Evin Prison Strike: A Symbolic Blow or a Silent Tragedy?

By Aanesha Sharma

The recent Israeli airstrike on Tehran’s notorious Evin prison has sparked a wide spectrum of reactions across the globe. While some interpret the move as a symbolic gesture towards freedom and defiance against Iran’s oppressive regime, others view it with concern, pointing to the unseen and largely ignored consequences faced by the vulnerable. 

Israel’s attack struck the prison and caused significant damage to several parts of the facility, stirring global debate. For many years, Evin prison has embodied the silencing of dissent in Iran, holding individuals targeted for their political beliefs, activism, or international ties. However, the attack, carried out by Israel amid rising regional tension, has left many questioning the real cost of such symbolic acts.

One of the most vocal critics of the bombing is Nazanin Zaghari-Ratcliffe, who is a British-Iranian author and former detainee of Evin prison, spending five long years incarcerated there. She widely denounced the airstrike, expressing how it caused terror within her. Her response is not rooted in geopolitical strategy or nationalist sentiment, but in lived experience, trauma, and empathy for those still inside.

Zaghari-Ratcliffe, in a deeply personal reflection, condemned the airstrike, calling it an act that ignores the lives and humanity of the vulnerable. She expressed how nobody is interested in what happened to the prisoners, highlighting how the discourse quickly shifted to politics, symbolism, and military might, leaving those most affected behind in silence.

Following the initial wave of bombings in Iran, she admits to having deliberately avoided the news and requests for interviews, struggling to process the unfolding events. But the news of Evin shook her, imagining that she was once there, behind that very gate. The visuals of the damaged gate reminded her of how she used to wish for it to open, how every day in prison was marked by the hope that one day, the gate would be flung open, not for a bomb to come in, but for freedom to flow out.

To the faraway media and detached international audiences, the attack may appear as a targeted strike against a symbol of tyranny. But, as Zaghari-Ratcliffe painfully underscores, freedom does not come from bombs. When two governments fight, it is the vulnerable who suffer, and often, their pain is invisible, erased from the narrative.

She reveals that the consequences of the bombing were immediate and brutal. Some prisoners were injured, others disappeared, and many were forcibly relocated without information. The loved ones of the affected, many of whom live in uncertainty and fear, were left clueless about their fates. The families of these prisoners wait for information, scared and anxious.

Zaghari-Ratcliffe reflects on the days following the strike as ones filled with numbness, helplessness, and outrage. She continues to highlight the neglect of prisoners in times of conflict and danger. She emphasises that prisoners, especially the political ones, are rarely a priority during wartime or crises, despite the fact that they are the most vulnerable and exposed.

She wrote that in prison, she learned that freedom doesn’t come from bombs and brutality, not from clever stunts for the cameras. It lies in human connection and empathy. Her words serve as a powerful reminder that no military gesture, however dramatic, can substitute the slow, deliberate work of justice and compassion.

The airstrike has also triggered a complex emotional response among Iranians living abroad, many of whom find themselves torn between two opposing forces. On one hand, they oppose Iran’s repressive regime, and on the other, they cannot support the destruction of their homeland, especially when the casualties are mostly ordinary civilians.

As Iran grapples with growing internal instability, worsening economic conditions, and increased international isolation, it is the ordinary people, the powerless, who bear the brunt. Zaghari-Ratcliffe is not alone in her anguish. She shares that many of her former cellmates from Evin are also haunted by the strike. They share the fear, the helplessness, and the bitter realisation that their stories, their lives, are easily forgotten.

For many, Evin prison represents a dark chapter in the story of modern Iran. And while its targeting may carry symbolic weight in the geopolitical arena, for those who have lived within its walls, it is a deeply personal wound, one that should not be opened recklessly in the name of symbolism.

As regional tensions escalate, voices like Zaghari-Ratcliffe’s offer a necessary moral lens. They remind us that in times of conflict, it is not enough to count victories in missiles and headlines. We must ask: Who is left behind? Who is hurt? And who is forgotten?

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