03 July 2009
on the streets of tehran
[The following is a first-hand report from my friend Baraneh, based in Tehran]
When I got back to Iran three weeks ago, we spent the first week demonstrating everyday in support of Mousavi. But these pre-election demonstrations were rather peaceful and festival-like. A prefect example of the return of the repressed, particularly the return of male homosexuality, or male femininity, which was displayed in some men’s behavior (a symptom from which Iranian men seem to suffer more than Western men, I guess due to their more intense exposure to patriarchy and chauvinism). So the ambience of these demonstrations were more liberal, goal-oriented, and even commercialized (for instance, we were showered with, and later participated in the distribution of, Mousavi’s pictures and posters, bandanas, wristbands, armbands, and even visors, which came to save me from an unwanted convergence with my own shadow under Tehran’s midday summer sun).
The air reeked of hot debates, as Karroubi’s proponents, who were in minority, tried to persuade Mousavi’s supporters and vice versa. As we walked in a crowd of around a million people on Khordad 19 (June 9), not an iota of doubt was left in our minds—knowing that the majority of people in the big cities were also Mousavi’s supporters—that Mousavi was going to be elected, unless the present regime would resort to a coup. The coup seemed so improbable, we thought, whilst we sanguinely marched on the streets. That was our intuition or conviction, which proved to be wrong. It proved to be wrong, not because we were soppy optimists, nor because we were too eager to harp on the realization of certain claims of the leftist political theory. Our conviction proved to be wrong, because the self-determination of people we walked with was tremendously contagious, encumbering us with its diversity, its righteousness, and its force. Any attempts by the regime to disregard this collective self-determination seemed to us tantamount to digging its own grave. From the top of a bridge in the Enghelab Street, we looked down only to be confronted with the street on both sides carpeted with people, as far as eyes could see.
After the election, the rallies still went on for a week despite the threats from the government, the crowd growing even larger, the spirits more combative. We took part in another rally from Enghelab Street to Azadi Street on Monday Khordad 25 (June 15), similar to the one on Khordad 19. The crowd had more than doubled in size, but this time the demonstration exhibited an unprecedented sense of restraint, as if the crowd was so certain of its unity that it felt no desire to shout it. People no longer debated over their own interests or preferences, and all differences in opinion, all doxa, and entrepreneurial dispositions were left behind. It was breath-taking to see how the crowd organized itself impulsively. People who first joined the multitude tended to shout their slogans as they had in the previous days, but they were instantly hushed by the rest, and mute they became. It was somehow uncanny to see how a large population, consisting of over 2 million people could manage to remain dead silent.
Now the protest had transformed into a means in pursuit of no telos. All they wanted was to show that they are the uncounted; they are the voters the regime has dismissed with a mere sleight of hand, and that they are prepared to summon a real state of exception, as opposed to the virtual one the regime has brought about. At the end, we heard a few gun shots and, as you know, the graceful body of our silent resistance was smeared with splashes of blood ... After the Leader’s speech, it took great courage to join the protesters. On Saturday Khordad 30 (June 20), no matter how hard we tried, we were not able to get to the street in which the main crowd had gathered; our relatively large group was scattered by the Revolutionary guards and the most degenerate by-products of the Revolution, the Basiji men.
We could not convince ourselves to go back home and started a dangerous game of hide-and-seek with them, throughout which some of the ordinary policemen, who were at heart with the people, cooperated with us. We would pretend to be just walking on the street, until the crowd would grow dense; the pressure would build up in this way, reaching the boiling point, and at last erupting in scattered slogans. Then someone would shout at the top of his/her lung: “They are coming!” And we would run for our lives, now and then tripping over shoes or pieces of clothing that people had dropped while escaping. There were people of all ages and types among us, who, oddly enough, acted as though they’d got absolutely nothing to lose. I realize the same definition is true about us, but until that day I had not been aware of this!
The street in which we were protesting—as many other streets—was in absolute chaos. People had set fire on garbage cans to neutralize the tear-gas. An old lady and a student were thrashed to death before our eyes, thrown into cars, and taken away. When some of us tried to intervene and rescue them, we were tear-gassed and bullied. As we were running past the University of Tehran, which was besieged by the guards, we saw the most astounding emancipatory scene, hundreds of students shouting from behind the university fences: “Do not be afraid! Rise to the dictator! We are everything!” The last statement inevitably reminds one of Abe Sieyes’ words in the wake of the French Revolution about the self-determination of the Third Estate, that only had to will to create itself out of ‘nothing’ and become ‘everything.’ People are forced to find more creative strategies now, as the regime has mostly suppressed the riots now, but a mixture of fury and restlessness roil in our bodies...
For the first time in my life I felt true solidarity with my country people and Iran ceased to feel like a prison to me.
When I got back to Iran three weeks ago, we spent the first week demonstrating everyday in support of Mousavi. But these pre-election demonstrations were rather peaceful and festival-like. A prefect example of the return of the repressed, particularly the return of male homosexuality, or male femininity, which was displayed in some men’s behavior (a symptom from which Iranian men seem to suffer more than Western men, I guess due to their more intense exposure to patriarchy and chauvinism). So the ambience of these demonstrations were more liberal, goal-oriented, and even commercialized (for instance, we were showered with, and later participated in the distribution of, Mousavi’s pictures and posters, bandanas, wristbands, armbands, and even visors, which came to save me from an unwanted convergence with my own shadow under Tehran’s midday summer sun).
The air reeked of hot debates, as Karroubi’s proponents, who were in minority, tried to persuade Mousavi’s supporters and vice versa. As we walked in a crowd of around a million people on Khordad 19 (June 9), not an iota of doubt was left in our minds—knowing that the majority of people in the big cities were also Mousavi’s supporters—that Mousavi was going to be elected, unless the present regime would resort to a coup. The coup seemed so improbable, we thought, whilst we sanguinely marched on the streets. That was our intuition or conviction, which proved to be wrong. It proved to be wrong, not because we were soppy optimists, nor because we were too eager to harp on the realization of certain claims of the leftist political theory. Our conviction proved to be wrong, because the self-determination of people we walked with was tremendously contagious, encumbering us with its diversity, its righteousness, and its force. Any attempts by the regime to disregard this collective self-determination seemed to us tantamount to digging its own grave. From the top of a bridge in the Enghelab Street, we looked down only to be confronted with the street on both sides carpeted with people, as far as eyes could see.
After the election, the rallies still went on for a week despite the threats from the government, the crowd growing even larger, the spirits more combative. We took part in another rally from Enghelab Street to Azadi Street on Monday Khordad 25 (June 15), similar to the one on Khordad 19. The crowd had more than doubled in size, but this time the demonstration exhibited an unprecedented sense of restraint, as if the crowd was so certain of its unity that it felt no desire to shout it. People no longer debated over their own interests or preferences, and all differences in opinion, all doxa, and entrepreneurial dispositions were left behind. It was breath-taking to see how the crowd organized itself impulsively. People who first joined the multitude tended to shout their slogans as they had in the previous days, but they were instantly hushed by the rest, and mute they became. It was somehow uncanny to see how a large population, consisting of over 2 million people could manage to remain dead silent.
Now the protest had transformed into a means in pursuit of no telos. All they wanted was to show that they are the uncounted; they are the voters the regime has dismissed with a mere sleight of hand, and that they are prepared to summon a real state of exception, as opposed to the virtual one the regime has brought about. At the end, we heard a few gun shots and, as you know, the graceful body of our silent resistance was smeared with splashes of blood ... After the Leader’s speech, it took great courage to join the protesters. On Saturday Khordad 30 (June 20), no matter how hard we tried, we were not able to get to the street in which the main crowd had gathered; our relatively large group was scattered by the Revolutionary guards and the most degenerate by-products of the Revolution, the Basiji men.
We could not convince ourselves to go back home and started a dangerous game of hide-and-seek with them, throughout which some of the ordinary policemen, who were at heart with the people, cooperated with us. We would pretend to be just walking on the street, until the crowd would grow dense; the pressure would build up in this way, reaching the boiling point, and at last erupting in scattered slogans. Then someone would shout at the top of his/her lung: “They are coming!” And we would run for our lives, now and then tripping over shoes or pieces of clothing that people had dropped while escaping. There were people of all ages and types among us, who, oddly enough, acted as though they’d got absolutely nothing to lose. I realize the same definition is true about us, but until that day I had not been aware of this!
The street in which we were protesting—as many other streets—was in absolute chaos. People had set fire on garbage cans to neutralize the tear-gas. An old lady and a student were thrashed to death before our eyes, thrown into cars, and taken away. When some of us tried to intervene and rescue them, we were tear-gassed and bullied. As we were running past the University of Tehran, which was besieged by the guards, we saw the most astounding emancipatory scene, hundreds of students shouting from behind the university fences: “Do not be afraid! Rise to the dictator! We are everything!” The last statement inevitably reminds one of Abe Sieyes’ words in the wake of the French Revolution about the self-determination of the Third Estate, that only had to will to create itself out of ‘nothing’ and become ‘everything.’ People are forced to find more creative strategies now, as the regime has mostly suppressed the riots now, but a mixture of fury and restlessness roil in our bodies...
For the first time in my life I felt true solidarity with my country people and Iran ceased to feel like a prison to me.
