[Reader-list] Inside Teheran 01

[Monica Narula]

Dear All

I am posting here material sent to me by a friend in Teheran.

best
M

June 13, 2009

9:05 PM
The satellite signal for BBC Farsi just turned off. I had spoken a few
minutes earlier with my father and forgot where I was and that  
probably my
phone call was being monitored. In fact, about 5 minutes into my phone
conversation, I heard a faint click on the phone and my father‟s  
voice all of
a sudden sounded very far away, muffled, as if he were on conference  
call. I
was reminded by my friends in the other room that I should be a bit more
prudent about what I say and how I say it – maybe it wasn‟t such a  
good idea
to start off my conversation with “There‟s been a revolution”.
We‟ve been camping out at home for the past 48 hours. Last night we  
were
awake, in front of the television until 6AM. Slept in until noon and  
since
then, we‟ve been on high alert, full of testosterone, exchanging our
disappointment, confusion, worries, nervousness interspersed with
information, hear say, opinions and the occasional, very necessary,  
joke. The
house has turned into a news room, all of our computers open and  
connected to
the internet. A few of us are writing about the previous day‟s events  
as they
develop; one of us is uploading video footage from today and posting it
online; another is sifting through the continuous updates on Facebook
profiles, delivering news-from-the-ground to us as it takes place  
through
picture albums and wall posts. I‟ve been looking through a variety of
newspapers‟ online versions: New York Times, LA Times, Guardian, Al- 
Jazeera,
Washington Post. I‟m trying to see how what has been so unreal today  
on the
streets here is being covered by the international media, and, as if it
should be a surprise, it is quite disappointing for me. All reports  
cover
basic facts, speculate about the future of Iran, and provide a  
selection of
photographs from the demonstrations today. All reports maintain their
professional distance, attempting to mediate between the passionate  
debates
that have been taking place here not only today, but in the past two  
weeks as
these elections drew nearer. I don‟t believe these opinions can be  
mediated,
though. That‟s where the confusion lies.
I find my oral fixation to have become quite extreme in the past day:  
I am
popping small bites of anything any chance I get into my mouth: dates,  
nuts,
fruit, cold pizza, leftover rice. I am drinking tea non-stop, smoking  
through
a pack of cigarettes in a matter of a few hours. It doesn‟t help that  
all of
us are tense in our own idiosyncratic ways – Reza paces from room to  
room,
making phone calls and reporting on the alternative hear-say media  
that has
developed into a complex system of analysis, rumor and melodrama in a  
period
of twelve hours; Bani photographs, video records, smokes; Natascha is  
silent,
smacking her mouth in bewilderment, writing in the corner with a clear,
focused fire. We‟ve somehow become a family focused on “sticking  
through it
together”.
I started writing much later than everyone else because I forgot to  
bring my
computer with me last night. I also resisted it, semi-consciously,  
because I
thought that to merely write about the details of each moment (the  
only thing
I could possibly imagine doing, given my inability to even understand  
what
these details mean individually, let alone as part of the greater  
picture)
would be too banal, potentially trite. After talking to Natascha, who  
has
been my voice of reason and inspiration since the day I arrived in  
Tehran, I
decided to get over myself and to just let go. No one is reading this  
but me.
This is an exercise of focus. And focus is very important in such a
circumstance in which no one knows what is going on: the dangers of
ignorance. I need to focus to get rid of the passionate waves of anger,
anxiety and sadness that come over me. If I do not focus, I will become
violent, giving in to that particular form of interaction and display  
that
those in control here want: a pandemic, psychological violence that
replicates itself amidst a society, to distract and divide.
Because I started so late, much has happened, making it a difficult  
task to
recount from the beginning. But I think the context is important. The  
basic
course of events is this: we voted yesterday, we sat and waited for the
results around midnight, at that point it was announced that  
Ahmadinejad had
won approximately 67% of 5 millions votes that had been counted, with
Moussavi taking around 21% of the votes (the others, Karroubi and Rezai,
trailed unrealistically far behind with 0.9% and 2% respectively). As  
the
night progressed, the votes kept coming in – 5 million, 10 million, 15
million – and still the percentage of votes per candidate remained  
almost
exactly the same. To me, this seemed a mathematical impossibility!
Furthermore, BBC Farsi reported that the original 5 million votes,  
counted
less than 2 hours after the polls closed, were those of nomadic tribes  
and
military personnel. Supposing that the nomads are illiterate and their  
vote
was hand-written for them and that the military unabashedly supports
Ahmadinejad, the original percentile was almost believable. Yet, by 15
million, the numbers still hadn‟t budged. What about Tehran – in  
this
campaign an oppositional breeding ground, especially in the northern
neighborhoods of the city? What about Moussavi‟s home region of  
Azerbaijan,
his wife‟s home in Luristan? And is it possible that not one person  
from
Karroubi‟s home, also in Luristan, voted for him? The numbers for  
Rezai‟s 2%
of the circa 25-27 million votes cast on Friday (a number that is also
mathematically implausible, given the statistic of 84% of the voting-age
population participating in these elections, making the total number  
of votes
more around 35-40 million) totaled around 230,000. Given Rezai‟s  
position as
former head of the Revolutionary Guard, an organization numbering up  
to 2
million, is it possible that so few supported him in this election?  
All of
this made no sense. By 3AM, the newspaper Kayhan, itself semi-officially
backed by the Supreme Leader, reported that Ahmadinejad had won the  
election.
IRNA, the official Islamic Republic of Iran‟s news agency, announced
Ahmadinejad‟s victory around the same time, even though the votes had  
not all
been count. Hope clung on Tehran‟s votes as potentially turning the  
race
towards a different direction. These hopes, what we were waiting for  
until 6
AM, quickly collapsed as soon as it became clear that something much  
bigger,
much more serious had happened: a coup d‟etat.
Even at this moment, almost 24 hours after the polls closed last  
night, no
statistics have been presented on the regional makeup of the votes. It  
is
unknown what percentage of the votes for or against Ahmadinejad comes  
from
the Capital, from cities all around Iran, from villages, from the
countryside, from wandering tribes and from expatriates living, working,
and/or studying abroad. In this situation, there is no finger-pointing:
there‟s no Florida to blame. According to BBC Farsi, never before in  
the 30
years of Iran‟s presidential elections have the votes been so  
unusually
tallied, with no indication of where they come from.
Last night, a friend of ours came by for a late dinner and told us  
that he
had been driving by a polling station in Qeitarieh, an affluent  
neighborhood
of northern Tehran, and had witnessed a physical fight between  
supporters of
Moussavi and plain-clothes “Basiji” – self-appointed Islamic  
militiamen who
have gained more and more authority under Ahmadinejad‟s presidency in  
the
past four years. Supposedly, the Basiji had beaten up a few  
individuals and
quickly left the scene. The polls were still open at the time of the  
fight.
Most likely this was not a solitary case; it just happened that our  
friend
had witnessed this particular incident. When I heard this story, I  
thought it
was just a moment of unnecessary yet to-be-expected fanaticism from some
punks, pumped up with testosterone and election fever. Now, in  
retrospect, I
see something much more sinister in this story.
It‟s especially cruel how, for the past week, there had been no  
attempt to
stop supporters for each of the candidates from spilling out on the  
streets
every night from sundown to sunrise. What we saw here over the course  
of a
week was unbelievable: a surreal display of carnival, an excitement in
anticipation of a much hoped for change that showed itself in crowds  
of men
and women singing, dancing and chanting clever slogans, gathered from  
that
day‟s political flops, in the middle of the street, stopping traffic  
and
blocking turnabouts. Some of the things we heard on the street, such as
“Death to this Violent Government”, “No More Lies”, “The  
Police have to
dance”, “Death to Dictatorship”, as well as the slew of  
accusations thrown
daily by the candidates at one another, exposing the perceived  
corruption,
lies, money laundering and infringement of human rights (including  
naming
specific individuals) that has infested the Islamic Republic‟s thirty  
years,
all combined to form a political landscape so-far unimaginable here.  
How is
this possible, we asked ourselves, in a country infamous for  
crackdowns on
any form of organized public gatherings as much as for indirectness and
secrecy from the side of its politicians as to its inner workings? The  
sweet
smell of a strange, very Iranian form of post-revolutionary, homegrown
“democracy” filled our days and nights with energy and curiosity.  
For the
first few nights, only a handful of police officers and information  
agents
could be seen, weaving through the crowds gathered on Valiasr Street,  
seeming
as if they were more there to prevent a stampede or a fight breaking  
loose
between overenthusiastic gangs of young men, seizing the political  
climate to
break loose, show off, and have some long overdue fun. As the elections
approached nearer, the police became less and less present, almost  
invisible.
Alright, we thought, we proved to them that we are not a threat, we  
are not
violent, we simply have something legitimate to say and we want to  
have fun
saying it. I thought to myself that one should not underestimate the
political potential of a good party. I thought to myself, this is  
beautiful,
the Summer of Love 1969 sees its second manifestation in Iran of 2009. I
thought there will be no need for a revolution, this is a social  
revolution
of love, desire and bodies flowing through the streets, playing,
experimenting, laughing, intensely experiencing their environment.  
Indeed, I
thought, it is almost as if the people on the street are  
metamorphosizing
into nature itself: strapping maple branches onto their arms, making  
crowns
of oleander, waving palm fronds, throwing flowers at one another.  
It‟s so
pancosmic – catastrophic transubstantiation in the face of an imminent
disaster.
If only we had perceived the imminent disaster and turned ourselves into
trees or bushes or flowers! Now, in retrospect, this one week of freedom
seems to have been a very Roman moment of grandiose distraction from the
plans that were being hatched while people were too busy having fun to
notice.
This delirious week of Bacchanalia drew to an official close at 3 AM on
Thursday, June 11th. The Election Oversight Committee announced that  
by this
time, all demonstrations of support for any candidate were to be  
banned and
all campaign material (flyers, posters, billboards, etc) were to be  
cleaned
up. Thursday came and went, completely calm, the night was quiet and the
streets were empty. No sign of the elections was to be seen – it was  
amazing
to me how fast the cleaning crews had done their job, erasing all  
signs of a
week-long party in less than six hours. No one wore green, very few  
held up
the ubiquitous victory-sign as I walked through the streets. Friday,  
the day
of the elections, was similarly calm. In fact, other than the half- 
kilometer
line stretching out of the Zafaraniye School that I passed at 8 AM on  
my way
to Tochal for an early morning hike, I wouldn‟t have known there was  
anything
particularly unique about this election.
Something uncanny: the weather! Every night for the past week, ominous  
clouds
would gather at sunset, colored dark brown. The wind would begin to  
blow,
spreading dust into the air, causing an immediate sneeze-attack  
followed by
an itchy throat. Then, as it grew darker, the sky would turn brilliantly
purple, lightning would strike followed by shattering thunder. I may  
be using
very dramatic language to describe the weather, but for me it was a very
intense impression to see that even the sky was as unpredictable and
tempestuous as the streets. In fact, the night before the election,  
after a
day of calm and quiet, the most intense of these storms occurred: I was
sitting on the balcony with Natascha and a wind broke loose that blew
everything off the table, roaring through the street, bending tree  
branches,
echoing from the corner. A flash of lightning struck the empty pool in  
our
neighbor‟s yard, followed by the loudest thunder I have ever heard.  
Natascha
ran back into the house and I followed. It began raining hard for about
thirty minutes and then, all of a sudden, it cleared, the air became  
cool,
and the silence of the evening returned. This is most unusual weather  
for
this time of the year in Tehran. Every time I have visited Tehran, it  
has
always been during the period of May through August, and I have never  
seen
such regular, tempestuous weather. Tehran rarely rains during the  
summer – it
is usually dry, hot, dusty and scorching. Why this year, all of a  
sudden?
Global warming? Friends from Berlin say the weather there is  
autumnally cool,
also unusual for the season – maybe strange weather has become a  
phenomenon
everywhere, but the coincidence of the weather‟s alignment with the  
political
“climate” here is, for me, very interesting.
Maybe the weather should have been more of a sign that things were not  
to
pass so smoothly, that the quiet of Thursday and Friday was the “eye  
of the
storm”. The first half of the storm was the thirst-quenching, drought- 
curing
water of carnival; the second half of the storm began today: the violent
hurricane that rips the city apart, leaves destruction in its path,  
kills as
it rolls through with an unexpected force. And now, in retrospect, the  
Basiji
bullies who our friend saw assaulting Moussavi supporters at the polls  
in
Qeitarieh Friday evening were not bored punks, they were the shots- 
fired-too-
soon, the miscalculated early gusts, the premature signs of the storm  
that a
major intervention had been taken, potentially while the people  
celebrated in
the streets and observed the Sabbath of calm before casting their votes.
Manipulating distraction and the illusional appetizer of “freedom”  
to their
benefit, these Basiji were the preliminary harbingers of a hijacked  
future
for this country.
Moreover, their gangster-like assault on voters foreshadowed the  
maneuvers
that the police would take that night while people slept – or stayed  
awake
glued in confusion to satellite TV. Absent physically for one week, the
police were hiding, well-trained. An hour after the polls closed  
Friday, the
police were unleashed en masse to the Interior Ministry, where the  
ballots
from the nation had been collected to be counted. Simultaneously, the  
mayor
of Tehran announced that from midnight, Saturday June 13th on, any
demonstrations for or against the candidates will be illegal and will be
strictly disciplined. A clash occurred as the situation unfolded –  
once the
first percentages were announced, demonstrators gathered near the  
Interior
Ministry, to be quickly broken up by the police. From this point, one  
dream
ended and another began, both unreal.
The military state. After our late breakfast, we decided to head out  
to the
street. This was around 3 PM. Up till then, we had heard rumors that  
Moussavi
was going to give a speech somewhere in Tehran and lead a  
demonstration to
TV/Radio Central Headquarters. This was quickly confirmed as a false  
lead. We
waited, waited to see if he would say anything, going into news room  
mode:
Facebook videos and updates on organized demonstrations at Vanak  
Square, 7th
Tir Square, Fatemi Square, Valiasr Square paired with BBC Farsi‟s  
call-ins
from Moussavi supporters on the streets. The highlight of all this,  
right
before we left the house, was a phone call from Moussavi‟s wife, Zahra
Rahnavard, to BBC Farsi. Answering questions about Moussavi‟s position
regarding the situation, Rahnavard directly addressed the “Iranian  
people”:
They have played with your vote and are playing with your integrity!  
Stand
strong! Do not give up! We became curious, or maybe we just couldn‟t  
stand
being in the house, repeating the same news, speculating, worrying, and
wondering anymore.
We started to walk down Valiasr Street, the 21 kilometer North-South
thoroughfare that is Tehran‟s quintessential “main street”,  
running from
Tajrish Square at its northernmost point to its terminus at Meydan-e- 
Rah-Ahan
in the southern part of the city. Traffic had come to a standstill on  
both
sides of the street, cars and buses packed like tin cans and moving mere
inches forward. The side walks were filled on both sides of the street  
with
people, some standing outside of their shops or houses observing the  
street,
others carrying on their usual daily business, and others walking,  
like us,
fervently south, towards Vanak Square where the riots were supposed to  
be
taking place. Soon we heard police sirens and saw a stretch of black  
police
vans drive through the traffic, ordering cars and motorcyclists out of  
their
way. The vans were filled with Robo-Cop clad police officers, other  
vans had
cages attached to them, and the entire procession was followed by a  
chain of
motorcycles, mounted two-by-two with police offers wielding batons.  
For me it
was extremely unsettling that every time we stopped on the sidewalk to  
take a
look at the show of military force, the police offers would turn their  
heads
simultaneously and look at us directly in the eyes. It felt that they  
had an
extra sense, able to perceive individuals from the crowd who posed any  
danger
or criticism towards them. Their glare sent shivers down my back, as  
if they
were memorizing my features in order to remember to come after me  
later. We
decided it would be best to split up as a group, to not take pictures,  
to
stop as little as possible, and to try and calm down – we were surely
emitting a very tense energy. My face was contorted into a permanent  
scowl –
I had to try and lighten it, to smile, to walk with a relaxed pace, to
pretend that I was simply out for an ice cream. We walked alongside the
stretch of police vans and motorcycles for around twenty minutes,  
when, at a
major traffic intersection, the entire chain of police turned off of  
Valiasr
street and drove onto the Niyayesh Highway. Natascha mentioned that  
their
strategy must be a divide-and-conquer method – maybe some were going  
to other
parts of town where demonstrations were also occurring, while others  
were
trying to come up to Vanak from the side, in an attempt to take the
demonstrators gathered there by surprise.
As soon as we passed this intersection, we could see a crowd gathered up
ahead, and then all of a sudden people began running, screaming “Go!  
Go! Go!
They‟re coming”. From behind the crowd we saw a group of police  
officers
marching forward into the street, a man ran past me yelling  
“They‟re hitting
everyone, go!” We ran. Natascha disappeared from sight. I ran,  
following Reza
and Bani into a side street where we could peep our heads from a parking
garage and take a look at what was happening. Crowds ran past and the  
group
of police officers made it to the street where we were hiding. They were
about to come down this street when all the cars parked on Valiasr began
honking vigorously, turning the police‟s attention to this unapproved  
display
of solidarity. The police quickly jumped into the street and began  
climbing
over cars, kicking car doors, waving their batons, and telling the  
drivers to
stop honking. We walked back up to Valiasr and saw that the police  
were now
weaving through the traffic, walking back further down. The cars kept  
honking
at them, men and women holding up victory signs from their windows.  
Reza and
Bani decided to walk down to Mirdamad Street, where the Vanak protest  
had
managed to spread. I told them I would find Natascha first and then  
slowly
trail them. We parted ways and I walked up two blocks to find  
Natascha. We
deliberated what to do and decided that we were already too far away  
from
home to go back. Should we pretend to not know how to speak Farsi if  
they
catch us? How far down should we go? We decided that at this point,  
being
caught is not even an option, nor is being beaten. Being so removed  
from this
context, I had to admit to myself that I had never been in such a  
situation
and therefore, do not know how to act. Not knowing what to do is  
extremely
dangerous. We walked slowly towards Mirdamad, cautiously gauging the  
mood,
tensing our bodies to begin running as soon as a signal was given from  
up
ahead.
We passed by a pedestrian bridge and decided we should go onto it in  
order to
overlook the street. The bridge seemed like a safe place, at least for  
the
moment it was removed from the traffic of the side walk, but of course  
it
could potentially turn into a trap if it were to be used as an escape  
route
and stampeded by fleeing demonstrators. From above, we could see the
impressive line of cars stretching as far back and as far forward as  
we could
see; we could see the crowds waving their hands in protest at Mirdamad  
and
further ahead, a mass of bodies at Vanak which were, from our vantage  
point,
indiscernible. I think we were on the bridge for more than an hour and  
this
whole time we could see the back and forth clashes between the  
demonstrators
and the police. There would be moments of pause, then the  
demonstrators would
gather and wave their arms, chanting “Death to Dictatorship”. They  
would be
allowed to assemble for a few minutes and then the police would swoop  
down
and begin hitting, dispersing the crowd like a forest fire. The  
demonstrators
would run up the street towards our bridge but then slow their pace,  
regroup,
and inch their way forward, only to re-assemble where they had been  
before.
This whole time, cars, seeing that traffic was no longer moving, began
honking ferociously, men and women opened their car doors and came out  
on the
street, held up their hands in victory-signs or waved green banners, and
began cheering. We started to cheer to – I screamed my lungs out –  
from the
bridge, the unification of voices and car honks cascaded into a  
rumbling wave
of support and solidarity, seeming as if it were the cause of the  
lightning
and thunder on the horizon.
During my time on the bridge, I was amused by an Azeri Turkish family  
– mom,
dad, three children and grandmother – sitting next to us on the  
bridge,
leaning their backs against the railing and passing out snacks of  
crackers
and nuts and candies amongst one another. The dad was pointing out  
where to
look, trying to describe what was happening to the children. The  
grandmother
had her hands over her mouth and would begin waving and panting as  
soon as
she saw the crowds clashing with the police. The children seemed so very
excited, as if they had not an inkling of an idea that what they were
witnessing was, from a number of possible adjectives, serious,  
historical,
severe, etc. As the family tensed and relaxed and ate their snacks,  
their
actions gave me the impression that for them, this was serious  
entertainment,
as though they were watching a Hollywood action movie in the cinema.  
It was a
beautiful moment to observe them, to see their ability to remove  
themselves
from the immediate situation while sensing that they were eagerly
anticipating this moment for ages. This was for them, maybe I am  
assuming
here, the chance of a lifetime for a movie-turned-into-reality that  
could, if
all went well, alter their lives.
Eventually the clashes became heavy. A major crowd had gathered at  
Mirdamad
and this time the police unleashed stronger force onto them. As the  
crowd
began running away, the cars started honking and the police became  
enraged,
following the crowd further up the street, towards our bridge. We  
sensed that
at any moment up to a hundred people could try and escape onto the  
bridge,
only to be followed by the police, effectively trapping us where we  
sat, so
Natascha and I decided to take the split-second opportunity and run. We
stormed down from the bridge and began running up Valiasr, taking a look
behind us only to see that the police were still in pursuit. I didn‟t  
look
long enough to see if they were hitting people, I just saw metal and  
helmets
and raised batons and decided to run as fast as I could. We ran past a  
truck
that had been left parked onto the side of the road, filled with  
bricks. I
later found out that the driver of this truck had been arrested with the
suspicion that he was delivering bricks to the demonstrators, so that  
they
could use them against the police. I imagined picking up a brick and  
throwing
it blindly into the crowd, but this fantasy faded fast as I continued
forward, knowing that the only power I had at that moment was to try and
avoid getting hurt. Slowly we calmed down, realizing that we were no  
longer
being pursued, and as Natascha and I caught our breath, we decided it  
would
be best to go home. We had seen enough for the day to know how serious  
the
situation was. It was important to experience the streets as they  
unfolded,
as bodies collided and cars honked and news spread from mouth to  
mouth, a
major difference from sitting at home watching TV and trying to piece
together information from various internet sources. We still hadn‟t  
heard
anything from Reza and Bani, who had been much further ahead than us,  
and we
hoped that they were alright. In fact, a minibus was parked at  
Mirdamad, and
while we were on the bridge we saw that the police were trying, in their
efforts to break up the demonstrators, to grab anyone that failed to  
run away
fast enough and throw them into the mini bus. Hopefully Reza and Bani  
hadn‟t
been arrested, especially since both of them were trying to video  
record what
was happening down there. Natascha called Bani but Bani hung up on her  
call.
I told Natascha not to worry for now, just to breathe and to drink some
water, have a quick energy-booster snack, and to try and get home.  
Natascha
bought some chocolate and I quickly grabbed a pistachio milkshake from a
street-side stall and we walked up Valiasr, stopping at regular  
intervals to
eavesdrop on conversations – some people were recounting what they had
witnessed from being in the demonstrations, others were spreading  
rumors,
while others were talking about the 1979 Revolution, exchanging advice  
on
what can be done today. A crowd was gathered around a street-side vendor
selling books written by Sadeq Hedayet, an Iranian intellectual from  
the „40s
and „50s who had written extensive, anti-authoritarian allegorical  
stories
during the time of the Shah. As we approached our street, we saw a  
motorcade
of police officers drive by: twelve motorcycles in total, the officers
holding up their palms in a Fascist gesture of power, the head of the
motorcade holding a baton of red flashing light. They drove past us  
and then
back down, metaphorically flexing their muscles, confirming the
militarization of authority taking place before our eyes. Finally they  
turned
around and speeded towards TV/Radio Central Headquarters, where they  
most
likely would either receive intelligence reports and/or station  
themselves to
prevent a public attack. On our street corner, two women in their mid- 
to-late
thirties stood, watching the procession of police officers, conversing  
in
disbelief. I stood next to them to listen to their conversation. They  
began
to cry, all the while holding up their hands in a victory-sign, waving  
at the
honking cars that drove by. One of the women said to the other: “Just  
let
them kill us now, watch, tomorrow they will put cyanide in the city‟s  
main
water reservoir.” I tapped her on the shoulder and gently rubbed her  
back,
telling her to calm down, wait, and hope for the best. I wished her good
health and walked back with Natascha to our house. Natascha had just  
gotten
off the phone with Bani, who had confirmed that they were alright –  
they had
found a perfect spot at Mirdamad, on the balcony of a shopping center,  
from
which they could safely observe and film the demonstrations. They were  
on
their way home as well. And they were bringing pizza back!
11:28 PM
The police just drove by our house, 8 motorcycles, two officers clad  
in black
riot armor waiving their batons in the air. Natascha broke into the  
living
room from the kitchen and said “They‟re on our street! They‟re  
driving by!”
We ran to the front balcony to take a look and caught the last  
motorcycles
speeding past – Natascha said she saw a group of women and their  
children,
what seemed to be a family, chased by the police into our street and  
up the
hill. Shortly after we had collected onto the balcony, the police  
drove back,
calm, seemingly satisfied. Whether these women were innocently caught  
up in
the situation, or whether they had provoked the police, this I do not  
know.
At this point, we saw our neighbors collected onto their roof – they  
had a
much better view so we asked them what is going on. They told us that  
a group
of protestors set a trash can on fire at the entrance to our street.  
We began
to smell the burning rubber. Our neighbors asked us if our satellite TV,
internet and mobile phone networks have also been shut down – we  
confirmed
all three with a resounding yes.
Going to the roof now to try and see better – no TV, no internet,  
it‟s
something to do, at least.
12:01 AM
Just got back from the outside, after the observing from our rooftop  
Bani and
I walked up to the intersection of our street and Valiasr. The trash  
can was
no longer burning, but the air was filled with an orange haze. The  
weather
itself has decided to revolt once again, continuing its unusual trend,  
this
time even more appropriate: lightning and thunder fill the overcast  
sky. It
truly feels apocalyptic.
A friend came over and is trying to fix our satellite signal. He is on  
the
roof with a roll of aluminum foil, and the others are sitting in the  
living
room while Reza is yelling out the bathroom window. It worked! We have a
terrible connection to BBC Farsi, but it is some contact nevertheless.  
Reza
just read a report (I still haven‟t managed to figure out where he  
gets his
news from) from employees of the Interior Ministry who quit their jobs  
today,
announcing that they personally know there was a fraud and that the  
actual
hand-counted number of reports is as follows: 16 million for Moussavi,  
13
million for Karroubi, 5 million for Ahmadinejad and 2 million for  
Rezai. Who
knows if this is true or not? The mood has become what I imagine what a
revolutionary or pre-civil war situation must feel like: all  
communication
networks other than the official state-run media shut down (which, by  
the
way, is only airing religious programs, flooding the airways with  
prayers);
communiqués delivered by the Opposition without any physical  
appearance or
any idea of their whereabouts; semi-official documents circulating via
unknown sources amongst the population, delivering conflicting news;  
the only
way to keep updated on the latest developments is by resorting to hear- 
say,
rumor and eavesdropping on conversations in the street; talk of  
hangings,
assassinations, mass mobilization and what could-have-been; not  
knowing who
supports who on the street (anyone could be part of a plain-clothes  
militia);
neighbors gathering at the entrance to their streets, acting as  
guardians or
even, as checkpoints. There is talk of giving it more time, and yet  
people
eventually have to sleep, when will things stop? The sounds outside  
seemed to
have been dying down, but now the car honks have started again, more  
than
ever. How late will things go tonight? How many have been hospitalized  
or
even killed? The police are now using electronic sting guns. Where is
Moussavi? Why has he disappeared? Maybe, one rumor goes, they‟ve  
arrested
him, or maybe he‟s left the country, delivering his communiqués from  
across
the border in Turkey – an Opposition government in exile!!
“So this is what a coup d‟etat looks like,” said a friend today.  
You go to
bed and wake up the next day and see the police everywhere. The  
“military”
government announces its unprecedented victory, calling it a sign of  
“divine
approval”. And any sign of unrest is immediately dealt with through a  
show of
the police state‟s force. Is this it? Being in the middle of such  
events
makes it difficult to try and compare it with what one knows from  
history,
or, the image of that history that one has in one‟s mind.
Hashemi Rafsanjani is under house arrest. An unholy alliance (as  
Natascha
just told me, “there is not much holiness left in this situation”)  
is forming
between him, the Leader of the Council of Experts, former hard-liner
President of the Islamic Republic, and the Reformist Opposition led by
Moussavi. The Council of Experts is a body of Shi‟ite Islamic clerics,
appointed during the early Khomeini era for life, to regulate the  
activity of
the velayat-e-faqih, the Guardianship of the Cleric. Under Khomeini  
they had
no power, given Khomeini‟s extraordinary combination of roles: Leader  
of the
Revolution, Source of Emulation (marja‟i taqlid – the highest point  
of
religious authority a Shi‟ite cleric can attain) and Supreme Leader  
of the
Islamic Republic. However, since Khomeini‟s death, the Council of  
Experts
have, legally, the right to intervene on matters of state regarding the
Supreme Leader‟s decisions, even to the extent that if need be, they  
may
remove the Supreme Leader from power. Not once in the thirty years  
since the
Revolution has this Council convened to discuss a decision the Supreme  
Leader
has made. In fact, rumor has it that most who sit on this Council are  
far
removed from the political climate, preferring the academic  
environment of
the religious seminaries in Qom than the hot-seat of Islamic politics in
Tehran. However, Rafsanjani, as the leader of this Council, is the only
person who can legally intervene in this situation. Khamenei has  
issued his
official approval of the election results and has even recently issued a
statement telling people to “keep quiet and behave themselves”.  
Until this
point, many hoped that Khamenei would ask for a recount, or announce a  
second
round of elections, but his approval of Ahmadinejad quickly put these
possibilities far away from reality. With his support, no one, not even
Moussavi, can legally act against the election results – otherwise,  
there
will be severe consequences. Rafsanjani remains the only person: his
expressed disapproval of Ahmadinejad and his support of the  
Opposition‟s
campaign in the past few weeks may lead him to assemble the Council of
Expert‟s to question Khamenei‟s statement of approval. As this has  
never been
done, it is not imaginable what would happen if such a confrontation  
of power
would occur. As this can be done, Rafsanjani, occupying the position  
of the
so-to-speak “Homo Sacer” - he who is inside and outside of the law  
at the
same time - has been placed under house arrest by the Supreme Leader.
Tension! What strikes me as the most strange is how Rafsanjani, a core  
leader
of the Revolution and historically an extremely conservative hard- 
liner, can
align himself with the Reformist Opposition? Is he simply bearing a  
grudge
against Ahmadinejad, who unexpectedly beat him in the previous  
elections four
years ago and who formally denounced him and his family as  
“criminal” in last
week‟s round of debates? Or, is he vying for power against Khamenei,  
with
whom he has always had a troubled relationship and against whom he may  
also
feel a grudge since it was Khamenei, a relatively unimportant yet  
extremely
zealous cleric underneath Khomeini‟s leadership, who was appointed as  
Supreme
Leader and not him? Or, could it be something else?
The Basiji arrived onto our street. They were a group of ten tall,  
burly,
bearded men, all wearing similar outfits consisting of boxy, white dress
shirts, oversized khakis and dirty, clog-like black boots, holding in  
both
hands large pieces of wood, baseball-stick like. The Basiji were  
chasing a
group of women and young men, slamming their make-shift “baseball  
bats” onto
the sides of parked cars and closed doors. The women were screaming at  
them,
something the equivalent of “fuck off”, bringing the Basiji‟s  
blood to a
boil: they were foaming at the mouth, raising their bats to hit the  
women,
cursing them, telling everyone standing by watching – whether out of  
defiance
or curiosity - to go home. When a woman popped her head out of her  
door to
tell some of the Basiji that no, indeed, THEY should be the ones to go  
home,
one of the men hurled himself at her. She quickly slammed the door in  
his
face, to which his response was a forceful blow of his “bat”  
against her
door. At this moment, one of the Basiji from further up the street  
yelled to
his comrades to hurry up and follow him. The men ran away, charged with
energy, raising their sticks in preparation for the next crowd they  
would
encounter. I feel that there is so much hatred against these men, who  
have
entrusted themselves (with the approval of Ahmadinejad‟s government)  
to
control the people through intervening with their values of what they  
deem to
be moral and “Islamic”, enforcing their will through violence and  
bullying.
Some, melodramatically, fear that if Ahmadinejad remains for the next  
four
years, the Basiji will develop into a neighborhood-police institution  
with
unlimited ability to enforce what they, at the moment, believe to be  
true and
appropriate. The recruitment and militarization of these civilians, the
unofficial granting of full authority to their activities as well as  
the fact
that many of them come from socio-economically troubled, abusive  
backgrounds
may, at worst, create a Taliban-like situation in this country that  
would not
be easy to solve in the future, even after Ahmadinejad‟s term is over.


Monica Narula
Raqs Media Collective
Sarai-CSDS
www.raqsmediacollective.net
www.sarai.net