But the people are not done, either. Demonstrations continued for weeks—albeit smaller ones. There are strikes and flyers and YouTube videos and Twitter and Facebook communications and the nightly retreat to the rooftops, a communion of neighbors, ceding the ground level, as always, to the thugs, but remaining true with shouts to God and against dictators.
And so I sit comfortably in my adopted country, unable to shake the images of the shocked and disbelieving faces after the "results" were announced; of the demonstrators—mature and orderly and, above all, dignified—with a belief in their own inalienable rights; not privileges doled out from time-to-time to release pressure but rights inalienable; rights theirs by virtue of their humanity. I see those faces attacked by the club-wielding, knife-slashing Islamic Basij blackshirts. I see the woman in front of Tehran University's main gate—always in front of the university—pivoting on her right heal and giving a left-footed kick to a thug three times her size. I see the other young woman who, by the virtue of a single grainy video of her death, has become a symbol of the end of some sort of innocence, bleeding on her hijab—that damned forced hijab, that true symbol of political Islam—as her pupils fixate upward in death. I see those I met and befriended during my trips—the young café owner with his hopes and his girlfriend; the cherry-seller with his complaints; the old taxi driver with his frustrations and expletives—and hang on to the fast-fading hope that this is, by some miracle, a zag in the road to democracy. But I also fear, deep down, that Iran is headed towards a military dictatorship, ruthless, its veil of legitimacy lifted for all to see, and with nothing to lose.
Iraj Isaac Rahmim is working on a novel set in Dubai and a book of memoirs. His recent essays and fiction have appeared in Antioch Review, Commentary, Commonweal, and Rosebud.
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