Woe to Life When Friend Dreads Friend

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Listen to the Silence by Diane Babayan

Listen to the Silence
Diane Babayan
translation: Mina Zand Siegel

Listen to silence

It is there, all aound

Away from your sight

It is in full bursting

Conceived to give life

Like an egg to be hatched

Transparent and fragile

But strong for its form,

A perfect curve

That repeats itself,

For eternity.

Listen to silence,

That will talk to you

If you lend it your ears

It will retell you your life

What has happened

In the course of time

Without ever stopping

But it will sow its story

From the time past 

To the future

Over the path of your memory

Listen to silence

And you will hear the life

Of yours
And of others

Those buried treasures

Under the mountain of noise

The wastes of wars

Of lies and deceptions

Listen to silence

And you would be able to save the life

Yours 
And others’

Who hear nothing but the noise

These sounds that imprison 

The silence of life.

By Diane Babayan

Toronto, April, 30 2004

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Postcards addressed to the United Nations: An Interview byPantea Bahrami

Postcards addressed to the United Nations

Pantea Bahrami

Translated from a posting in Radio Zamaaneh.

It is a 9’ X 9’painting, a tapestry whose texture consists of human beings, falling and rising yet again, with women whose bodies testify to decades of toil, suffering, struggle, humiliation, and strength, and finally, relief and freedom.

There are circles in swirling motion. These are the cycles of life, with no gap between them, in continual, ceaseless motion.

There are tens of colorful pencils, the symbols of the age-old history of human struggle for freedom, with the dazzling rainbow of their diversity, beyond their ethnicity, religion and gender; and there are ropes which have bound humanity for ages, and on-going efforts by men and women, day and night, to untie and free themselves from them.

Truly, human being must have been very tolerant to have survived so long against such hardships. Moreover, they must have had a love for and faith in something well beyond tolerance that made them continue their struggle, a belief and faith in protest and a hope for change. It is this desire and hope for change of the unacceptable and undesirable that made them to survive so far.

This is the description of the painting by Alireza Darvish, the painter and the filmmaker who lives in Koln, Germany. He says:

This painting does not refer to any specific geographical location, but has a universal and general objective. We live in a global village; we can neither isolate ourselves artificially from others nor avoid responding to events happening in it, regardless of our immediate location or interests.

At a cursory glance, the painting may appear to be a mere reflection of current events in Iran, but this is certainly not its point.

There are two different aspects to this painting, the inner circle and outward motion. The outer view regards human involvement and reaction to the events, and the crises of life, and inner view regards the artist’s inner personal reflections as well as reactions to these events and crises.

But this work does not have any specific emphasis on Iran today. Indeed, it has a much broader issue in its content.

This painting is published on post cards in the United States to echo the voice of millions of people and to make an ocean of protests from them.

“In condemnation of Coup Government of the Islamic Republic of Iran’s crimes against humanity,” is written on the back of the cards.

Mina Siegel, the cards’ producer, explains:

The main impetus was, of course, the events which arose after the elections and the crimes which were revealed—the murders, rapes, tortures and forced confessions. They were all terrifying events, but what I have in mind when I say “crime against humanity” is way beyond those events. By “crime,” I mean the kind of crime which happened and victimized a vast majority of the people, something that we have got used to and thought of as not so important since it is so common that it has become a matter of fact, ordinary.

These last thirty years, I have come across Iranians, many of them my teachers, writers, playwrights, scholars, and artists, whose lives have been devoted to Iranian art and culture, whose identities were profoundly intertwined with the Persian language and culture. They had no existence beyond that and now they have no options.

These were the most frightening things I have ever faced in my life. I thought we should do something, we should raise our voices.

In fact, those she has in mind are greater in number than those experts who, after leaving the country, were not able to function without their mother tongue and become creative and survive. What she refers to are those who are stripped of their identity an therefore their dignity, those who have to step down just in order to make living, namely a vast majority of Iranian in exile.

Mina Siegel continues:

Our pressure on the UN to condemn the Islamic Republic for all the crimes against humanity is quite symbolic. This is crime against humanity that is happening all over the world and not only in Iran. Our country is just a small spot in the world; we won’t live in peace if the world is not in peace, and the world is not going to be a better place if each of its small members won’t live in humane condition. We do not get any better if we keep silent. We are the only ones who can possibly solve our problems.

These cards are addressed to the Secretary General of the United Nations. Mina Siegel talks about the quantity of these cards and the way she expect to become global:

Under these circumstances I unfortunately had to publish these cards with my private funds. Due to my limitations, I have published only ten thousand and another ten thousand are in the process of being printed. Hopefully we can increase their volume as we go along.

I have no intention of limiting these to Iran or Iranians. I hope this will become a global movement. In the United States I have counted on university students, young people and all those who are concerned about the future of the world we live in.

The stamps or the post cards that are published so far in Europe and elsewhere about the green movement have been very straightforward and the viewer will notice the message at the first glance. This is exactly what distinguishes these cards from others. In this regard, Alireza Darvish believes:

We should not expect to impress our audience with simple polemics alone. A work of art can sometimes be more impressive by its implications.

I have used the colors very consciously. I have filled the gray colors that surrounded the atmosphere with sharp and vivid colors, and by so doing I have expressed my own hope in that particular moment.

I think the events unfolding in Iran involve everyone in the world. Though the people in Iran have experienced them in their flesh and bones, we all, wherever we are in the world, have experienced its pain, their pain, as well. We all carry it in our minds and hearts wherever we are.

I asked Mina Siegel what would be achieved if 30,000 or even 50,000 of these cards would be sent to the UN? To that she responds:

Our main goal is to take the Islamic Republic to an International Court and put it in trial. This is a petition for the Secretary General to deliver the Iranian case to the Security Council in order for it to deliver it to the International Court of Hague. This is in accordance with existing protocols; the Iranian case cannot be filed directly with Hague.

Truly, the green movement, with its bold and sound actions of the last few months, gave me the encouragement to embark on this project, to raise our voices in support of this legal suit.

How could one obtain these cards? Mina Siegel explained,

We can send these cards to Europe with no difficulty, and those in Iran could ask their friends in Europe, Canada or US to fill some up on their behalf and mail them to the UN.

Our email address is : un4iran@gmail.com and our website is un4iran.blogspot.com

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Pedal 4 Green: Ambassadors of Hope

Hassan Alizadeh and Amir Hossein Ahmadi were not unfamiliar names to us. I met Mr. Alizadeh at the Brooklyn Film Festival in 2005. I think it was his demeanor and athletic comportment which impressed so many of us and compelled us to put aside our competitiveness and wish that their documentary, made about their four-year trip around the world, would win the grand prize. Unfortunately, well-wishers were not the jurors in the festival. But the features of these two champions won the prize of our hearts and minds. My husband and I had no difficulty recognizing them as they walked into our home. “Yes, that’s them!” I uttered as I led them into our sitting room. Indeed, the entire documentary came back to me.
While staying with us, Hassan and Amir Hossein created another documentary worthy of another prize. This time, the documentary was a live narrative of the Islamic Republic of Iran’s downfall and the grand jury consisted of my family of five, plus my two dogs. They won the prize unanimously with six votes. (One of the dogs, Omar Khayyam, nicknamed “Mojtaba,” abstained.)

“When did you leave Iran?” I asked.
“Yesterday,” one of them answered.
I rubbed my eyes to make sure I was not dreaming. “Just 24 hours away from the news? First hand news?” I could not believe it.
“How was everything? Do people know about the news? Is everything kept away from them? Do they hear from us? Is what we are doing here important? Do they hear us at all? Do they have any expectation from us?” I could not wait for an answer before launching into another question.
“Oh, by the way, are you hungry? Do you want something to drink? Are you tired? Do you want to take a nap until dinner time?” And again, here I was with another series of motherly questions, not giving them a chance to answer. Finally one of them, I think it was Amir Hossein, replied: “No thank you. We are fine.”
Serioja, (nick named “mini-Mojtaba”), our little dog, ran downstairs and sheepishly crawled over Amir Hossein’s shoos and grabbed the string of his shoes which led him to discover the edges of his socks and then the rims of his pants and here we lost both our dog and our guest together. They were running from room to room playing hide and seek with each other with a mixture of laughter and barks.
The round of telephone calls started. Friends wanted to know what we all wanted to know. BBC, VOA, and few others called back. The press along with the rest of us wanted to know not so much about them but about the life in streets of Tehran, “Allaho akbar!” on the rooftops, injured patients in the hospitals, prisoners in Evin, journalists cooped up in the offices of the closed newspapers and finally the young defenseless people in the street meeting danger and even ready to die. In response to every question these trubador-champions unveiled with ease the mystery of this phenomenal courage. Well-informed and fully aware, balanced, devoid of bitterness or anger, very humbly with their answers, they created another puzzle, they themselves turned into the object of curiosity.
Passing by them, on my way to kitchen while they were on the phone, I could not help but overhearing their conversations with their wives, friends and a few interviews they gave. I do not make any apology for hearing them, nor for repeating them. Explaining their mission, knowing that they would very likely wind up in Evin Prison upon their return, I would hear them saying over and over, “The movement belongs to the people, it does not belong to Mousavi or Karoubi for that matter, though I voted for Karoubi myself. But they are far behind the people. We pedal for the movement; we want to bring the movement to the United States more than any other place,” without any boasting or reproach or even defensiveness.
“But your wives?” almost everyone seemed to asked them. “They knew whom they married, and still, they are no better or worse than all those women in prisons. They would have done exactly the same as we are if they were in our position” They said this not only with certainty, but with respect and love. I could envision their wives as lovely, caring, independent women whose trust and confidence in their husbands had encouraged them to such an undertaking.
They were not anxious, not even when the bicycle store called and made lousy excuses for delaying the delivery of their bicycles and helmets and other accessories. They were not annoyed when the activists who were supposed to welcome them in New York were too busy to see them. And they never lost their temper when they were repeatedly checkmate by my brother. However, if I could attribute their mental balance and their acceptance of failure and loss to their general athletic training, I was most puzzled by a very unique character which sports alone could not possibly explain: their air of freedom.
The champions carried with them an aura of freedom unique to themselves. Surely it won’t match the one in Islam’s encyclopedia or Ahmadinejad’s. It was not lawlessness which some erroneously takes for freedom. Not of the kind in which one allows ones self to indulge in bars. It was not one which carries guilt, either, or, for that matter, not one that prevents others from pursuing their happiness. And above all, it was not the kind for which one needs permission. Their freedom was part of their being, something they were born with, a guilt-free freedom, the kind of freedom which allows one to live the life s/he wants to live responsibly, with a clear mind, without force and without any pressure from inside or outside.
I think it was it was this sense of freedom which they shared with our other youth in Iran. Here we were fortunate to see in person the full and live image of what we have seen these last few months, in disbelief, on TV or online, the kind of freedom we observed in the face of all those determined youth who faced brutality with courage, the one we saw sadly in Neda’s last look, in the innocent face of Sohrab, in the courageous departure of Rouholamini, in Kianoush Mehrassa; It is the same we saw in brilliant actions of Iranian women during last thirty years, and our youth during the last two decades, a kind of freedom that is given to us directly by God when He created us, the most beautiful gift from our Creator that we all would make sacrifices to hold on to it as long as we live.
Being a host to these two young athletes, I learned that we Iranians have finally come up with our own definition of freedom, thanks to our young generation who defined it for us. It seems that Iranians have finally departed from the classical-mystic definition of the term, and have defined it in terms of taking the initiative to stay in charge and accept responsibility for their lives, political or otherwise.
For twelve days and half I saw only two, but heard and envisioned millions of young, handsome, healthy, happy, cheerful, responsible, intelligent, well-informed, and clear-headed Iranians going forward without doubt, but carefully; knowingly, but not arrogantly; steadfast and determined, but not aggressive to where they want to live: somewhere in a land of light, freedom and equality. They were going to spread the message of Iranian youth wherever it is appreciated.
We took them to the Brooklyn Bridge to depart, the bridge which brought so much excitement as when a poet-writer, Stephen Crane named one of his collections to the occasion “The Brooklyn Bridge” as a symbol of connection. The choice was as deliberate as our champions were here for a mission: to connect.
We bade farewell to them, but yet we did not. We just said something very vague, something like when one doesn’t know what to say, like mumbling, like whispering. I don’t know if we said “take care” or “comeback soon” or “have a safe trip.” I do not know what we said, but somehow I heard a voice, “Yes, that was it,” though I don’t know who said it, which one of us said it, I think it came from over the bridge as they pedaled away from us, turned back, and waved to us, before disappearing into the traffic of bypassers over the bridge. The voice was stilled heard; it was not one or two , it was like a wave, like a chorus, a huge chorus of some millions of voices. I kept hearing it, it got stronger and stronger: “We are not going away, we are just gathering, we are just getting together, we are growing, we hold hands, and we raise our voices. We stay together, we stay together, we would never say good-bye, never say good-bye, never say good-bye…..”

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"Islamic Republic, Nothing More, Nothing Less"

“Islamic Republic, not a single word less and not a single word more.”
At two in the morning, I anxiously went to the computer room and clicked on Facebook. Masih Alinejad was online with people in Tehran who were giving a minute by minute report from the “tahlif” ceremony, an Islamic term for inauguration.
At 4:30 I fell sleep after I was certain that Ahmadinejad would be our next president, if not by our vote then just by the measure of the Supreme Leader and his cronies’ chutzpah. Later on, when I woke up, I roamed around to find something comforting. Roozbeh Mirebrahimi had a wonderful article on Gooya News. Balanced and professional as always, he wrote about the slogans and goals of the green movement and Mousavi’s controversial statement in response to the current slogan chanted by people, “Esteqlal, Azadi, Jomhuri Irani”—Independence, Freedom, Iranian Republic.

He denounced the slogan and dissociated himself as well his office from it. He very adamantly repeated Khomeini’s statements early in the revolution that “Jomhuri Islami, not a single word less and not a single word more.”


While Mousavi leaves himself open to some criticism, particularly from those abroad, still, he wins some support as well. Roozbeh Mirebrahimi defends him, even finding his conservative view advantageous. He believes that Mousavi, a legitimate child of Khomeini’s revolution, sincerely brings about those promised ideals which had never been achieved and makes a commitment to reviving them as part of his agenda. However, while admitting that slogans evolve as the movement progresses, he leaves aside the necessity of the natural emergence of this particular slogan (Islamic Republic, not a single, etc.) and emphasizes the necessity of unity among the protesters for the sake of attaining their goal, a democratic government and the rule of law. I assume, by combing these two arguments, he is trying to convince us to ignore the phrase “Islamic Republic, not a single, etc.”

The Green movement’s slogan, “Where is our vote” changed to “Mousavi, Mousavi retrieve our votes” when faced with resistance, and then to “Death to dictator” and “My dear martyr, I retrieve the blood you shed, I retrieve your vote” when they were confronted with bullets. Obviously it was the situation which changed the slogans and not the other way around. The changes of icons in our Facebook took place in the same fashion. Early days “Where is my vote” with green background was turned into bloody hands over a green background when the police turned to violence and murdered the people, then changed to a green sign reading “I confess” after the wave of forced confession aroused sympathy and compassion in us. However, the slogan of “Jomhuriye Eslami” being replaced with “Jomhuriye Irani” did not resulted from any evolutionary change of events, but is the outcome of an historical process and political maturity. It is not only the change of situation which calls for chanting such a daring slogans, but an awareness of a fundamental question which should have come much sooner.

The rise of the Islamic Republic was so rapid and unexpected that none of us found it suitable to question the fundamental principals or the justification for the institutes established by its founders. Even the referendum took place without people knowing what they were really voting for or why. As I recall, it just gave the people the chance to confirm the Islamic Republic even before the constitution of Islamic Republic was composed. The result was thirty years of chaos, murder, imprisonment, imposition and backwardness. (To be fair, it also meant lots of pretty highways, and universities on every corner, though many of them do not have enough faculty and staff.) One might also, sadly and embarrassingly, add the ignorance and political immaturity of our generation as one of the major contributors. So the Islamic Republic’s founder, Khomeini, was left unchallenged as to what he meant by Islamic Republic and its governance, or the legitimacy of Islamic rules for a country with such a secular history.

To question the legitimacy of a regime or even the foundation of the governmental system is not the domain of elites or scholars. Any responsible citizen has a right to question the legitimacy of its government. They have a right to ask any amount of words they like, Why shouldn’t they ask for nothing more or nothing else but the Islamic Republic? Really, why not? What is so virtuous in an Islamic Regime? Didn’t it kill? Didn’t it rape? Didn’t it torture? Didn’t it cheat? Didn’t it lie? Didn’t it strip people of their dignity? Didn’t it violate people’s basic rights? Didn’t it demolish all civil foundations? Didn’t it abolish whatever was left of something called “law”? Didn’t it ignore the Constitutions? Didn’t it violate all humane norms? And didn’t it do all this according to the laws of the sharia? Really, what else didn’t it do? What else should it do for us to question its legitimacy, or even desirability?

“Real Islam…” is the usual cliché which has been used again and again during the last thirty years to cover up all the abuses. The reformist clerics and laymen have used it equally as if it is another denomination of Islam. But we are still wondering as to its actuality and its virtue. Where was that real Islam to save all these cleric and ayatollahs from free fall? Why could it not stop the pious from walking to hell? What is good about a religious system if its “real version” would become mixed up with its “false version” so easily, even being indistinguishable to the experts? And what guarantees that the one which is called “real” today won’t turn out even more “false” tomorrow? Is human instinct for corruption so strong? Is the seat of power in this earthly life dearest too? If yes, then why bother? Why should we bear such an imposition? Why should we follow those rules which could not save those who are supposed to be immune from fall, those who are the God’s emissaries?

Unfortunately such embarrassing statements, coming from the man who is supposed to be our legitimate president, won’t help the movements at all. Mousavi could have ignored the slogan and just maintain his individual right as to take his distance from it. He should have known that he is not the leader of this movement, but just an elected president. And he should have known that he has no role as to what people in street will chant, the chants are the direct result of people’s “experience” which translates into one word: Democracy, not a word more and not a word less. People did not stumble on this word and did not receive an instruction from anybody, foreign or native, and won’t alter it on anybody’s advice. They have learned that the Islamic regime won’t bring them even close to what they call democracy.

However it is so fortunate that our third generation, moje sevomi ha, know what Mousavi doesn’t. It is so fortunate that they are wiser than we were some thirty years ago. It is so fortunate that they are bolder. It is so fortunate that they are more liberated. It is so fortunate that they have more self-confidence. It is so fortunate that they know for sure what they want. It is so fortunate that they are not willing to settle for anything less than what they want. It is so fortunate that they want democracy. It is so fortunate that during the last thirty years they have learned that Islam won’t bring them democracy. It is so fortunate that they, willingly, would let Mousavi go if Mousavi does not want to follow them. And finally, it is so fortunate that Khatami is a witness to all these, and can tell Mousavi “listen kiddo, these are not those naïve kids of thirty years ago. They are tough. I know what I’m talking about. I trained them. It is true you are the legitimate son of Khomeini’s revolution, but these are the legitimate kids of the Khatami School of Reform and Liberation.”

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Mahbod Seraji, The Rooftops of Tehran

In chaotic atmosphere leading up to the election, or worse, the election’s aftermath, when all the human codes of decency have been ignored, and when my countrymen and women have been striped from their last thread of dignity, I felt it is so untimely to remind myself and my readers of what we were once upon a time. It was in that spirit that I delayed my review of The Rooftops of Tehran. I hesitated, too, fearing that few, besides ourselves, would believe the gentility, peace and wisdom displayed in this novel to be the genuine and true textures of Iranian culture. I wanted to leave my review for a better time to come to, the wonderful day that I can envisage coming soon. On the other hand, the similarity of the situations, hammering on my mind, urged me to write. I could resist no more.

The story is happening as during the last days of Pahlavis when the people’s dissatisfaction merged with their fearlessness and lead them to street protests. Mahbod Seraji, a teenager at the time, I guess, recorded his own account of the event as a witness to history. Oddly enough, his testimony comes exactly when our younger generation is protesting against the very same regime whose foundation Seraji’s characters paved the way for. Very likely, most of our young protesters today are under the impression that their predecessors were responsible for all they pay for with their lives. I think this book stands by the truth, tells us things as they happened, and shows the way we were!

Seraji’s account of the last days prior to the revolution is more colorful than the black and white pictures fed us for the last thirty years by media, analysts, academics, political scientists and even by few writers who tried to gives us a taste of those days through their memoirs. What distinguishes his narrative from the others is that the narrator, who appears not to be so courageous, takes refuge in the rooftop of his home. In the safety of that elevated enclave, where the entire community becomes a big family under the sky, where only an unguarded short wall sets the moral, ethical and physical limit for each, and where unspoken laws guarantees everybody’s privacy and security, he observes from a distance what those who courageously fight in the streets could not see themselves. Protected with the love, compassion, and friendship he enjoys within his family, friends and community, wrapped in wit and humor, he feels secure enough to observe life as it was. Dicken’s “it was the best of times, it was the worse of times,” echoes all through his narrative.

From the rooftops of Tehran, we hear a harmonious chorus of young Pasha, Zari, Ahmad, Fahimeh, Masked Angel, Doctor, and their parents singing a melodious song that is not so unfamiliar to our ears. Love, compassion, friendship, trust, and respect echoes into each other to provide a safe haven for our youth to grow to amazing individuals who are willing to give unhesitatingly and as graciously to receive.

What I liked the most about the story was that author traced the last vestiges of men and women in our pre revolution history whose action and whose behavior was not dictated by the books, slogans, and fashionable political ideology but from their youthful experiences, seasoned by their old culture. The story opens up with our fellow narrator, Pasha, teases his mother for her homeopathic remedies and concoctions she makes for his mental and physical stability, and grouches against his father who made him and Ahmad to abide with the unwritten codes of fraternity of athletes which forbids fighting with those who are weaker than oneself, the rules of a non existing society!

As the story progresses, the narrator moves slowly away from his mother’s homeopathic pantry and his father’s non-existing fraternity athletic society, to the periphery of the neighborhood beyond their alley where there is something called authority, force, police, security, batons, guns, arrests, prison, torture and murder. Oddly enough, his high school is where he received his first taste of each. His math teacher, the embodiment of the whole system, forced him to decide the road to his future. That is where he chose his father’s way of life, maturity, wisdom, justice, and freedom. He never regretted it to the end.

Along with other characters in the book, he learns to defy the injustice and to fight for his rights not through ideological training or the fashionable theories dictated to him, not even through what was generally believed, the militant or revolutionary religious teachings, but through following numerous national elites. The ideal society of The Rooftops of Tehran is not formed or modeled by the Communist nations aiming to achieve a proletarian government, nor to create a model of religious Medina. Love for democracy is the heartbeat of pre-revolution Iran.

Indeed this novel is so unique, even iconoclastic, as a literary piece. No clash between the characters, no clash between the classes, no clash between generations and no clash between genders. No opposite forces, no personal conflicts, inner or outer. What we have studied in the development of the story fails us right from the start. The favorable response of Zari, Doctor’s fiancé, to Pasha’s love and their warm innocent, guiltless love for each other might even surprise our Western readers. Zari’s parents’ recognition and acknowledgment of their relationship is unexpected, even though they knew that there is a very strong emotional bond between them. The freedom these young people enjoyed and the respect their parents showed their choice and decision counters all the stereotyping in the region’s culture. Fahimeh’s courageous and liberated decision to reject the suitor her parents had chosen for her and her steady relationship with Ahmad, for example, are not exactly classical tools in writing a love story. The absence of love pain and love sickness, family or gender abuse, emotional cruelty within the family and friends that in normal sense is a receipt for failure, makes the story even more attractive. None of the above detracts from the charm and sweetness of this work, nor does it diminish the reader’s urge to read further. The curiosity it arouses in the reader is not due to an artificial or cliché conflict, but to a genuine excitement of watching a skillful performance. Indeed, these groups of kids with an awesome maturity, half intuitively and half thoughtfully, go through a life full of turbulence and emerge magnificently. The characters in this story enjoy a kind of freedom provided to them by Seraji’s generosity more likely to compensate for what they lacked in their real life and what was denied them politically and socially.

In his review Thomas Vincent mildly objects to so many heroes, almost everyone, in one novel. “It is too good to be true,” he says. I felt a bit flattered by this objection and I think any Iranian, including Mahbod Seraji, would feel the same. I would like to reassure the critic that by no means is it fanciful to have all these heroes in one story. Thank Heavens we have live witnesses on our side. These last two months, Iranians by the millions have displayed such an amazing show of gentility, humanity, and culture that no one should be surprised to see a book full of heroes. Seraji could have written a novel with hundreds of heroes if it were technically possible. Yes, “too good to be true,” but hey! That is who we are: exactly, too good to be true!

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Mani's Conversion

I rushed to the kitchen to prepare food, sabzi polaw and fish, my usual fast food! My guests very graciously had let me neglect my duty as a host, and I wanted to make it up to them in their last night’s stay in New York on Friday. Food was simple but the table was elaborate, with all my sets of green china and glasses to match not only my green dinning room but our Green Movement and our Green Youth and hopefully our Green Victory.

After dinner, my guests started to pack. Elahe has promised Darya, her granddaughter, to be in Montreal before 4 pm on Saturday. However Mani, my friend’s son did not want to go back on Saturday. I felt something very emotional was happening since Mani switched to French, the language that he is more fluent in, when he said grumpily, “I should stay for tomorrow and leave the following day by bus.”

“We all came together and we should all leave together,” His mother declared authoritatively.

“It is all my fault. I said I can go alone by bus and you all can come whenever you feel like coming,” Darya said with tears in her eyes.

“No Darya jan, your grandma won’t let you go alone. They feel responsible to take you back home as they promised to your parents,” Mani’s mother said.

“I can go by bus on Sunday. I know how to get the bus. I should stay here for tomorrow’s march,” Mani said, as if knowing he was crossing a narrow line.

“But we all should go back tomorrow, you knew it, and you agreed, didn’t you?” his mother said.

“Oh, please, we are not in court and we are not putting a kid on trial,” I wanted to tell his mother but I kept quiet.

“Ya, I did, but that was three days ago; do you understand? Three days is a long time, Mom! Something has awakened in me during last three days. I feel something now that I didn’t feel before; something that I did not even know existed. Tomorrow, everybody is marching, people from all over the world march for us, from South America, from Europe, form Africa, from Australia, they all march for us when I, who should be there, sit in the back of the car and drive to Canada to go the a party! No, I can’t do that, I must be here.” The words were pouring out of Mani’s mouth as if he had no control over them, as if he did not need to think about them.

“It’s entirely my fault, I should not have come, I know it is my fault, I ruined everything for all of you. What if I go tomorrow by myself and you can come after the march.” Darya said, almost crying.

Mani went toward her and gently patted her on the back and said, “No dear, it is not your fault. You did not do anything wrong. It is me who is changing his mind and can’t help it. You did nothing wrong, otherwise I would not talk to you.”
“But listen! Don’t be so childish …” his mother started to say but stopped suddenly and just stared at him as if in disbelief.

I felt an urge to jump in and give my unsolicited advice to his mother. I felt an urge to scream at his mother and tell her “The hell with the stupid party you want to go. Remember your own youth and your own rebellion. Remember when your father brought you from Tabriz, to Tehran to go to law school. And remember the promises you made to your father about staying away from the line of opposition to the Shah, and remember how you broke them all and did what your heart told you to do. Remember that you never regretted any of them. Remember that was some forty years ago, and you were a little provincial girl and not a youth person grown up and educated in cosmopolitan cities such as Paris and Montreal, and remember that by breaking your promise you did not fall into disgrace. Remember that nothing happened. Remember that for years in law school, in spite of everything, again and again, you have used promise-braking as a paradigm for the most unethical behavior! Yes, I wanted to tell her you broke your agreements with your father on such an important issue and you still became such a dignified lawyer. I wanted to tell her that a little contradiction and deviation of this sort seems inevitable at certain age. I wanted to tell her…

I had the urge to say even more. But I did not. I just felt the futility of it all. Not that she won’t recall what I wanted her to; very likely she would. But the futility of urging someone to do something that she is not willing to do. I felt it is irrelevant if Mani comes to the march on Saturday or not, or even if by some miracle everyone decided to stay for the march on Saturday, or simply let him to stay with my responsibility to arrange his trip back the following day. What was most significance was Mani’s spontaneity and his eagerness to grasp the new breath of his experience. Sitting in a rocking chair and swinging back and forth, he looked more like a mother nursing her baby with passion. Indeed, he was nursing a new born, a precious little feeling. It seems the last three days he was transported to another life and was returned with an adopted child which he did not want to let go of. “Yes, I must stay here,” echoed vehemently, though, it was uttered gently as a whisper. I felt the young man sitting a few feet away from me was miles away from the little boy I saw in 2000 with all the characteristic of a twelve year old so absorbed with his personal needs. Responsibility, compassion, sympathy, love, and connectedness towards millions unknown has found a venue for display, and he was wise enough not to loose the opportunity.

I felt no need for my interference. I felt what was supposed to be achieved had been achieved already. Mani in French expressed what his new friends, who were unknown to him up a few days before, would have expressed in Farsi on the streets of Tehran, Isfahan, Shiraz or Mashhad, I had no doubt that he would have marched with his friends in Iran somewhere without fear, without hesitation had he been there. He had truly become one with those millions in Iran.

It was three a.m. when I left mother and son to decide the way they made other decisions in life. A few hours later when I woke up they were loading their belongings into the car. Mani was going as well. He gave me a warm hug and said “Khaleh Mina, I’ll be back soon.” I responded with a much warmer squeeze and wished him well. I stayed on the road with a pitcher of water to splash at the back wheels of their car for a safe trip and watched until they disappear into the traffic.

I have no doubt that Mani gave in so easily because in reality he did not give in. I’m convinced he thought the way I thought. I’m convinced in his heart he felt it does not matter if he would march with us in New York City or ride in car to Montreal. In the reality of his heart, he had made a bond with his fellow Iranians that he felt no need to display.

I went to the march thinking all the way about Mani and his excitement. A memory came back to me. I recalled when some seven years ago I obtained my Iranian passport after twenty five years with a not-so-flattering photo of mine, wearing a black scarf, attached to its first page, along with usual personal information. I read that few lines of information at least hundred times a day for a while. The passport was placed on the night table next to the books I read at night. For months it was the last thing I would look at before sleeping and the first I would look at on opening my eyes. I even thought that photo was the prettiest I ever had. Even to this day I have never cherished anything more than that sudden sense of belonging given to me by touching that little red booklet or reading its content. I can never forget the sensation of reading my name and my family name, most significantly, the place of birth! I would never forget the pleasure and a sense of security I found within that little booklet.

I felt I had found a place to live safely, among a clan who would give me refuge with love and compassion if it is needed. I felt I’m not lonely anymore, I felt I’m together with many, with so many. I felt “fear no more.”

I was marching and thinking of Mani in the back seat of the car, secure and safe, knowing he is not alone, knowing he is with many, and would “fear no more,” listening to his favorite musician, Alizadeh. (Mani is student in a music academy.) I thought he is as excited as I was with my Iranian passport. I wished I could have taken a photo of Mani’s feeling, I wished I would have been a painter and draw that sense of belonging, that sense of awakening, and then I would frame it, frame it with pure gold and place it in a high place somewhere, very high, close to God maybe, on a prayer matt, above the piano he plays, over the fireplace he gazes, at or simply next to his bed, to look at it every morning and every night, the first and the last.

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Four Glorious Days for Iran

Three days of hunger strike ended with a most beautiful day of solidarity

rallies all over the world, including our city of New York. Words said, pictures taken, interviews done, speeches made to condemn the fraudulent election and violations of human rights, and pleas made for peace, and encouragement given to the world not to forget us on our way to democracy.

I have so little to say about who said and did what. Yes, we all had the green wristbands, we all participated, some few thousands of us in New York alone. Lots of people came from Canada, Washington State, Virginia, Washington DC, Pennsylvania, Florida North Carolina, etc., many with their family, many even with their dogs. And many missed the occasion as well, most likely because they were busy, though, I should say they missed so much.

Among those who did not come, I regret the young children of my friends who had gone to the movies or to the beach. Not that the movement was damaged by their absence, but they missed one of the most precious experiences in life: being a very genuinely proud Iranian, and something more even: to be a witness to a golden page of history.

For three decades we Iranian were imposed upon by a government of abnormity, a government of innovation created out of a vacuum of statesmanship as well as wisdom and foresight. For three decades those bearded clerics sprang out of nowhere, ruled according to their will and ignored whatever Iranian culture or international norms prescribed. The abuse of power had never been reached to such degree in Iranian history even during reign of Arab Muslims, Mongols or Timorids.

Most intolerable is the deceitfulness involved in their ruling. The ruling clerics not only violated all norms in the name of Islam, (I should admit that I can’t possibly care less about this) but our name, Iranians, as well. Not only have they represented themselves as the emissaries of God and His appointees on earth, but as our delegates. The world around us, being preoccupied with its own problem, sluggishly and carelessly embraced the idea. We all were portrayed as friends of Hamas and Hezbollah and were tagged as terrorists within a short period of time, a picture that we all resented in every way.

On Saturday in front of the UN, excited and energized even after four days of walking and talking and fasting and after a long walk from Times Square to the UN with quite a bit of zigzagging, from the South African Embassy to the Office of Iran’s Delegation to the UN, I ran to some old friends from our student days, all happy and smiling, proud and content at have come back together for a glorious conclusion. Lots of kisses and hugs, “Isn’t this elegant?” I asked rhetorically. “Yes very elegant, exactly the kind of revolution you like,” one of my friend teased. “Why not?” I thought without making any apology for my taste. Indeed I do not take the word elegant so lightly. Isn’t it always coupled with orderly, cultured and civilized?

Indeed, how else we could describe the movement? How many nations reacted, in defiance, like us to a military coup? Half dizzy and half excited, I look around in order to find something to concentrate on. Though I could not decide where to focus, I finally managed to fix my attention when Faramarz started to play his sitar and sing, accompanied by a saxophone and daft. In one corner, a lady with her beautiful Papillion in her arm was singing with the crowd, another man with his pooch, name Apple, lying on the ground in fatigue, standing there attentively. (Thanks to all those pooches who came to rally with a green band around their necks, not only to show their support but to restore our reputation: Iranian do not hate dogs!) Across the fence separating the demonstration from First Avenue’s by passers, one could not miss the admiring look of the people who were watching us. Puzzled by what they were looking at, more likely they would have thought us as holding a celebration if a few signs of “Free All Political Prisoners” had not betrayed us.

Later on, looking at the gallery of the photos from the event, I was so pleased to see indeed we looked very elegant. Noam Chomsky looked very cheerful. Gee, he was even smiling! Reza Bareheni though looked much older, appeared quite content, very likely since someone remembered his theory of Masculine History. Ganji looked as if he had never heard the word fatigue in his life; Masoumeh Shafii, smiling at someone very shyly. I think she was explaining that she is not Fatemeh Haghihgatjoo ; Nayereh Tohidi, gallant and dignified as always, seemed to be offering her seat to someone else. Does she ever loose her attentiveness? I wondered. Kazem Alamdarian looked as fresh and happy in all the pictures taken from day one to the last. And oh, yes, my beloved husband who fasted all three days and left his computer behind for four consecutive days, was almost on all the gallery photos. I do not know how he did it, I mean leaving the computer!


And finally those kids! Sadra and Company with their yellow shirts, warm, pleasant, proud, and happy. They did not need to be in any photos, they would stay in our heart forever for all their composures, style, management, and smiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiles! Oh yes, fear no more!
Food was brought for those who had fasted. I ran after my husband, preventing him form eating much, but it was too late; he already had got to desert, sholezard. Well, I had to be a little generous; he really did not eat for all three days. I had just a date which with my luck was not sweet.

The program ended like usual Iranian gatherings: no one wanted to leave. “We should get together again,” “Lets not to wait for the next crisis,” “We really should not let go of this momentum,” “Call me and let’s get together,” “We really….”, and more hugs and more kisses, and handshake, again and again.
It was six o’clock that it was announced that we should leave. In fact, we should have left some half an hour earlier. And again the traffic of invitations and promises for the next time and again lots of “We should really….” We were the last one leaving, followed by janitors with brooms and garbage bags sweeping after us.

“Did they ever see such a jolly adult demonstration against brutality and violence?” I thought to myself when leaving.

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Look at my husband's blog!

Dear friends,
VOA accidently posted the address of my blog instead of my husbands! You're welcome to visit here, but please also visit his blog, at http://www.qlineorientalist.com/IranRises
Thanks!
And here is the rest of it. To read the rest, click here.