“It was a moment of extreme hopelessness.” A Belarusian journalist recounts how he went to Iran as a tourist and ended up in prison

Amidst mass protests in Iran, "Salidarnasts" journalist Mark Dyuba, under a pseudonym, recalls how he ended up behind bars in that country in 2022.

Some circumstances of the events are deliberately omitted – due to the potential threat to the safety of people who helped the author in Iran.

How I came up with the idea to fly to Iran

In the 2010s, several of my friends and acquaintances traveled to Iran, and they had no bad impressions from their trips: it's an original, yet hospitable country with a fairly developed infrastructure. Having previously visited about forty countries, in 2022 I decided it was time to discover the territory of former Persia.

Indirectly contributing to this decision was the fact that I was still working in Belarus, where mass political repressions continued and a war was ongoing at its southern border.

In that situation of disorientation, it was not scary to fly to Iran, but to live in my home country.

What I could not foresee was that by the time of my flight to Iran, clashes were already taking place between protesters and security forces due to the death of Mahsa Amini, who was detained for "improperly" wearing a hijab. But plane tickets had been purchased before this, and the media reported that clashes were mainly happening in the provinces, while the capital Tehran was relatively calm.

When everything went wrong

Tehran itself (which I decided not to venture beyond) did not disappoint me. Palace complexes, markets, mosques – everything was interesting.

Павялічыць

Павялічыць

Павялічыць

That evening, after a busy trip, I was about a 15-minute drive from the hotel. The sun was setting, and we stopped at an intersection at a red light. Sitting in the back seat of the car, through the left window I saw security forces (in uniform) standing and sitting in the square.

Instinctively, I raised my phone, but I don't think I even managed to take a picture. A scream came from above my right ear. When I looked back, an enraged scooter driver was looking at me through the window, and an instant later he was shouting at the same security forces, pointing his finger at me.

The light had just turned green, and we drove off. Fortunately, I had the presence of mind to start deleting the photos I had taken during the day on my phone. What followed was a "movie" in the "action" genre.

It must be said that from early morning on the streets of Tehran, I had been observing protesters from the car window, as well as the security forces who were trying to combat them. These were girls who defiantly walked without headscarves. Groups of 10-15 boys and girls who suddenly appeared, chanting slogans, and then vanished without a trace among other passers-by when police cars appeared. Security forces at intersections and even pump-action shotgun shots fired into the air.

Everything resembled the Belarusian protests of 2020. But I was sitting inside a car. The impression was: if you don't participate in the protests, there's nothing to worry about. So, although I was a tourist at that moment, guided by journalistic instinct, I was taking photos...

Павялічыць

Photo: amnesty.org

I deleted the dangerous pictures, went into the "recently deleted" folder (the taxi driver slammed on the brakes, a shout from the front windows), "clear" – at that moment the door next to me opened, and I was dragged out onto the street. The taxi driver was lying face down on the hood, there were three motorcycles and several security officers near the car – but not in uniform, but in plain clothes.

Павялічыць

Павялічыць

They put me on a motorcycle, took me to a van with curtained windows, and threw me onto a seat. Half an hour later, the first "investigator" arrived – the first person, besides Farsi, who spoke English.

I told him everything as it happened (almost) and pressed him: why did you detain me?!

They meticulously listed my available currency – they were very pleased when they found 150 dollars in my wallet. While the security forces (I never found out which of the several Iranian services arrested me) behaved hostilely, they did not cross any lines.

It grew dark. A few hours later, the van doors opened: a blindfold over my eyes, handcuffs on my hands. They put me in a car, and we drove into the unknown.

"Putin or Zelensky?"

The metal gates creaked. They led me out of the car, removed the blindfold – a street light hit my eyes. They led me into a one-story building: a photograph against the wall, a new interrogation – in English.

From the questions ("have you been to the USA?" etc.), it was clear that they wanted to "uncover" in me either a "puppet master," or a "spy," or someone similar.

Then the "investigator" became kinder: tea, coffee, water? He calmed me down ("they'll check the phone, and that's it"), and started talking about unrelated topics. "Putin or Zelensky?" Aha, he wanted to trap me: Iran supplied "Shaheds" to Russia, after all.

"He's afraid," the "investigator" nodded to his colleagues in the office. "But I'm for Zelensky."

Then there was waiting on a bench outside (the entire area was fenced with a high wall with guards at the gate).

A car pulled up: two plainclothes officers drove me through the empty streets of nocturnal Tehran, refusing to answer any questions. They slowed down near a three- or four-story unremarkable house. We entered and stopped just beyond the threshold. A new surprise: a man dressed in what looked like religious attire – with a turban on his head – descended to meet us.

The conversation between him and my escorts was brief – all in Farsi, I understood nothing. Then, the familiar "precinct" again, only now no one paid any attention to me.

The security forces started leaving for their homes, I demanded to be released to my hotel: they offered me a choice – to spend the night in a concrete cell, similar to a "glass," or in a room lined with carpets. There was no furniture, but there was a guard at the door. The choice, as they say, was obvious.

I couldn't fall asleep: I lay on the carpet, replaying the recent events over and over in my head, trying to understand what was happening and what I should do tomorrow. I held onto hope with all my might. I couldn't imagine that the worst was yet to come.

"Three cygnets"

In the morning, the "investigator" called me over: "They'll take you to the judge again now, tell the truth, everything will be fine."

Several of us were gathered on a bench outside, waiting. I don't know his name, let's call him "Masoud." So, Masoud deliberately walked past us twice, rattling his handcuffs.

My "colleague" in misfortune said: this is for us. I tried to reassure him: it can't be, we are foreigners and we haven't done anything.

When Masoud arrived with his partner, they made a "trio" out of me and two others, linking our hands with handcuffs. And then... and then they linked us further, putting handcuffs on our legs. I was in the center: my right and left legs were chained to others'.

So, in handcuffs and shackles, we were led to a car that pulled up to put us in the back seat. Our unsynchronized steps echoed with painful jabs not so much in our legs as in our souls. It was as if I saw this simultaneously sad and comical spectacle from the side: "a trio of cygnets" – nothing less...

On the way, I was planning my speech before the judge, including how to respectfully but firmly demand contact with the Belarusian embassy. In court, Masoud smiled and looked at me, avoiding direct eye contact. My, apparently, still calm and confident demeanor seemed to annoy him.

We never saw the judge. Masoud, with a joyful face, rushed out of the office with a paper.

We drove out, but from the court, we turned left, not right, where we had come from. High metal gates opened. I peered intently out the window, trying not to lose hope. And suddenly I saw – as if in slow motion: people in grey robes and blindfolded walked in a single file, one after another.

If there had been emotional knockdowns before, this was a knockout.

Getting acquainted with the order in the cell

As I changed into the prison uniform, my eyes were clouded with fog, my ears were ringing, there was something wrong with my pulse and heartbeat – the thought flashed, "don't have a stroke in this wagon." I tried to breathe deeply.

Without handcuffs, but blindfolded, I was led to the second or third floor, and stood facing the wall. The long lack of sleep also took its toll: I wanted to lie down right there in the corridor.

The doctors in the infirmary put on sympathetic faces, but from their words, it seemed that I had indeed committed something terrible when I tried to photograph the security forces at the intersection.

We went up to the next floor, I entered the "cell" — several bearded men stared at me... But instantly, those who spoke English were found. "You're lucky you ended up with us, not others. We are brothers." The atmosphere was friendly — without it, it would have been many times more difficult.

The "elder" led me to settle into his "room" – there was a TV and only two neighbors. The younger ones insisted: it's better with them – although it's a bit cramped (there are 6 of them in the room), it's fun.

I will describe the room, which I don't know what to call if not a "cell." A short corridor leads from the metal door. To its left are several "rooms." The first is a separate shower/toilet with wooden, almost solid doors. Further, three "rooms" without doors – of varying capacity. In the corridor – a refrigerator. On the floor, each person has their own sleeping place – human-sized, made of folded blankets.

From the prisoners, I learned the most valuable information at that moment: we are in a pre-trial detention center analogue, where one can wait for trial for several weeks or several months.

Why were my cellmates here? Those who wanted to talk were "political" prisoners.

I lay down and instantly passed out – for three hours. When I got up – they called me to watch a Spanish football championship match. I didn't sit through to the end of the first half, I still desperately wanted to sleep. I was in such a state of mind that I try not to remember. It was a moment of extreme hopelessness.

How much will they give me – two years or more? What will it be like in the colony – with people of a foreign culture, with whom I can't even talk?... My wife and son will be left alone...

I was woken up at night. Blindfolded, walking through corridors, two people sat in the office – who they were, of course, they didn't say.

One of them spoke Russian: "We are your friends." Friendly interaction, behind which lay a new interrogation. The most intrusive of all – with an emphasis on my place of work.

Before flying to Iran, I had prepared a "legend" (you couldn't introduce yourself as a journalist from an independent media after the protests in Belarus), but not such a detailed one... It felt like I was explaining convincingly. "We'll check, if you told the truth – everything will be fine with you." I left with the thought: "How will you check Belarusian companies?..."

Hope returned. If only they hadn't recovered the photos on my phone... The window had opened a crack, there was a chance to flutter out.

A few hours later, I was woken up again – time to leave. I looked back at my "brothers" in the cell... In the same carriage, they returned my clothes and belongings. The next day – my phone.

Not a single person in Tehran found out what I actually did for a living; I remained exclusively a tourist for everyone. Freedom came almost two days later, which were filled with so much stress that they seemed like an endless TV series.

...When I returned to Minsk, my wife saw me cry for the first and last time. For two months, every morning when I woke up, I felt a sense of happiness. When sunbeams broke through the window, I held my palms out to them.

Then the emotions began to fade. The number of questions in my head narrowed down to a few. How could I have been so overconfident? Why didn't the judge grant me "freedom" on the first night? And what would have happened if I hadn't managed to delete the photos in the taxi?...

Six months later, a feeling emerged that everything that happened had occurred a long, long time ago – either in another life or in a cruel prank. But I remember you, brothers from the cell, and I believe that you are all well. Positive thoughts materialize.

According to Iran Human Rights, approximately 500 people were killed during the protests in Iran in 2022. As of December 2022, according to official data, in Tehran alone, about 400 protest participants were sentenced to prison terms ranging from 2 to 10 years. By early 2023, at least 25 death sentences related to the protests had been issued in Iranian courts.

As of mid-January 2026, the number of victims of the brutal suppression of new protests in Iran is estimated by human rights defenders to be 5,000 dead. The true scale of what happened is yet to be discovered.

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