[Reader-list] Inside Teheran 03

[Monica Narula]

June 15th/16th, 2009

I accidentally broke two glasses and a bowl. Yesterday, I was visiting  
a good
friend of mine, K., who lives in the City Center, around the corner from
Tehran University, between Enghelab and Azadi Square. I was in the  
midst of
kicking my legs up to stretch out onto the couch and my clumsy foot  
hit the
edge of the small table nearby, knocking two glasses and a bowl onto  
the tile
floor. My head was turned away when the accident happened, so the  
sound of so
much glass breaking really took me and N., who had also come with me, by

I remember reading something by Jalal Toufic about tripping, stumbling,
falling. This was in the context of vampire movies, I believe,  
specifically
, when the protagonist finds himself tripping before he
enters the house where the vampire sleeps during the day. Trips and  
stumbles
belong to the category of the clumsy foot, including not only things  
that
fall but also accidental kicks and knocks. I suspect Toufic utilizes  
the aid
of hallucinogenic narcotics, or, his use of them in the past has  
permanently
affected his perception when watching and thinking about films, given  
his
surrealistic analysis
conversing without looking at each other and yet do not bump into each  
other,
trip, for no apparent reason on smooth pl
indeed such a person, not the one to trip on stairs or to bump into  
bodies in
motion (in fact, I am quite choreographed in crowds), but sometimes I  
find
myself performing the clumsiest act in the moment when I expect it the  
least.
precaution (in states of altered
consciousness the same is the case with: disposed and predisposed,  
occupied
and preoccupied, monition and premonition; probably one becomes a sage  
only
when one no longer needs presages), in the sense that one must  
forewarn by
guessing where the false threshold is and warning about it and about  
being
, pp. 16)
  a long walk from Valiasr Street, past
Enghelab Square and Tehran University, joining the million-man silent  
march
that took place yesterday starting at 4 PM. The march had been  
organized by
Opposition supporters, those aligned towards Moussavi and Karroubi,  
through
word-of-mouth and Facebook the night before. No official permission  
had been
granted for the demonstrators to gather, but the sheer number of people,
young and old, in conservative Islamic clothes and in the tightest,  
shiniest
new fashions, students and civil servants, families and groups of  
singles,
what appeared as the entire spectrum of Iranian society proved to be  
such a
force of numbers that the police stood to the side and observed, looking
relaxed, even bored.
having officially met with Moussavi, who voiced his concerns to him
yesterday, announced on state TV and radio that the Council of  
Guardians will
set up an investigation into the allegations of fraud and tampering of  
the
votes in this election. As the New York Times and BBC wrote last night,
perhaps this is a way for the regime to buy time (the investigation  
period is
10-days), hoping that the promise of an investigation will settle  
people back
down and pacify them, but in any case it is clear that the persistence  
of the
Opposition and its supporters have caused the government, whether out  
of fear
or cleverness, to mediate a deal. The absolute lack of police force  
against
the demonstration yesterday (keeping in mind that without an official
permission, the march was technically illegal) proved that the orders  
from
above had changed their course. In a very smart manner, Moussavi had  
issued
an order to his supporters gathering that the march should be  
conducted in
absolute silence. With no access to text-messaging, most websites such  
as
Facebook or web blogs shut down as well as satellite TV signals  
scrambled and
march through a human network of friends-telling-friends, notes being  
passed,
and signs being held up. At times, an unknowing, overenthusiastic  
individual
or group would begin chanting
  and the rest of the crowd would quickly hush
them, telling them that this was a silent march. Instead of angry  
shouts, the
-sign for victory (or, in an
American context, peace). Some held up pictures of Moussavi or  
Karroubi in
their other hand; some held up their mobile phone, video recording or  
taking
demonstr The crowds kept on coming, walking into the distant horizon
was hidden from view either due to distance or the heavy smog that  
settles
during warm summer days upon Tehran.
Rumor had it that the march extended all the way to the other side of  
town,
to Imam Hossein Square, adding an additional symbolic element to the  
march
th
  century massacre of Imam Hossein - the
on - and his followers by the Ummayad Caliph
martyrdom at Karbala was a driving force in the 1979 Revolution,  
transformed
-political
model for resistance outside of the Western philosophical tradition of
Hegelian dialectics and Marxist class struggle. According to Shariati,
himself a French-educated i
unique to Islam, one who combined ethics with faith and who sacrificed
himself for justice to be served, therefore a role model for every  
individual
seeking reform. The Revolutionaries related to Hossein on many different
levels: as a devout man, as a political and religious leader, as a  
community
organizer or as a criticizer of injustice, using the example of his  
martyrdom
for their own cause: every time the police would shoot and kill
demonstrators, the ceremony of mourning began around their martyrdom,
more demonstrators would be shot and killed and so continuing the cycle.
still used today by the revolutionary ideology to stress
the honor of self-
of death, in order to secure freedom for future generations.
N. and I found it uncanny that the police  doing anything yesterday.
After two days of mass clashes between protestors and the government,  
the
police had laid down their guard. We walked past the headquarters for  
Road &
Traffic police and saw numerous parked police vans and motorcycles in  
the
courtyard. A range of uniforms occupied the courtyard, gathered in  
groups
spread all over the compound. Many of the young men (indeed, most of the
police and military are ruddy-faced, sun-soaked, bearded young men, some
exhibiting such diamond-in-the-rough physical beauty, their eyes almond
shaped, their noses substantial, with rosy cheeks, dark skin, and 3-day
stubble, it feels almost sinful to think of them in such a manner) were
leaning against the iron bars that circled the courtyard, peeping out  
from
between, looking at the crowds passing by. I made eye contact with  
many of
them, not sure what I could read in their eyes, which looked to me  
completely
poker-faced. Why were they just standing there, I thought? Seeing so  
many of
them, knowing that more were in the building, not being able to judge  
their
strategy for the day
by the police gathered in the cou
  they
were so big, so shiny, but almost toy- e that inside
were bullets and how easy it can be to die. If I had tripped,  
something else
may have happened, they would have noticed me. Imagine if I had broken  
glass
in front of them  surely that would have been a sign of attack!  
Premonitions
and precautions  the ability to feel that something is going to happen  
and
making sure to avoid being stuck in a slippery spot when it does. So  
what
could have lead me, in an altered state of consciousness (surely,  
since all
of the past days  events, as with last w
like some oceanic dream), to not pay attention to my foot and its  
relation
with its surroundings, causing me to break so much glass? I was  
preoccupied
with thinking about writing while the streets were occupied by  
millions; it
is not even an option to dispose of one system for another, although I  
would
say that the people are predisposed to flights of fancy, therefore it  
cannot
be sure if in the ten days they will tire of what they demand so  
fervently
at monition means, but my premonition is electric.
Swollen by subconscious processes linking my immediate circumstances to
other, supernatural forces at hand, the lack of articulation I have been
feeling (the articulation of this feeling has, itself, needed days to  
grow)
manifests itself in a bodily gesture that precautions caution: broken  
glass.
Square. Later, reports that one person had been killed and many shot  
when a
crowd of demonstrators foolishly decided to attach the compound of the  
Basiji
volunteer militia. And it is not to be taken for granted, the rumor  
that new
additions to the Basiji forces have been flown in from Lebanon  why?  
Because
of their supposed detachment from the situation, guaranteeing that the  
beauty
ploughshares, to abandon ship and escape to the islands of alienation  
that
have been beckoning them. Why did the crowd break the silence and  
attack,
endangering the other millions who had, for hours, tried to channel  
their
energies to a different level? Did the attack occur at the moment of  
broken
glass? I can only guess where the threshold is (that door, opening to  
the way
of no-return), but I do not believe the direction of attack and  
confrontation
lair and seeing that you have arrived too late, the last rays of the  
sun are
disappearing, it is too much of a risk to remove t
to stab the sleeping undead with a wooden stake. He is about to awaken!
Indeed, violence has only been erupting Tehran in the pre-dusk hours,  
when
the clouds cover the sun and it slowly begins to give way to crepuscular
shades of purple and orange.
I remembered another slip, trip, fall yesterday, happening well before  
the
which can be debated as to whether that would make it a cognitive or a
psychological error, or even, a spiritual one. In any case, my language
failed, on separate occasions, temporarily  each time it did so, it  
left me
blank, silent not out of a will to be silent, but out of powerlessness.
However, in one case, the failure of language became a slip of the  
tongue, a
mis-articulation paired with an inability-to-articulate. It happened  
when N.
walked
from Enghelab Square, through the silent demonstration, asking people  
where
-minutes worth of useful information,
in the sense that the directions they gave were only valid for 5- 
minutes of
walking in the direction they specified, afterwards we would be forced  
to ask
again where we were and where we should be going. Having realized that  
we had
walk two blocks back up and to make a left, continue two blocks, and  
then
us, walking at a slow pace. Each time N. and I tried to hurry past  
them, they
seemed to unconsciously step in our way  their bodies filled the  
breadth of
the sidewalk, not physically, but in the manner of their movements,  
how they
swayed unpredictably from side to side, taking a step in front of your  
step-
whose-goal-was-to-step-ahead. I uncontrollably uttered an  
indistinguishable
grunt or roar out of frustration; a younger man walking with the ladies
someone was behind them, moving aside to let N. and I. march forward. N.
laughed, saying they were moving like cows. I asked her if she had  
heard my
-in-in-volun-vorun-vollll-
tary-rary-
my feet, grunted again in frustration (more like a growl), and started  
to
Farsi nor English nor German, nothing comes out write, I have no more
so I opted for
managing to get my full sentence out to N., who stood there laughing in
had ever yelled at me. My heart immediately sank, my head grew dizzy,  
I felt
the same feeling I felt when I had lost a present my mother had given  
me as a
small child, a feeling of absolute having-disappointed. I laughed  
nervously,
faint smile on her lips  the meaning I received from what she said
contradicted her expression. She crossed the street and walked faster  
ahead
myself  what had I said that was so offensive? What could have  
possibly put
My sentence came back to me. I had experienced a state of utter
without thinking about it.
be un
a frustrated N. She wa
with me
happening? Language, for me, is a very important thing, my only tool and
talent
find myself only with a particular affinity for language, in its  
spoken and
present myself. In retrospect, all of this was a preface to the  
breaking of
the glass (note - pre-face, before the showing of the face, as opposed  
to the
removing of the face; yesterday at the University of Tehran, student
demonstrators had gathered behind the closed gates of the campus,  
covering
their faces with surgical masks, sunglasses and headscarves to avoid  
being
recognized. They held up signs carrying numerous political messages  
and a
number of them stood near, telling passers-by to refrain from taking
photographs:
visible and active, then we should also be aware of cuts in language,  
strange
accidents and contingencies, as in the way the English language brings
together as montage the face and sacrilege under the rubric defacement
). The breaking was an indirect and physical
confirmation of what was happening all along: loosing language, the  
ability
to articulate; loosing balance, the ability to navigate and feel out a  
space.
r and my slippages were a sign that his
spell was easy to fall under, his seduction great.
The false threshold is that of resistance, the door that opens onto  
the site
of the undead. The true threshold, what has yet to be crossed, is the
threshold of subjectivity: the door that leads to a room of mirrors in  
which
an individual sees his own reflection repeated unto infinity. Another  
moment
of precaution, or, premonition: N. and I had a conversation on the  
corner of
Valiasr Street and Enghelab, as crowds of people shoved past our bodies,
turning the corner towards the unseen and unknown, joining the march  
(these
crowds, just arriving, were not aware of the law of silence in place  
for the
day, and so, for us, their chants expressed a far more acute will-to- 
violence
than what we later saw was actually the case). The story of how we had  
made
  demonstration is important: for some days, N. and I had
been planning on visiting K. The day before, given the clashes  
occurring up
and down Valiasr, we decided it would not be a good idea. Yesterday,  
with the
promise of the march, we decided it would be a perfect opportunity to  
visit
K., since he lives so close to Enghelab and from his rooftop we could  
view
the events passing by with relative security, in case they turned  
violent.
great spot. When I arrived at the house from buying a pack of  
cigarettes and
a peach-flavored soda, I saw R. in a manic frenzy, telling us that we  
need to
leave now, that a friend is coming with a car, that we should hurry  
up. I had
just received a phone call from my sister, who, with my mom, has been
visiting our extended family in the city of Hamedan (6 hours west of  
Tehran)
since last week. The entire time that R. was rushing us to leave, I  
attempted
to multitask speaking with my sister, scarfing down leftovers for  
lunch, pack
my bag and try a
the house, the entire time my sister telling me an incredible story  
about how
she had been terribly sick the past few days, plagued by migraine  
headaches,
wrenching stomach pains and nosebleeds, and how women from our family  
had
decided to come save her, placing her in bed and each taking on  
different
healing roles: one praying above her head, another feeding her salty  
yoghurt
healing energies, another casting incense over her, one crying, one  
pressing
was beginning to grow
impatient. I was running after R. and B., N. at my side, to the car, my
mobile, testifying to her near-death
experience and complete recovery without the aid of medicine or a  
doctor,
only the tenderness of the women in our family. I told my sister I  
love her
and that I have to go now, as the car began moving, turning off our  
street
and onto the highway, speeding through traffic to get towards Valiasr  
Square
as fast as possible. R. was receiving numerous phone calls,  
instructing him
to arrive soon, informing him that the crowds were amazing and the  
march was
going on as planned. B. was filming from the car window. R. had his  
hand out
in a victory-sign. Yet, N. and I sat in silence. It was not that there  
was
nothing to say; there was just no way of speaking, I felt. What had  
happened,
why were we here in this car, where were we going? I was confused, I  
thought
towards this demonstration, which at that moment felt like a death  
trap. And
know if I should resist or why I felt the need to resist.
When we parked the car close to Valiasr Street, R. and B. ran out  
ahead of
us. R. turned around and told us to memorize where the car was parked  
so that
when necessary, we could reconvene and go back home together. N. had  
stopped
up ahead, turning corners with them and eventually ending up on Valiasr
Street. At this point, N. told me that it would probably be a good  
idea to
if the demo got bad. I started writing while speed walking and  
realized I
so I stopped to the side and began quickly
copying the address onto a second sheet of paper. N. complained that  
it was
not going to work like this, that we had already lost R. and B., who  
were
much further up ahead and swarmed in a crowd of people also speeding  
towards
Enghelab. I responded that there is no other way for me to write the  
address
began running. It was difficult, as there were so many people on the  
street.
sewer, running what felt to be a concrete tightrope. Looking back, I  
saw N.
nt to lose her in all of this. After a
distance, double-checked to make sure it was really her. She was about  
to
disappear around the corner of Enghelab  the point of no return, I  
thought
what could be happening around there? I had to catch her before she  
took the
few extra steps necessary, otherwise, it would be over, no hope of  
contact,
and our mobiles had no reception anymore. I yelled her name, she turned
around, and I managed to quickly get up to her and pass her the note  
with the
address written on it. She thanked me and then took one step forward,  
turned
follow, I waited and looked back to see where N. was, I saw her from  
afar and
waved my arms, holding up victory signs with both hands. Both of us were
completely dehydrated. We bought two warm waters and stood there on the
corner, in silence.
N. started speaking to me in Farsi. We normally speak English when we  
are
alone together, with B. and R. we speak Farsi and other Farsi-occasions
include when in shops, restaurants or taxis (the taxi drivers try and  
rip us
off if they hear us speaking a foreign language). It came to me as a  
surprise
that N. was speaking in Farsi, even more so because she was trying to  
express
something quite complicated. The language was challenging her ease of
expression. I tried to follow along and felt that I understood the  
sense of
what she was saying, connecting it to other thoughts I had. N. was  
speaking
about a sense of powerlessness she had begun to feel. I had noticed  
that ever
since a certain point the previous night, N. had put up an invisible  
wall,
turning silent, her face and gestures hard to read. I felt her distant  
to me
and this troubled me. Once again, another surreal moment: standing,  
wedged in
the corner of the entrance to a pharmacy, with swarms of peo2ple  
shoving past
us, moving towards some greater force attracting them, N. and I stood  
unsure
of what to do, speaking about powerlessness, standing at a threshold  
and not
up: it was when the Basiji had arrived on our street the other night  
and R.
already written, from that point on, R. changed, his anxiety was  
channeled
into panic, he began attempting to control what little of the immediate
situation he could: he told me to begin writing, dictating to me what  
to say;
he told N. to call her friends abroad, putting the exact words in her  
mouth;
he asked frantically if we had a poster of Ahmadinejad we could hang  
in the
house, in case anyone came to search; he told us that from now one we  
have to
be extra careful, we have to hide our tapes, cameras and computers, we  
cannot
let anyone into the house that we do not know; he told us that  
sometimes the
secret service pretends to be the postal delivery man, that we should  
not be
so easily fooled; and ominously, he told us that we should keep  
separate, for
if one of us were to be caught it would be bound time for the others  
to be
arrested, but at least some of us could escape with proper notice. For  
what?
How had we come to this situation? R. was the one who had yelled at the
Basiji, it was his own decision, none of us would have supported him  
if he
had consulted us beforehand. The situation was dangerous in general,  
but now
it had become particularly dangerous for us, not because we all acted  
out,
but because R. acted out. And his response? To tell us what we have to  
do,
how we have to think, what we have to say and write and how we have to  
act. A
system of values, clearly distinguishing between right (us) and wrong  
(them)
was put into place at this moment. A force of power, weak and self- 
conscious,
dragged us with it, subjecting us to its authority, telling us to make  
up for
  As N. described this
feeling, I began to see the reason for my silence in the car. I  
thought of
the last report I had written and began feeling sick at parts of it,  
the tone
it had, as if someone else were speaking through my words, as if I were
possessed by a greater being.
. She asked me: why are you writing? I asked her:
Previously, I may have responded differently, in fact, I think I ended  
my
last report with an implicit motivation for writing: to let the world  
know
what we are going through. But how did I manage to let my subjectivity  
slip
past me, transforming into a collective voice? When was the moment in  
which
. What is there to know? To know what not to know, as Michael
public
secret, as is the case with most important social knowledge, knowing  
what not
to know? Then what happens to the inspired act of defacement? Does it  
destroy
the secret, or further empower it? For are not shared secrets the  
basis of
our social institutions, the workplace, the family and the state? Is  
not such
public secrecy the most interesting, the most powerful, the most  
mischievous
pp. 2)
be easily articulated, certainly not on the ground, face-to-
  Taussig, pp. 6)
that we were standing at the real threshold, the threshold over whom  
one step
forward would lead to the loss of subjectivity. Subjectivity is at  
stake here
develop a new language; I thought to myself, that when I write I want to
write outside of the given categories of fiction, non-fiction,  
journalism,
criticism, etc. There is something complicated going on and it is  
important
to stress that there is nothing right or wrong in this situation:  
images of
the police and military violence against the Iranian people have been
spreading like wildfire in the past days; writers, whether journalists  
or
bloggers or individuals like myself who are looking for a channel to  
clarify
their experiences have described what they have seen and indeed, this  
has
necessitated descriptions of the violence against the people. Although  
all
these experiences are true, they really happened and it is important  
to make
clear how real everything is here through such documentation, a  
question of
representation arises and which is, in my mind, what complicates the  
entire
violence without transforming into violent language? To extend the  
argument,
properties of spreading, word for word, into every nook and corner of
reality, multiplying endlessly. On the one hand, a tidal wave occurs,  
the
representation of violence overwhelms and moves one to action; on the  
other
it is a viral dissemination by language, violent as it is, that joins  
in the
individual to a collective will of ethical retribution. This  
retribution may
take the way of revenge, or of a demonstration, but it may also take a  
much
more sinister, unconscious manifestation, that of a will to power, to  
react
instead of act, creating those who, so moved by representing reality,  
chose
to force others to react with them, creating a force that replicates the

To articulate a narration that examines violence and justice, not only  
as a
concept but as a practice  or a narration that acts with violence (even
unconsciously, as it may have been doing so far) and its concomitant  
justice
(who will reply to my voice?)  requires a voice-over that is never  
present
as such. Much like the angel of death, this narrative is a story that,
through its telling, prolongs the
perish during the course of events that the story provides. By life, I  
mean
to say that through writing, I can remember that I lived through this,  
which
be alive, alone, myself, even when in
a demonstration of millions.
I received a moving e-mail from a friend yesterday, who prefaced it by  
saying
that she knows it may sound all too strange, but that she envies me  
being
here. For me, this had a different meaning, as if she we
like to live, f Now, after
all this, I finally wish to learn to live! But without a comma? Does the
meaning then depend on an infinitive construction  to live finally? Is  
this
a complete verb? What would it mean? To live  And am I
able to show, describe, write about, in any way practice how to live?  
Do I
live more because I have passed one threshold (come to this country),  
yet
another (participate in the events here through observation) and await  
one
step before a final threshold from which I cannot return (losing my
subjectivity  either through physical death or through relinquishing my
agency to authority)?
Today, there was a similar march, significant in numbers although less  
than
yesterday, along Valiasr Street, from Valiasr Square to Tajrish  
Square. The
march was also silent and its purpose was to convene onto the  
headquarters of
TV/Radio, near where I am staying. There, in front of the state-run
broadcasting center, heavily fortified by military, police and plain- 
clothes
personnel for the past few days, a wave of hundreds of thousands,  
stretching
up and down Valiasr as far as I could see standing on my tip-toes, sat
themselves down onto the pavement, waved green flags, held up signs with
images and text on them, and observed the law of silence. There was  
something
s demonstration. I had seen signs announcing the
demo for today, although I thought that everyone would meet at Valiasr  
Square
and march further south towards the main cemetery and the railway  
station,
but N. called me earlier this afternoon to tell me that the  
demonstration had
been canceled due to security concerns. Apparently, last night the
police/Basiji had raided hundreds of homes and arrested many people,  
jumping
the death toll from one killed during the demonstration itself  
yesterday at
Azadi Square to seven in total, when counting those killed in their  
own homes
last night. This crackdown was a serious matter, a perfect complement  
to the
feigned generosity of the police standing by, watching in boredom  
during the
march yesterday. Of course, one should not expect anything more: no  
violence
during the day only presupposes even greater violence, stealthier,  
crueler,
at night. Perhaps the helicopters flying by yesterday were zooming in  
and
taking photographs of the crowd, and perhaps the security forces later
scanned faces and picked ones at random to target for the evening. Who  
knows?
Regardless, today seemed like a calm day. N. dropped by in the afternoon
after class. I was no longer staying with B. and R. and instead I had  
gone
back to my own, single apartment. The previous days I needed a sense of
community and company to make sense of the situation, I needed to feel
d so I had been living unofficially with B. and R.,
where N. also lived, absorbing a particular rhythm that no longer had  
the
were developing between and around us.
When N. came over, I saw that I had run out of cigarettes so I ran  
downstairs
to pick up some smokes as well as a few things for an afternoon snack.  
As I
walked to the supermarket, I saw cars backed up on my street, turning  
around
the corner and lining up all the way to Valiasr Street down the hill.  
Many
people were walking down towards the main street. I thought to myself  
that I
guess the demonstration was taking place after all. In the store, I  
browsed
for a few snacks, bought a couple of phone cards and paid. The clerk  
leaned
he pulled back his head and shot a greeting to a few older, bearded  
men who
came in the shop. His secrecy was strange. This was a relatively  
affluent
neighborhood, there was no reason to fear, then again, maybe he has  
found
unexpected pressure on him and his shop from someone. I resisted the
temptation to walk down to see the demonstration, especially since I had
accidentally locked N. in my apartment. I went back up and told her  
that the
demo had taken place anyway and she confirmed that R. had called her  
and told
her about it and asked if she had taken the camera by mistake, as he  
wanted
to document it. I realized that in my confusion and browsing (I take  
ages to
by groceries, I deliberate too much), I had forgotten to buy what I had
originally gone downstairs for: cigarettes. I went back downstairs  
again,
decided to go down the hill to Valiasr Street and take a look. When I  
got
down, I saw that the streets were full. I tried to eavesdrop on the
conversations, my usual way of assembling information (I particularly  
enjoy
the exaggerations and contradictions in what people say to one  
another). I
asked an older man for a light and asked him about the demonstration:  
had
people gathered at Valiasr Square and walked up, because it seemed that
arriving, but walking down from Tajrish Square further up north? He  
said that
, but the
crowds extend down to Valiasr Square, except that from Vanak on  
Ahmadinejad
supporters are gathered. They had been brought by the busload, emptied  
onto
the streets and told to show their support for the President. I asked if
there had been clashes between the two groups and he said, yes, and  
that the
Basiji had also driven through the crowd a few times in the past hour. I
looked down onto TV/Radio Headquarters, known as Jaam-e-Jam, and saw  
police
snipers hiding behind trees and bushes, observing the crowd closely. I  
saw a
group of Basijis gathered in the driveway of Jaam-e-Jam, talking to one
another. All of a sudden, the crowd began chanting. Many started  
hissing, an
the government and the President with cheap slogans. Many of the older  
women
observe simple silence. I found myself fuming  I was so angry that a  
select
few were willing to selfishly spoil the situation for everyone  
involved, just
because they felt the need to violently proclaim what they thought to be
silence was; today felt tense, broken up, individuated into smaller  
groups,
people seemed to be watching and waiting for something, rather than  
bathing
in the confidence and satisfaction of the leveling power of silence. I  
walked
towards a group of older women and began complaining to them
need to be quiet! It is so important to be silent, especially now in  
this
unleash the Basiji, who are just waiting for an excuse to arrest,  
beat, stab,
shoot, whatever, to inflict punishment onto the crowd. Soon those who  
were
chanting stopped, but the mood remained very uncomfortable. I saw R.,  
he came
and tapped me on the shoulder. He was furiously smoking, sucking on his

exclaimed how beautiful the turn out today had been. He shuffled back  
and
forth nervously and then, when I turned my head, walked away and  
disappeared.
After R. left, I saw a man walking towards me, he was wearing a  
baseball cap,
sunglasses and a surgical mask to avoid being recognized. He walked in
silence through the crowd, holding up in one hand a sheet of paper  
upon which
Underneath the text, there was a collection of eight images, taken  
from the
international media, of individuals who had been wounded or killed  
during the
demonstrations in the past days. These images were the same ones  
circulating
through AP and Reuters, reproduced in the New York Times and the BBC.  
One
showed a woman being beaten by a group of Basiji and police. Another  
showed a
dead body in the back of a pick-up truck. The most disturbing was the  
image
of a middle-aged man, fallen onto the pavement, his head had, for lack  
of a
better word, exploded from a close-range, point-blank gunshot. In the  
same
hand that the man used to hold up this sheet of paper, he held a single,
long-stemmed, white gladiola flower. He walked in absolute silence,  
valiantly
displaying the images. A crowd of people huddled around him and  
followed him
looking up at the images. All of them scrambled to get closer, hands  
shooting
up into the air with mobile phones taking pictures of the picture, or  
of the
  sure. The group of people surrounding him naturally increased
and decreased, people came and went, but everyone seemed to be  
attracted to a
single point of view, fixating their motions and gaze onto the raised  
arm
holding the sheet of paper and the flower, confirming their experience  
of
this event with the necessary mobile phone photograph. I thought to  
myself
how beautiful this image was, of people taking images of an image, and  
how
  I
thought about the power of the silence, in the demonstration as a  
whole and
at this one moment, in which more than mourning was occurring,  
mourning that
precipitates silence out of honor, but which also, typically, demands  
wails
and screams. No wails and screams here, just wet, wide-open eyes and the
shutter click of camera phones. What I am seeing, the observation of  
silence,
the awareness of representation in the gestures that people are  
taking, the
  words. Unlike words,
silence, however, leaves much open room. Its power comes from the  
range of
interpretations possible, as well as the possibility for silence,  
since it is
demanded, but it remains as it is, pervading the space of those who
experience it, saying, silently, to pay attention more acutely, to think
individually, to try and figure out what is going on and why there is  
silence
to begin with.
The silence of the man and his images, of those gathered around him,  
of those
-
to learn to live, finally, the most I can show is that one must not  
privilege
disaster as authentic experience, nor must one valorize struggle as  
deep in
meaning. Finally, I come to where all these thoughts stem from: how to
develop a new language to articulate what is going on here, to which I  
must
add, a language that articulates not being able to articulate, knows  
what not
to know? While writing this report, a paper I had written a few years  
ago
comes to my mind, and I think parts of it are suitable to lead the  
process
forward: Seven years before writing On the Concept of History,  Walter
Benjamin outlined his theory of mimesis in On the Mimetic Faculty,   
which
would serve as a basis for his greater project to read non-texts. The  
natural
which man creates analogies and similarities to the natural stimuli he
encounters. Benjamin focuses his argument on language as mimesis:  
language is
far from a system of signs; instead, it is the bearer of a nonsensuous
similarity that guarantees wholeness in the experience of the world. The
perception of meaning occurs at brief moments, flashes of gnosis, which
simulates the entire world through language. Language has its roots in  
the
inexpressible: to read what was never written, such reading is the most
ancient  reading before all languages, from the entrails, the stars, or
dances.  What is the most crucial, for me, at this moment is to try and
operate in an in-between state, especially in regards to language. In my
earlier slippages, I encountered the power of a language removed from  
access
to subjectivity and individual, sensuous perception. In realizing this
alienation from my own self, I now feel that there are other things  
that can
be read beyond what I immediate see and perceive, a defacing that faces,
revealing and hiding, back and forth, contradicting itself like the  
blind
prophet who augurs. The in-between-state, what this entire experience  
has
actually (also as in currently) been/is, feels hallucinogenic, yet in  
this
altered state of consciousness I feel myself much more only when I force
myself to open my eyes in the water. At night, the honking of  
invisible cars
endless circularity; in the silent demonstrations, each sound bears more
weight, a human voice feels offensive and needs to be quickly hushed;  
the hum
of the TV, the velocity of the news reported, in combination with  
shuffling
through online versions of newspapers, creates a wall of information  
that
here. What is written is not to be read: the language I am searching for
exists in my nonsensuous similarity to the environment, the  
possibility of
changing into air or rocks or trees, the circularity of chants and  
silences
open to any and every and no meaning all at the same time, an image of  
an

When we were at  yesterday, we turned on Iranian state-run TV to
see whether they were reporting about the demonstration that day. On one
channel we saw a wildlife documentary about turtles. Another channel was
airing some after-school program about mathematics. The news station was
reiterating the county-by-county tally of the election results,  
showing how
the votes were broken down between the four candidates in every  
municipal
exclaimed N. Millions of people
gathered outside for the past three hours and all they show on  
national TV is
turtles. Nothing is happening at all, the world is permanently the way  
it has
always been, time circling in loops. Coming from outside and then to  
watch
Toufic, p
the cause of a return-to-
of the whack on the brain (the first vote counts came in within 1 hour  
of the
-run TV has managed to masterfully enact.
feeling that what united the people was a certain impatience and  
desire for a
leader, for someone to tell them what to do. In my opinion, the  
importance of
such demonstrations goes beyond demanding one authority over another. In
fact, for me Moussavi has become completely unimportant  I, among  
others,
was realistic before the elections and after that Moussavi, or any
politician, is a savior who will come to change everything wrong with  
this
country. His position is most likely decided, I doubt the vote will be
revoked and even if it is and he becomes President, it is less of  
importance
to me than what the circumstances of the situation have produced and  
how they
came into existence in the first place. Rather than following, being  
pulled,
pushed, forced into silence or acceptance, it is important to feel and
experience, to be unsure, to speak when it is necessary to speak, to
participate when it is desired to participate, allowing for the  
structures of
authority that are in place and that can easily replicate themselves to
become malleable in the face of a strong will, at the hands of each
have come to

After a few rounds of call and response, one of the neighbors shouted  
from
y related to the current
st
cause and they returned back indoors. The nerve! Why should I ruin the
which is so intelligent in how it reveals and hides, in how it perfectly
embodies the most powerful form of social knowledge  knowing what not to
know  for a direct, cheesy and (dare I say) trite invocation for  
someone, an
old man who may look friendly but who was Prime Minister in this  
country from
1981-89 and who also, in his time, imprisoned and killed many students,
effectively enacting this regime  implicit
approval? What need do I have for a leader, someone to replace the  
form but
whose content is still basically the same?
er completely novel, and no act can ever be quite
appearance of meaning that must be transmitted among subjects through
replications, which teeter between a known pattern and its innovation,  
or,
recreation. The variation is usually minor, but significant in that  
the event
cannot be experienced in a present-present, but as a past-present
representation, in which the past action is bound to an authoritative  
present
interpretation. The revolution is a representation, assuming the  
temporary
satisfaction of internal, spiritual flows, yet rewriting the same form,
different in immediate content alone, onto the body. The subject is
unknowingly recreated  into the same creation. The power of this  
moment is
the ability to have a reform movement that needs no leader to save the
people: the people save themselves, subtle and clever, indirect and  
playful,
through using the structures that keep the system in place against  
itself, as
a mirror reflection that shatters when the vampire throws his glance.
How play fits into this becomes an issue of the bodies involved, and  
play
creates relations between bodies that are primarily individual to  
individual,
channeling and connecting subjective energies. For me, one of the  
interesting
-conscious
guilt towards the
describing  whether out in the street, amongst demonstrators, at home
writing,
more subtle way, a way that views situations as more than just physical
surfaces, rather as sensuous environments. The repression and guilt is
especially strong when I sense the sexual aro
appearance brings forth, but that is more the result of an immediate,
fetishistic connection between sex and death which is a direction I do  
not
pressing subjectivity, similar to the trips and falls of language and  
feet,
exacerbated by the altered states of consciousness that turtles,  
mathematics
and public secrets provoke through amnesiac lapses. It is almost as if  
the
militancy of the moment, in its will-to-authority (control and be  
controlled)
as such. But when it comes up, I am realizing, it offers an  
opportunity to
play with the immediate situation, a play-dough situation in which one  
can
explore the many sensations that a language-other-than-words provides  
in its
openness.
  On my way home last night, a car drove around the corner,
flashed its lights at me, honked and then screeched to a halt next to  
me. The
window rolled down: two girls, neither wearing headscarves, dressed to  
go
out, the smell of perfume oozing from out of the car window. One of  
them, the
driver, a dark haired, red-lipsticked, charcoal eyed young woman asked  
me in
-sign, smiled and
asked me where I was coming from. I told them I had been at the silent  
march
on Enghelab earlier and was now coming home. They were immediately  
excited,
asking me all the details: what was it like, what happened, how many  
people
were there, was it true that 15 people were shot? I asked them if they  
had
been there and they said no, they were too afraid to go. In return, I  
scolded
them for their mistake, declaring that it had been a truly inspiring and
beautiful day, stressing how important the silence was. They giggled  
and I
heard the girl in the passenger seat, who had tiny features, pale skin  
and
light brown curly hair say that she found my way of describing the  
situation
demonstration the next day, to take place at Valiasr Square at 5 PM. The
driv
girls burst out in excitement, switching to English and asking me to  
come
with them to a party. I declined the offer and the driver held out her  
hand
I gave her a high five and then she wished me much luck and blew me a  
kiss. I
I had never in my life had two girls try and pick me up and now it  
happened,
years.
Earlier that day, N. and I took a break from the silent march and  
found a
very small and well-
toilet and I lay down on the grass and smoked a cigarette. I noticed  
many
young men in the park, gathered in groups, which is in no way unusual  
in a
society traditionally used to self-segregation between the sexes,  
except for
the fact that all the young men were quite handsome, quite athletic,  
quite
well dressed, and quite physical with one another. They exchanged  
furtive
glances between groups and many loitered around the entrance to the  
public
toilets. Some were sitting on benches, their legs spread open, their  
arms
behind their heads, tapping, as if they were waiting for something to  
come
by, showing off their figures and their packages in anticipation. This  
was
only a small section of the park, coincidentally around where I had  
decided
to lie down and wait for N. to return from the bathroom. When N. came  
back, I
attracted to the combination of tan skin, youthful arrogance, big eyes  
and
perma-stubble on exhibition at the park. As we got up to leave, I saw  
that
the rest of the park was filled with elderly men playing backgammon,
completely oblivious to the well-hidden cruising going on a few meters  
away.
I wondered to myself if this was a product of the day s energy, in which
everything had been turned into an incomprehensible chaos, or if these  
young
men were park regulars, and if, on normal evenings, the tone is much  
more
amplified than it was at that moment  the street-fest atmosphere of the
demonstration and the mixing of Tehranis from all over made it hard to  
feel
the situation out. In both of these examples, these instances express  
for me
an impossibility of denying the body, or even, of material in favor of
ideology. The Gnostic urge to purge the earthly for the greater,  
cosmic spark
is not an emotion that subjects, speaking from my own I , feel  
naturally. In
fact, the power of ideology s seduction makes it even more necessary, I
believe, to let subjective, fleshly attractions pervade and enrich the
greater events occurring too-fast-too-powerful to be truly understood:
sexuality is a play whose rules are easy to understand and in which  
trial,
error and experimentation are the only ways of learning, offering the
opportunity to slip, trip and fall. The necessity to feel one s body  
even
more exists in such moments, when the body is at the brink of letting  
itself
go for something it does not and cannot know, something which, with a  
step
past the false threshold, will be too late to articulate.

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