The autumn breeze rustles through maple trees, scattering golden leaves across the park bench where Armita Abbasi sits.
She rolls down her socks in Munich park to reveal tattoos that span her feet.
Her fingers, adorned with delicate ink patterns, danced as she traced the edge of her socks. She speaks about the tattoos on her feet.
The late afternoon light caught the silver rings on her fingers, turning the tools of her trade into armor.
I traveled to Germany to meet Armita Abbasi, a 20-year-old woman whose torture and rape in prison turned her into one of the most famous protesters of the Mahsa Movement.
Two months before our interview, she left Iran, and only last week, she arrived in Munich with support from the Munich Circle, an organization aiding Iranian refugees.
To me, Armita represents one of the symbols of Generation Z’s uprising against the Islamic Republic.
Armita is part of a generation born over two decades after the 1979 Islamic Revolution, a generation familiar only with the discrimination, suffering, and hatred from Iran’s ruling establishment.
Her story unfolds as one of a Generation Z protester, an artist, and a survivor – a young woman who joined her peers in rallying for freedom after Mahsa Amini’s death in custody.
Her pursuit of freedom led to her arrest, torture, and rape by an interrogator, hospitalization, and months of imprisonment, leaving her spirit and body scarred.
Even after her release, she continued to face attacks.
Before our interview in Munich, Armita told me over the phone, “Only now, for the first time after two years of horror, do I finally feel safe.”
In Iran, Armita worked as a tattoo artist. She embraced art from a young age, and as her skills developed, she transferred her work from canvas to skin.
When our interview begins, she shares stories about her tattoos.
She pulls down her sock, revealing a tattoo of a girl as a skeleton. “The digital art and paintings portrayed me as a brave hero,” she says. “But this tattoo reflects my reality at that time: a skeleton, dead.”
“I wasn’t in a good state back then. I connected deeply with this design – my real self at that time had become very frail,” she recalls.
Reviewing Armita’s photos and videos clearly demonstrates generational defiance against the Islamic Republic’s vision – a dark, mournful world the clerical establishment has promoted as an ideal and superior culture since 1979.
“People often called me a rule-breaker just because I always had a unique style,” Armita says.
Standing out isn’t easy in a traditional society with rigid social standards. She embraces bold hair colors, diverse tattoos covering her skin, and symmetrical piercings on her face.
Armita’s generation grew up with social media, creating Instagram accounts as early as 13 or 14, accessing a freer world despite the Islamic Republic’s relentless efforts at censorship and filtering.
Her questions began to take shape back then.
“I’d go to school, and the girls would secretly shave their arms to look more feminine to impress their boyfriends. I’d always wonder, ‘Why do they need to shave?’ That question stuck with me,” she recalls.
Curious, she turned to Google and discovered feminism, realizing that her differences stemmed from her mindset. “I started researching, learning more, and eventually decided to use my page to raise awareness that women can be free—and without hijab,” she adds.
Armita’s understanding of women’s rights grew, as did her conviction that her actions needed to match her words. “So I became the person I wanted others to see – a girl in Iran who could live freely. Many people need to start a revolution in their own homes.”
Armita’s network grew through her social media activity, connecting her with like-minded individuals in Tehran. Eventually, she moved to Karaj to live independently – a decision her family initially opposed, as they felt a 19-year-old girl living alone was too unconventional. But Armita convinced them, determined to build a life on her terms.
“I was rebellious,” she recalls. “I told my mom, ‘I want to live with my friend. I’ll work for a while and learn a skill.’ I had a roommate for a while, then I took a tattoo course.”
In September 2022, Armita was living in Karaj when Mahsa Amini was arrested by the morality police and died in custody. Like millions of women in her generation, she joined the Woman, Life, Freedom movement.
“I kept thinking, ‘What is my role in this? A girl was killed right here. If they can kill her and we say nothing, they’ll kill us too.’ I protested for an entire month, sometimes alone and sometimes with friends.”
A month later, Armita and two friends went to Gohardasht to spray paint protest slogans. Security forces stopped them, but they managed to escape.
They returned to Armita’s home to lay low until things settled down. Armita had materials for making Molotov cocktails at home, some partially assembled.
When asked what she intended with the Molotov cocktails, Armita responded, “I wanted to distribute them among the people.”
What would they do with them? Where would they use them? She explained that people would use them “wherever they felt in danger.”
“Gohardasht had become terrifying. All the alleys were open, and the security forces would corner us like fish in a trap, arresting people. Even during Chaharshanbe Suri [the festival of fire], people crafted makeshift explosives to create smoke and scatter security forces when they arrived.”
During the Mahsa movement, IRGC intelligence forces took an aggressive role in suppressing protests, and they tracked Armita down after capturing someone who had sought refuge in her home.
Social media was soon flooded with posts about a missing young woman as her family desperately searched for her. According to both Armita and official documents, the IRGC arrested her on October 11, 2022.
“They sat me down there,” she remembers. “Someone sat in front of me, and the insults and humiliation began: ‘You went out dressed like a slut. What are these clothes? Living alone? You’re corrupted. You’re immoral. You even look like an addict. Your generation should be killed. The one we killed was just like you.’”
Armita was kept blindfolded in an unknown location, unable to move or speak. If she made any sound, they struck her head and ears.
Hours passed before the agents demanded her phone passcode. She resisted, relenting only when they promised she could speak with her mother. Every time she mentioned her mother in our interview, her eyes filled with tears.
“I kept saying all I wanted was for my mom to know. I always told her when I was going to a protest. But my poor mother had no idea where I was.”
An IRGC officer promised Armita a call to her mother if she gave up her phone passcode. He responded with mocking laughter when she handed it over, making her realize she’d been deceived. Her mother searched day and night without word on her only child’s whereabouts.
Alongside her advocacy for women’s rights, Armita was also an animal rescuer. She “rescued cats,” as she put it, even saving a cat stuck in a tree during the protests one night.
While Armita was held blindfolded, another IRGC team raided her home. “They went into the house. I was told the furniture was overturned and items scattered everywhere. My three cats hadn’t been fed for three days. They beat the cats, throwing them against walls, mocking me, and saying, ‘Are these what she called her children?’”
The IRGC’s treatment left the cats so traumatized that one, already sick, worsened, and another cat suffered a fractured hip, which, due to its age, failed to heal.
Both cats died.
In prison, Armita assumed her cats were safe. “This is just one part of my life they took from me. Besides my babies, they took all my gold. They must have had a gold detector, as all my costume jewelry was left.”
“They even took my makeup and the clothes they liked. If you’re that desperate, I get taking the gold, but why take my clothes? Who did you take my makeup for? Your wife? What kind of people have we fallen into the hands of that they’re so desperate?”
In Armita’s case file, a copy of which IranWire holds, the items confiscated from her home included “one birth certificate, two empty Irancell SIM card holders with one SIM card, one knife, a Sony laptop, two 1.5-liter bottles of petrol, ten Molotov cocktails, a laptop charger, one mouse, and five lighters.”
Throughout the Mahsa movement, the Islamic Republic accused protestors of being foreign spies, with IRGC agents pressuring Armita to confess to leading the protests in Karaj, pointing to her half-assembled Molotov cocktails and her 10,000 Instagram followers as supposed proof.
Armita spent six days in the Karaj Azimiyeh Intelligence Office, undergoing relentless IRGC interrogations by day and returning to the detention center each night.
“If you lose focus for even a moment, fall for their tricks, or give the wrong answer, it’s over. They ask targeted questions to get the confession they want. Sometimes, under pressure, you start questioning whether you did what they accuse you of. They even showed me fake chats.”
According to Armita, her case file labeled her as a “trained intelligence leader.” Documents reviewed by IranWire show that her case file repeatedly states, “Armita did not accept any charges during all questioning.”
The expert opinion section noted, “Despite sufficient evidence of criminal actions, the named individual rejects them and uses anti-interrogation techniques.”
One of these “anti-interrogation techniques” was a simple precaution: marking the beginning and end of each statement with crosses to ensure no one could alter her words.
In the first document she received, Armita refused to speak without a lawyer, marking the start of her battle with her interrogator. This confrontation included her interrogator bringing his young child into the room, exposing the child to his mistreatment of detained protesters.
On November 21, 2022, CNN released a report on the sexual torture experienced by protesters at the hands of Islamic Republic agents.
The report, based on statements from a medical professional, described an IRGC intelligence agent’s sexual assault of Armita, which caused her to bleed anally.
I asked whether the “sexual assault” referenced in reports about her was indeed “rape.” Armita confirmed CNN’s account, stating, “I’d rather just say that I fully confirm CNN’s report about the rape that happened, and I don’t want to discuss any part of it.”
When I asked about its emotional impact, she folded her arms tightly around herself, her gaze lowered. After a pause, she said, “I try to think it never happened.”
The moment was thick with her tears, trembling, and a deliberate pause to reach for a tissue, perhaps a way to put distance between herself and the memory of that violence.
That was the last we discussed the assault. Later, Armita disclosed that the rape took place in the bathroom of the interrogation room, where, every time she went, she was monitored by a guard.
CNN’s report, citing a source at the Imam Ali Hospital in Azimiyeh, Karaj, noted that on arrival, Armita’s bleeding was documented as a result of repeated sexual assault. The CNN source emphasized that security forces pressured doctors to attribute her injuries to an internal illness.
One hospital staff member’s text about the incident summed up the dynamic of 45 years of the Islamic Republic’s treatment of its citizens: “To make it short, they screwed up. They screwed up, and they don’t know how to put it together again.”
After her severe injuries from the rape by the IRGC officer, Armita’s bleeding was so intense that the interrogator had no choice but to bring her to the hospital. To avoid raising suspicion, the agents presented themselves as her family and covered her handcuffs with a cloth, concealing her condition as if she were an ordinary patient.
Armita’s condition upon arrival at the hospital was so severe that she drew the attention of the staff and other patients.
“I was handcuffed and had a cloth thrown over my hands to hide them. They put a cap on my head and wrapped a conservative scarf over me like a chador, further humiliating me. I felt so weak and could feel people staring.”
“They put me on a general ward bed and pulled the curtains around me. The nurses kept finding excuses to come by my bed, but I wasn’t allowed to answer their questions. A female IRGC agent stayed by my side constantly to prevent any contact.”
When one guard was occupied, Armita used the silent “domestic violence” hand signal to alert an intern to her situation; the only way she could silently signal that she was being abused.
Responding quickly, the intern returned, pretending that Armita needed a catheter. “I need to take a urine sample immediately,” she said, then looked at me and asked, ‘Do you need to use the restroom?’ I knew I had to follow her plan, so I said no.”
During this visit, the hospital intern discreetly dropped a piece of paper on Armita’s bed.
Amrita quickly wrote her mother’s number on the paper, and this act of support from the medical staff allowed her mother to locate her.
Though her mother found the hospital and her daughter’s room, security agents wouldn’t allow them to meet. Armita could hear her mother calling out, “Wherever they take you, I will find you … I am here with you,” while Armita was forced to stay silent and could only cry.
It was some time before Armita, still detained, could hear her mother’s voice and meet with her. But news of the IRGC officer’s rape of a 20-year-old woman had reached international media, with CNN’s report bringing worldwide attention to her case.
The security agents were surprised by the news of Armita’s rape being publicized. Following the Islamic Republic’s forty-year-old playbook, they forced her to make a coerced confession and deny the truth.
Armita says, “The other political detainees, free to make calls, had heard about the CNN report. Some prisoners’ mothers had seen me on the 8:30 news broadcast. I only knew that some news about me had leaked.”
“They summoned me for interrogation again. I thought maybe my family or I had informed someone,” she says. They said, “Anti-regime media are spreading nonsense.”
State TV cameras confronted her immediately after her first meeting with her mother. “They adjusted my hijab and told me the video would go to the head of the judiciary. I was under so much pressure I couldn’t even remember what day it was or how long I’d been there. They told me exactly what to say, and I repeated it.”
Has she ever wanted to file a complaint against the interrogator who assaulted her? “Complain to the police about the police?”
“It would lead nowhere. No, because I was certain it would only bring more trouble. After my release, I already had enough legal issues. I just wanted to get away from them.”
During the Mahsa movement, the Islamic Republic killed over 500 protesters, many of them young people of Armita’s generation: Sarina, Nika, Hadis, Hananeh, and hundreds of other Iranians.
Among them, Armita feels the closest bond with Nika Shakarami. “After everything that happened to me, I gave up my claim to justice. I thought about Nika being killed, about Mahsa, Sarina, Hadis, and so many others whose names aren’t mentioned.”
“I kept thinking the hardships I endured were nothing compared to those who gave their lives or to the families who lost their loved ones,” Armita says.
Among the fallen of Woman, Life, Freedom, Armita once sang in honor of Nika: “If I were tied like the body of Iran, if I were the final moment of humanity, your memories would still keep me alive in the most desolate corners of prison…”
I asked Armita, Why Nika? Tears filled her eyes.
She took a breath and explained, “Nika was one of the main reasons I knew I had to leave. I felt I had to seek justice for her. She was younger than me, and among the well-known protesters, she was the most like me.”
“She had a different style, clashing with the norms of Islamic society. She sang; I sang too. Later, I learned she painted. I also painted at that age. After I was released, people often told me I reminded them of Nika. I didn’t know whether to feel heartbroken that I was here and she was gone or glad that people could see we were truly alike.”
“One day, we’ll walk together, accepting each other as we are,” I say.
After a pause, Armita adds, “I reached a point of mental collapse and even thought about how to end it, but thankfully, something always happened to stop me.”
Have you ever regretted it? I ask.
“Not at all,” she replies. “I had a goal—I made as much impact as possible. I believe in myself and who I am. Maybe I did more than my share as a 20-year-old, but I have no regrets.
“I’m not a political analyst, nor do I claim to have absolute knowledge, but I believe this change will happen sooner or later. Maybe it didn’t happen when we expected; maybe it won’t come solely from the people.
“Right now, I don’t think our methods will succeed, but they’ve created a foundation for bigger change. The world knows now that people are unhappy with this regime, and if the people can’t change things, then one day, the world will. I’m sure that one day they will be overthrown.”
So you believe that one day, Iranian women like you will be able to be who they want? I ask.
“’Woman, Life, Freedom’ was always about that,” she says. “For us to live freely without a dictatorship. For me to be who I want without harming you, and for you to do the same.”
“But the regime has pitted us against each other. People forget that the real problem is someone else sitting elsewhere. I hope one day we can walk side by side without judging each other based on appearance or lifestyle.”
After four months of interrogation, torture, and mistreatment, Armita was granted “general amnesty.” Yet even after her release, the harassment persisted. Security agents continued their intimidation, ultimately pushing Armita to leave her homeland in search of safety.
First, she fled to Turkey, but even there, the pressure felt unending, leading her to seek asylum in Germany.
Source » iranwire