Silent Screams in Evin’s Cells: A Critical Account of Long-Term Hunger Strike by Political Prisoners

The silent screams of political prisoners on hunger strike in Evin have become a critical account of the prolonged hunger strike by political prisoners and how it has transformed into a human crisis.

On Monday night, the 10th of Azar, an Instagram page attributed to “Vadood Asadi” published a brief but shocking report stating: “A Kurdish-Azerbaijani political prisoner who has been on hunger strike for 35 days has been transferred to Evin’s infirmary due to ‘severe deterioration’ of his condition.” The sentence that appeared in the same post—”His blood pressure has dropped significantly and they have been forced to administer an IV”—reveals not only the physical condition of one prisoner, but how the prison system treats human life.

Asadi is not alone. His hunger strike began two days after “Taher Nakhaei,” an imprisoned lawyer, started his own; the same person whose demands were nothing more than adherence to the law and ensuring political prisoners’ right to treatment and medical leave. Both ultimately were transferred to solitary confinement, an action that many human rights observers consider itself a form of “punishment” for demanding their legal rights.

According to reports published by informed sources, both Asadi and Nakhaei are in severely critical condition, each having lost more than ten kilograms. Severe weakness, drops in blood pressure and blood sugar, as well as recurrence of previous illnesses, have occurred under conditions where, according to one source’s account: “During these thirty-seven or thirty-eight days, they were sent to the hospital only once, and without undergoing MRI and ultrasound, were returned to prison.”

This behavior is not merely an administrative violation; it is a form of structural indifference toward the health of political prisoners that is unjustifiable even under internal regulations. The hunger strike began in early Aban with Taher Nakhaei’s action, and then five other Kurdish political prisoners named Vadood Asadi, Ayaz Seifkhah, Morteza Parvin, Aziz Azimighadam, and Mahmoud Ajaqlu joined the strike.

When they were transferred to Ward 240 in Evin, except for Asadi, the others were forced under pressure to break their strike; but Asadi and Nakhaei’s resistance continued—a resistance that carried both physical costs and security consequences.

Nevertheless, several of those same prisoners returned to the strike after approximately ten days; a sign that the issue is not merely an individual protest, but reflects widespread distrust of the legal mechanisms within the prison.

In mid-Aban, the families of Asadi and Nakhaei held a sit-in for a week in front of Evin Prison. This civil action, which had little media coverage, ultimately forced authorities to return these two prisoners from solitary confinement to Ward 8. However, their return was not a “return to safety”—it was merely a change in detention location, not an improvement in access to treatment, medical leave, or addressing their demands.

Among messages released from the prison, two sentences stand out more than others: “On the nineteenth day of his strike, Taher Nakhaei wrote in a letter: ‘I will continue to the end of my life,'” and Vadood Asadi wrote in an Instagram message: “May our death be a wake-up call for the freedom of our people.”

These statements are not slogans, but declarations of emergency from within a windowless cell; a place where a prisoner, in order to be seen, must stake his life on protest. Prison authorities have repeatedly told prisoners they will look into the matter and coordinate with security officials, but these promises, as one source says, have been nothing but empty words.

The reality is simple: They have not granted medical leave, effective treatment has not been provided, and even regular hospital referrals have not taken place. This is while “Mousa Barzin,” a legal scholar, clearly explains that according to prison regulations, a sick person has the right to treatment, and prisons are obligated to provide treatment inside or outside the prison in life-threatening situations. In many countries (and even in some cases in Iran), referral for medical leave during prolonged hunger strikes is entirely routine. Therefore, the failure to address this situation is not due to “legal ambiguity,” but rather the result of clear neglect.

The human dimension of this story may be more painful than its legal aspect. Vadood Asadi’s young son is scheduled to undergo surgery for the third time. In an audio file released, Asadi tells his son: “My child Taymaz, it is true that I am not with you, but your mother is there and you are surrounded by people who love you.” These words remind us that the costs of political imprisonment fall not only on the prisoner, but also on families whose voices no one hears.

What Vadood Asadi, Taher Nakhaei, and other Kurdish political prisoners are enduring is not an isolated incident, but part of a chronic pattern of denial of treatment, transfer to solitary confinement as pressure, structural indifference to health, and refusal to implement minimum legal standards.

When a prisoner is forced to approach the brink of death for the right to treatment, the issue is no longer a legal dispute;
it is a moral and humanitarian crisis of a system. And as long as responsible institutions fail to respond to this crisis, the silent screams of political prisoners will continue to echo through the corridors of Evin.