For Nazanin Zaghari-Ratcliffe, years of imprisonment and degradation at the hands of her Iranian jailers were made more bearable by the time spent sewing her own clothes and sharing the experience with her fellow prisoners. Here, she recalls the importance of fashion and the solace of creativity
ON A COLD AFTERNOON, AS I ENTERED THE FEMALE POLITICAL WARD in Evin prison, something very familiar caught my eyes; an old grey industrial sewing machine on a wooden stand, right by the entrance, resting quietly with its flap tilted over. Next to it, there was a sign on the wall: ‘The hours to use the sewing machine are between 10 to 12am every Sunday and Wednesday. Please ensure any garments are washed before handing them over to Fatemeh for mending.’
I had been a political pawn between Iran and the UK for six years, during which I spent time between solitary confinement, prison and under house arrest. During the first nine months of my detention, I was kept in a cell with no fresh air or natural light. Once I entered the cell, they made me remove all my clothing and put on a uniform. It was compulsory as everyone had to look the same. The uniform in dull pink consisted of a manteau – a long sleeve gown with buttons in the front – and baggy trousers made of polyester. The fabric didn’t allow skin to breathe, so you felt hot and sweaty in the summer and cold in the winter. I am small, but they gave me a double extra-large size outfit. It was deliberately huge and ill-fitting; I had to roll up the sleeves and wrap the waist around my body to stop the trousers from falling down.
To make it worse, they only gave me one set.
I felt disgusted wearing the same clothes after showering.
Identical uniforms in prisons are used as a tool to enforce discipline and impose power. The idea behind giving every inmate an oversize, cheap uniform in deliberately dull colours is to dehumanise them. The moment you put the uniform on, you are no longer yourself; you lose your name and identity. To them, you are just a number.
I arrived in the Evin ward on Christmas day 2016; the day I turned 38. The representative of the ward, Nargess Mohammadi, who went on to win the Nobel Peace Prize in 2023, collected me from the guard’s office and took me inside. She offered me a seat and asked someone to get me a cup of tea while others gathered around me asking questions; ‘How are you, how long have you been in solitary? Have you seen your daughter recently’ As I was trying to get my head around the new place, I noticed some women passing by, dressed up rather elegantly. It felt utterly misplaced, as if they were going to a party. When one of the inmates brought me the tea, I asked her what was going on. She said there wa
