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
