'd almost reached a ridge when I saw a soldier, motioning, at the top. He didn't look hostile. He even beckoned us towards him. But as we came closer, another soldier pointed to the ground. 'Iran', he said.

As more soldiers materialised the situation suddenly became clear. These were Iranian soldiers. We had inadvertently crossed an unmarked border between Iran and Kurdistan.

They forced Shane and Josh into a jeep, then hesitated - its forbidden to touch women - but the last thing I wanted was to be left alone with soldiers. As we jerked over rocky terrain, my thoughts bubbled over with fear.

After 30 minutes we pulled up at a police station, where we tried to convince the soldiers to let us go. They fed us, gave us blankets, and put us in a large, empty room. I slept, and tried to reassure myself: they'll hear from higher authorities; this can't last.

For three days they shuttled us between police stations and nondescript buildings. Various people interrogated us without skill, seemingly asking whatever came to mind, and the same questions again and again: what are our names? Our nationality? Then they blindfolded us, drove us to a building and made us dress in blue fatigues and pose for mug shots. I started to shake and we gripped each other's hands. When they pulled Josh away, it was the most terrifying moment of my life. I begged them to let me stay with "my husband", hoping that if they thought Shane and I were married they'll keep us together. "Please! Please!" I sobbed. They threw us into two cells.

For four days, I lay on the floor of my cell and tried not to cry. My mind was full of terrifying images: my mother balled up on floor screaming when she learnt I'd been captured, prison guards coming into my cell to rape me.

The hours passed. Our hopes faded. Unbelievably, a day became a week and then a month. In solitary confinement, every day feels like an eternity. At first, you miss physical pleasures - the touch of another human being, coffee. Later, it takes everything just to figure out how to occupy yourself. I did hours of multiplication tables. I sang, because I had nothing else to do, and exercised - often for hours: jumping jacks, kicking, pushups, sit-ups. Anything to stop me falling into a deep depression.

Interrogations happened almost daily. After a while, we got so used to blindfolds, we wouldn't think twice about putting them on. At times the questions were ridiculous - like, when they told me to draw the lobby of the Pentagon - I almost wanted to laugh, to say: is this whole thing a joke? It wasn't.

During interrogations, I would demand, "What are we being accused of? Are we being accused of espionage?" They'd say, "No, no. We're just trying to eliminate the suspicion." It was probably three months before my interrogator said, "I know you're not a spy but now your case is political." This meant his president wanted something, maybe a prisoner exchange. We were hostages.

After a while we were transferred to Evin Prison in Tehran. My new cell had a sheet of perforated metal over the window. All I could see were little circles of blue if it was daytime or black if it was night.

For months I never saw Josh and Shane. I'd run my fingers along the wall, pressing my cheek in the direction I imagined they would be. Then one evening, I heard a familiar sound coming from the courtyard - a slow, smooth whistle coming to me like honey. "Now I'm feeling so lonesome and I cant get you out of my mind," I hummed. This was our song, Jolie Holland's "Sascha".

"I love you Shane," I whispered. I closed my eyes, let my head drop against the wall of the cell, and imagined his slender frame tracing circles outside in the courtyard.

They started letting me see Shane and Josh once a week, and eventually every day, in the courtyard. My whole day was oriented to that time. One night, about seven months in, the guards brought Shane out without Josh. At first I didn't understand why. Shane looked nervous. He told me he had something special to ask me. When he asked me to marry him the first thing I thought was he beat me to it. For months in my cell I'd been thinking about doing the same thing. I immediately agreed.

We didn't know when, at times we didn't know if, we'd make it out, but it was almost as though by committing to marriage we were both believe in this future, it can come true. He made a ring from a thread from his shirt, wove it into a beautiful, red and white pattern. I wore it in prison until there was nothing left of it.

After nine months they let our mothers visit. I remember coming through the door and they were dressed in long, black mantis, like conservative women in Iran wear. It wasn't until I was in my mom's arms, closed my eyes and felt her that it was finally real.

I couldn't get over how strong she looked. The hysterical woman who visited my nightmares had nothing in common with the fierce, articulate person sitting in front of me. I could see it in her eyes: no matter how hard, she was going to make sure I got out.

I told her to follow me to the bathroom. "Mom," I whispered. About four months ago I'd found a lump in my left breast. My mother is a nurse and I guided her hand to the spot. She said not to worry, it wasn't cancer. But then she said: "Sarah, this is important. Continue to complain."

It was her brilliant strategy. She knew that a health complication was my way out, that the Iranian government could release me without looking like they were submitting to pressure from the US.

And that's the justification they used, their way to save face. On September 14, 2010 they charged me with espionage and then released me after almost 14 months in prison.

Leaving Shane and Josh was unimaginable at first. I refused. But I knew I could fight for them once in the US.

I was told my mother would be waiting for me at the airport in Muscat, Oman. As I walked down the plane's stairs and touch free ground, there she was. I saw her tears. I wrapped my arms around her and everything dropped away. I looked into my mother's eyes and smiled.

Postscript: Sarah Shourd campaigned until Shane Bauer and Josh Fattal were freed after two years, two months in captivity. After her 410 days in prison, spent mostly in solitary confinement, she struggled with violent outbursts, insomnia and depression. "I'll never be the person I was," she says, "but I love my life now. Connecting my suffering to the suffering of so many other people who have endured this same torture in my own country helps me make sense - and something meaningful - from my experience." She and Shane married in California in 2012.

A Sliver of Light: Three Americans Imprisoned in Iran: http://www.sarahshourd.com/

A condensed version of this piece ran in the July issue of marie claire.