سرکوب خونین سوگواران اصفهان، کانون توجه رسانه های جهان
شبکه جنبش راه سبز(جرس): سرکوب خونین و بازداشت گروهی از سوگواران مراسم درگذشت جانگداز آیت الله العظمی حسینعلی منتظری، که قرار بود روز چهارشنبه به دعوت آیت الله سید جلال الدین طاهری در اصفهان برگزار شود و به خشونت کشیده شد، همچنان توجه رسانه های خبری جهان را حول موضوع ارتحال پدر معنوی و فکری جنبش سبز مردم ایران نگاه داشته است.
این در حالیست که مقامات امنیتی- انتظامی و دولت جمهوری اسلامی، صدور مجوز برای برگزاری مراسم سوگواری پدر معنوی و فکری جنبش سبز مردم ایران را بطور کلی در سراسر کشور ممنوع اعلام کرده و گروههای خشونت طلب و لباس شخصی ها، همچنان با امنیت کامل به ضرب و شتم مردم سوگوار و هتک و محاصره بیوت مراجع و روحانیون حامی جنبش مشغول می باشند. همه این موارد در سایه بایکوت خبری رسانه های ملی و رسمی کشور صورت می گیرد.
روز چهارشنبه در حالیکه آیت الله طاهری، امام جمعه سابق اصفهان از عموم مردم برای شرکت در مراسم سوگواری و سوم آیت الله العظمی حسینعلی منتظری در مسجد سید آن شهر دعوت به عمل آورده و جمعیت زیادی نیز برای این مراسم گرد هم آمده بودند، نیروهای انتظامی و لباس شخصی ابتدائا به محاصره بیت آیت الله طاهری و سپس حمله، پرتاب گاز اشک آور، ضرب و شتم و دستگیری مردم پرداختند. در این راستا، دهها تن زخمی و بازداشت شدند و همین سرکوب عزاداران، در نجف آباد و کاشان نیز تکرار شد .
با اینکه طی چهار روز اخیر اکثر آژانس های خبری جهان گزارش های مربوط به درگذشت آن مجاهد نستوه و تجمع باشکوه مردم در قم برای تشییع و تدفین وی تا رخدادهای امروز را پوشش داده بودند، اما برخورد خشن، امنیتی و غیرمنصفانه دولت و حاکمیت با مردم سوگوار و ممنوعیت مراسم سوگواری و اقدام رئیس دولت کودتا در برکناری شبانه مهندس میرحسین موسوی از ریاست فرهنگستان هنر و همچنین بازداشت چند تن از فعالان اصلاح طلب، باعث شد تا رسانه های بین المللی، کماکان درگذشت رهبر معنوی جنبش را «نقطه عطف مبارزات جنبش آزادیخواهانه مردم ایران» معرفی کنند.
حمله به زنان و کودکان، با اسپری فلفل و گاز اشک آور
خبر حملات وحشیانه و خشونت آمیز ماموران انتظامی و لباس شخصی ها با باتوم، گاز اشک آور، اسپری فلفل، زنجیر و سنگ به مردمی که برای سوگواری در اصفهان جمع شده بودند را، آسوشیتدپرس، تایمز، خبرگزاری فرانسه، BBC WORLD، UPI، کریستین ساینس مانیتور،CNN،
SKY NEWS ، نیویورک تایمز، الجزیره، تلگراف، گاردین، آسیا نیوز پوشش داده و خاطرنشان کردند "خشونت در روز چهارشنبه فوران کرد و نیروهای بسیج و گارد، مردمی را که فقط برای سوگواری گردهم آمده بودند، مورد ضرب وشتم قرار داده و حتی زنان و کودکان نیز از ضربات آنها بی نصیب نماندند." در همین زمینه CBC کانادا به نقل از شاهدان عینی و حاضران در مراسم، از خونریزی شدید چند نفر از سوگواران، بر اثر ضربات وارده خبر داد. کریستین ساینس مانیتور در این زمینه خاطرنشان کرد "بسیجیان مردمی را که در حال سوگواری و قرآن خواندن بودند، بشدت مورد ضرب و شتم قرار دادند."
تهدیدات مکرر امنیتی و بازداشت دهها تن از مردم و فعالان اصلاح طلب
تلگراف بریتانیا، تایمز آنلاین، رویترز و آسوشیتدپرس نیز، به تهدیدات مکرر دولت و مقامات انتظامی- امنیتی در برخورد با هرگونه مراسم سوگواری و ممنوعیت صدور مجوز برای بزرگداشت آیت الله منتظری اشاره کرده و ضمن مخابره بازداشت مسعود ادیب ، رئیس ستاد انتخاباتی مهندس موسوی در شهر قم که با حمله نیروهای لباس شخصی در اصفهان دستگیر شد، از بازداشت حداقل۵۰ تن از تظاهرکنندگان و خبرنگاران و همچنین ممنوعیت فعالیت گزارشگران خارجی پیرامون این مسئله خبر داد.
ورود و حاکمیت فضای پلیسی در کشور و فرا رسیدن بحران های احتمالی
خبرگزاری فرانسه (AFP) نیز، با تیتر "حکومت ایران بطور فزاینده ای چهره پلیسی خود را نشان می دهد"، به استفاده حکومت از تمام امکانات امنیتی – اطلاعاتی، برای سرکوب مردمی که همچنان به دنبال حقوق و آزادی های خود هستند اشاره کرده و همچنین محدودیت های استفاده از اینترنت در کشور را مورد بررسی قرار داد. کریستین سانیس مانیتور نیز در مطلبی دیگر فضای پلیسی حاکم بر ایران را چنین نوشت "تشدید اعتراضات مردم ایران، سبب ایجاد حالت فوق العاده شده است." گلف دیلی در این زمینه خاطرنشان کرد "نیروهای انتظامی ایران، جهت کنترل کشور برای روزهای آینده، حالت پلیسی مستقر کرده و به حال آماده باش درآمده اند." اما رویترز با ذکر این نکته که احتمالا برای یکشنبه آینده و مراسم عاشورا اعتراضات به مرحله اوج خود خواهد رسید، خاطرنشان ساخت "بنظر می رسد ایران وارد یک بحران داخلی طولانی خواهد شد و درگذشت آیت الله منتظری حمله ای بود به دیکتاتوری حاکم در ایران."
و روزنامه حرّیت چاپ ترکیه، در مطلبی پیرامون آنچه در حال رخ دادن در ایران است، خاطرنشان کرد "فرصتی جهت تاریخ سازی توسط جنبش سبزهای ایران به دست آمده است."
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
for Ehsan va masih alinejad
چه بگویم انکه میگوید دایی اش بدست هموطن مبارزی کشته شده یا انکه دلش به حال گربه ملوس
میسوزد تا جان عزیزی رفیقی چون احسان.
میخواهم بگویم بزی کرد و کردستان شیران دلاور ایران
تو تنها نیستی ما همه کم کم داریم کومله ای میشویم
نه منظورم این نیست که همه کمونیست شده ایم
میخواهم بگویم که یک تن شده ایم و هر زخمی بر هر جای این تن بر بدن تمامی ما حس میشود
Friday, November 13, 2009
With Mothers of martyred in Iran
Thursday, November 12, 2009
متل های ایرانی به روایت تصویر
از حق تا ناحق چهار انگشت فاصله است
از خر افتاده خرما پیدا کرده
اگر یابوش رو ندیده بود ادعای پادشاهی میکرد!
رنگم و ببین حالم و نپرس
ما از اولشم از شاه خوشمون نمیآمد
نا اونجا که یادم میاد کسی تو خانواده ما از شاه خوشش نمیامد.پدرم بعد از کودتا 28
مرداد عضویت درفرقه اشتراکی زندانی شد و اگر پا در میانی دایی جان نبود شاید اعدام میشد. کینه سالهای سخت زندان با او مانده بود به چشم خویش دیده بود که چه بر سر مردم اوردند و تا فرصتی میشد معظم له را به باد انتقاد میگرفت. اینروزها هر چه میخواهم قیاسی میان آنچه شاه و پدرش بر سر مردم ایران آوردند و آنچه این تخم مارمومکها بر سر ما میاورند بیابم در حیرت
میمانم که اینان چه هستند. دوستی میگفت اینان ایرانی نیستند و آنچه اینان در وقاحت و بی شرمی با مردم آزاده ما میکنند مغول نیز نکرد. و من در حیرتم که اینان را قرابتی نه با شاه که حتی با آدمی نیست.
مرداد عضویت درفرقه اشتراکی زندانی شد و اگر پا در میانی دایی جان نبود شاید اعدام میشد. کینه سالهای سخت زندان با او مانده بود به چشم خویش دیده بود که چه بر سر مردم اوردند و تا فرصتی میشد معظم له را به باد انتقاد میگرفت. اینروزها هر چه میخواهم قیاسی میان آنچه شاه و پدرش بر سر مردم ایران آوردند و آنچه این تخم مارمومکها بر سر ما میاورند بیابم در حیرت
میمانم که اینان چه هستند. دوستی میگفت اینان ایرانی نیستند و آنچه اینان در وقاحت و بی شرمی با مردم آزاده ما میکنند مغول نیز نکرد. و من در حیرتم که اینان را قرابتی نه با شاه که حتی با آدمی نیست.
زندگی در حکومت Pause
نزدیک سی سال میشود که مردم ایران در جمهوری که نه حکومت پاز زندگی که نه در حال و هوای پازند. زندگی واقعی ازان اقایان و اقازاده گان است.انها که گاهی انهم از سر بیحوصله گی ازپشت پنچره های دودی ماشینهای اروپایی اخرین مدلشان نگاهی به ما و خیابان میاندازندو با خود لبخندی میزنندومیگویند خداوندا شکرت
باقی ما که دراعماق حکومت پاز دست و پا میزنیم از خود میپرسیم خدایا چه کرده ایم که اسیر این چمع بی لیاقت و دزد وطن فروش کرده ای. آخر چه کرده ایم که راس حکومت ما مردکیست که با ساعت حماقتش بالای چاهی ایستاده تا بیاید و جهان را به آتش کشد.
تنفر را دامن میزنند تا چند روزی بیش جیبهایشان را پر کنند گویی شرم و حجب و حیا را میان اینان جای نیست
باقی ما که دراعماق حکومت پاز دست و پا میزنیم از خود میپرسیم خدایا چه کرده ایم که اسیر این چمع بی لیاقت و دزد وطن فروش کرده ای. آخر چه کرده ایم که راس حکومت ما مردکیست که با ساعت حماقتش بالای چاهی ایستاده تا بیاید و جهان را به آتش کشد.
تنفر را دامن میزنند تا چند روزی بیش جیبهایشان را پر کنند گویی شرم و حجب و حیا را میان اینان جای نیست
koodakan jonoob shahr
روزنامه اعتماد، فهيمه خضرحيدري :
افزايش کودک ربايي در جنوب تهران
پابرهنه با سرنگ و خون
گوشه يي از شهر با شادماني هاي جشنواره تئاتر کودک رنگارنگ شده، يک گوشه ديگر هفته کودکان است و کانون. روزنامه ها خبر از بچه هاي شهر مي دهند که با دست هاي بي گناه شان زنجيره صلح ساخته اند. جشنواره بادبادک ها تهران را موقتاً زيبا کرده. سال تحصيلي تازه آغاز شده و دبير کميته ملي تغذيه از پيچيدن صداي «زنگ شير» در مدرسه ها مي گويد و ما همه خوبيم. ما همه خوشحاليم که سال گذشته سه هزار کتاب کودک منتشر شده است و خدا را شکر که مجهز به يک جشنواره کودک خلاق هم هستيم. ما بار رسالت مان را به تمامي بر دوش کشيده ايم. حال همه ما خوب است و جهان جايي است در حوالي فراموشي ما. اما نه خيلي دور، نه خيلي نزديک، جايي همين اطراف، اينجا، درست جلو چشم شهروندان محترم، درست وسط يکي از قلب هاي تجاري پايتخت، اينجاست که هر روز کودکاني در معبر بادهاي بي ترحم، بسمل شدن را به جان مي پذيرند. اينجا، هيچ روزي با هيچ روزي فرق ندارد. از هياهوي شادمانه روز جهاني کودک هم حتي سهم اين بچه ها همچنان له شدن زير قدم هاي سنگين زندگي بود و بس. اينجا روزها چيزي نيستند مگر همان شرمساري جبران ناپذير. روزنامه اعتماد، فهيمه خضرحيدري :
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راه دوري نيامده ايم. حتي از پايتخت با همه شب هاي روشن و بزرگراه هاي پيچ در پيچش هم خارج نشده ايم. ما فقط از واگن هاي شلوغ مترو پرتاب شده ايم به يکي از ايستگاه هاي جنوب تهران و زندگي ناگهان چهره ديگري به خود گرفته است. راستي از جشن هاي شهر بزرگ تا طعم گس زندگي بچه هاي اين محله چند ايستگاه راه است؟
آيا کسي هست که بپرسد چرا کودکان يکي از محله هاي جنوب ماه هاست يکي پس از ديگري ناپديد مي شوند و به جست و جو نمي آيند و آخرش هم يا هرگز پيدا نمي شوند يا اگر پيدا شوند ديگر کودک نيستند که يک شبه استخوان ترکانده اند زير بار تجربه هاي شوم زودهنگام؟ آيا کسي سراغي از اين کودکان گرفته؟ آيا کسي از خودش مي پرسد بچه هاي دزديده شده، ربوده شده، گم شده يا هر صفت ديگري که شما دوست داريد- هر صفتي که پنهانکارانه تر و در نتيجه محترمانه تر به نظر مي آيد- چرا وقتي که بر حسب اتفاق پيدا مي شوند، ديگر کودک نيستند، تنها تفاله هايي از يک کودک اند؟
آيا يکي، تنها يکي از نهادهاي مسوولي که نام پرطمطراق توليت امور کودکان را بر دوش مي کشند تا به حال درباره سير صعودي افزايش کودک ربايي در اين محله ها چاره يي، برنامه يي انديشيده؟ با همه اين آياها و چراها است که راهي اين محله ها شده ايم و دنبال محل جديد «خانه کودک...» مي گرديم. سر راهمان، کودکاني در کوچه پرسه مي زنند که آموخته اند عمرشان را با قرصي نان معاوضه کنند.
اينجا هر ماه دست کم دو کودک ناپديد مي شوند
«هر ماه دست کم دو مورد ناپديد شدن يا ربوده شدن کودکان به خانه کودک... گزارش مي شود و در اغلب موارد هم پيگيري هاي ما و خانواده بچه ها به نتيجه يي نمي رسد.» اين جمله خبري تکان دهنده را مجيد بي خيله عضو هيات مديره انجمن حمايت از حقوق کودکان مي گويد و در ادامه اش يادآوري مي کند؛ «تا به حال اقدام مشخصي براي پايان دادن به اين وضعيت در منطقه انجام نشده است.» انگار آنها که مسوول و صاحب بودجه امور کودکان اند، بيشتر ترجيح مي دهند مساله يي تا اين حد بحراني را به دست زمان بسپارند يا به کلي فراموشش کنند.
اين روزها ديگر فايده ندارد که حکيمانه سري تکان دهيم و تکرار کنيم؛ «تو کز محنت ديگران بي غمي.» زندگي مدرن در کلانشهرهاي بي در و پيکري مثل تهران، ديگر فرصت اين افاضات را به شهرنشينان خسته و گرفتار نمي دهد. با وجود اين اما حتي درصورت بي توجهي محض به محنت ديگران، باز هم مي توان بخش ديگري از همين شعر پندگونه را تکرار کرد که؛ «بني آدم اعضاي يکديگرند.» و منفعت طلبانه به اين فکر کرد که اگر بخشي از جامعه آسيب جدي ببيند، بخش هاي ديگر را هم درگير خواهد کرد. اما انگار حتي همين بخش هم براي ما چندان جدي نيست. نه براي ما که براي نهادهاي مسوول و درگير هم.
با اين حال ميان اين بن بست هاي کج و معوج و کوچه هاي باريک، 10سالي هست که چراغي هم روشن است و مردان و زناني که بنيانگذاران «خانه کودک ...» بوده اند با مداخله مستقيم در بحران هاي زندگي کودکان منطقه، مي کوشند جريان بادها را تغيير دهند. مجيد بي خيله يکي از اعضاي قديمي اين خانه است؛ يکي از همان داوطلب هاي پرشوري که پابه پاي کودکان محروم يکي از مناطق جنوبي، 10 سال است که مي دود. او خيلي ها را مي شناسد. قصه هاي زيادي براي گفتن دارد. از بچه هايي مي گويد که دزديده شدند و تحت پوشش خانه کودک بودند و هرگز ديگر پيدايشان نشد و بچه هايي که پيدا شدند اما ديگر همان بچه هاي قديم نبودند.
پابرهنه با سرنگ و خون
بچه ها دل شان مي خواهد از خانه بيرون بروند و بيرون يعني آغاز جهان پرخطر يعني همه سرنگ هاي خون آلودي که معتادهاي محل پس از تزريق مواد مخدر انداخته اند کف کوچه و خيابان. شما راه مي رويد و زير پايتان پر است از سرنگ هاي خطرناک آلوده. بچه هاي کوچک، اغلب پابرهنه و حتي بدون يک جفت دمپايي لابه لاي سرنگ هاي خون آلود با سوزن هاي تيز، لي لي و شمع، گل، پروانه بازي مي کنند و هيچ کس پرواي سرنگ ها را ندارد، نه پدر و مادرهاي خمار و بيکار و خسته و عصبي و نه شهرداري منطقه که به هر حال مسوول جمع آوري زباله هاي شهر است و تازه مکانيزه و هموژنيزه و... هم هست. مجيد بي خيله عضو هيات مديره انجمن حمايت از حقوق کودکان مي گويد؛ «اين سرنگ ها هم يکي از ويژگي هاي طبيعي اين منطقه شده اند، فکري برايشان نشده و متاسفانه خانواده ها هم بي توجه اند تا جايي که ما حتي مي ترسيم از اينکه يک تست هپاتيت توي اين منطقه بگيريم. ترديد نکنيد که اين بيماري در ميان بچه هاي اين محله ها خيلي شايع است.»
در فاصله خانه منور و خانه سيتا اکبري، پسر و دختربچه يي که هر دو چندي پيش ربوده شده بودند، بعدها شهرداري لابد با اين اميد و هدف که کانون فتنه و فساد را برچيند،اين قسمت محله را خراب و بخش وسيعي از آن را به پارک و فضاي سبز تبديل کرده است. اما ساکنان خلافکار هنوز سر جاي خودشان هستند. آنها هنوز در منطقه پراکنده اند و کار خودشان را مي کنند. همان طور که اهالي خاک سفيد هم هنوز کار خودشان را مي کنند و تازه بخشي از آنها به اين منطقه مهاجرت کرده اند تا آشکارا نشانه يي باشند از اينکه آسيب هاي اجتماعي را با «بولدوزر» نمي توان حل و فصل کرد.
توي پارکي که امروز جاي اين قسمت محله را گرفته، معتادهاي محل بدون هيچ پنهان کاري تزريق مي کنند. موادفروش ها سرشان به کار خودشان گرم است .جاي خوبي است براي رديف جوان هاي بيکار و بي انگيزه. براي زن هاي وانهاده و مردان رهاشده. براي فراموش کردن خوشبختي و خورشيد.
آسيب ديده، آسيب مي زند
«بخش هايي از شهر هستند مثل اينجا يا مثل بعضي حاشيه هاي رهاشده که دولت هم کاري به آنها ندارد. اين مناطق را جمعيتي پر کرده که يکسره آسيب ديده و آزرده اند و شما خوب مي دانيد که کسي که آسيب ديده، مي خواهد آسيب برساند. اين مردم چيز ديگري نديده اند و راه ديگري براي زندگي نمي شناسند.»
مجيد بي خيله با اين توضيحات، از اين مناطق جنوب مي گويد؛ از کودکاني که در طول 10 سال گذشته دردهايشان را از نزديک، خيلي نزديک، لمس کرده. بي خيله و همکارانش سال 1379 کارشان را توي همين پارکي آغاز کردند که امروز محل مبادله مواد مخدر است. آن موقع گروهي از فعالان حقوق کودک جمعي 20نفره از کودکان کار سطح شهر را که بيشترشان در اين منطقه ساکن هستند، به پارک دعوت کردند و يک روز جمعه بود که سوادآموزي به اين کودکان شروع شد. بي خيله به ياد مي آورد؛ «کم کم تعداد بچه ها بيشتر شد و ما هم در جريان کار احساس کرديم سوادآموزي و ورزش تنها نياز اين بچه ها نيست بلکه نيازهاي روحي و رواني و مشاوره و تغذيه و خيلي مسائل ديگر هم هست. اين شد که به فکر اجاره مکاني در همين منطقه افتاديم و با همکاري شهرداري محل سابق خانه کودک را برپا کرديم. امسال 10 سالگي خانه کودک ... است و ما جاي قبلي مان را به دلايلي از دست داده ايم اما باز هم با همکاري شهرداري جاي تازه يي گرفته ايم و به زودي مي خواهيم 10 سال حضور مستمر در کنار بچه ها را جشن بگيريم.»
بي خيله «ترک تحصيل» را يکي از پديده هاي اجتماعي رايج در اين منطقه مي داند و مي گويد؛ «تمام مدرسه ها يک شيفته هستند و کلاس ها خيلي خلوت است در حالي که اينجا تعداد بچه ها در سنين مدرسه به مراتب بيش از ديگر مناطق شهر است.»
او از فسادي که در رگ هاي اين محله خانه کرده، مي گويد و دلش مي سوزد براي کودکاني که روزگاري کودکان خانه کودک ...بودند اما حالا چهره هاي معروف پارک اند.
کولي ها، افغان ها،خيلي فراموش شده و خيلي خشن باندهاي فساد و مواد مخدر محل را اداره مي کنند و کودکان همچنان که بزرگ و بزرگ تر مي شوند، بيشتر و بيشتر در منجلاب آنها شريک مي شوند. در کوچه ها که راه مي روي، به جز سرنگ هاي آلوده، صحنه هاي دردناک ديگري هم هست از جمله جسد بي جان و خون آلود حيوانات شهري؛ سگ يا گربه. نزديک ساختمان شوراياري محله، گربه يي در خون خودش غرق شده، پيداست که رگ گردنش را با چاقو بريده اند.
چرخه مخوف اقتصاد جنايي
خانه کودک ...در تمام طول اين سال ها رد پاي کودکان ناپديد شده را دنبال کرده اما آنچه در اين زمينه خاص به عنوان موفقيت به دست آورده، بسيار کم بوده است. مبارزه با کودک ربايي در حجمي تا اين وسيع کاري نيست که داوطلبان و فعالان مدني اين مرکز به تنهايي از عهده آن بربيايند. شايد لازم است نه تنها مسوولان بلکه مردم هم توجه بيشتري به وضعيت دردناک اين کودکان بکنند. «بي خيله» تاکيد مي کند که رها شدن و پس زدگي اين کودکان از سوي جامعه آ نها را در شرايط خطرناک تري قرار مي دهد. او مي گويد؛ «جامعه بايد به وضعيت اين کودکان واکنش نشان بدهد. اين مساله همه ماست. اين طور نيست که با خودمان بگوييم خب اينها تعدادي خانواده بي فرهنگ هستند که پشت سر هم بچه آورده اند و ريخته اند توي خيابان و تربيت شان هم نکرده اند. پس اين مشکل ما نيست. به نظر من اين طور نيست. اين طور فکر و نگاه بايد تغيير کند. بچه يي که پشت چراغ قرمز ايستاده و دارد فال مي فروشد، الزاماً گدا و انگل به دنيا نيامده. اينها بيش از هر چيز معلول فقر هستند، چه خودشان و چه خانواده هايشان.»
به گفته عضو هيات مديره انجمن دفاع از حقوق کودکان، محله ...محله به شدت آسيب خيزي است و شرايط به شدت بحراني دارد. از معضل اعتياد که در برخي کوچه پس کوچه ها و خانه هاي اين محله ريشه دوانده تا فقر شديد و فساد، همه نوع آسيب اجتماعي را در اين منطقه مي توان سراغ گرفت و در نتيجه بروز پديده يي مثل کودک ربايي هم در اين شرايط چندان نامحتمل نخواهد بود. بي خيله بازمي گردد به تجربه 10 ساله اش در اين منطقه؛ «مواردي که طي 10 سال گذشته به ما گزارش شده، خيلي خيلي زياد بوده و اين اواخر سير صعودي نگران کننده تري هم داشته است. همين حالا هم که شما چرخي توي برخي کوچه پس کوچه هاي اين محله بزنيد، با تعداد قابل توجهي آگهي هاي دست نويس مردم محلي روبه رو مي شويد که روي ديوارها چسبانده شده اند و خبر از گم شدن يا دزديده شدن بچه ها مي دهند و کاري که ما مي توانستيم با امکانات و اختيارات محدود خودمان در همه اين سال ها انجام بدهيم مثلاً اين بوده که رد بچه ها را پيگيري کنيم. به مراکز بهزيستي و کلانتري هاي نزديک مراجعه کنيم و فقدان بچه ها را گزارش کنيم. اما واقعيت اين است که متاسفانه نهاد مسوول، پيگير و رسيدگي کننده يي درباره اين فاجعه در منطقه وجود ندارد و خيلي راحت اين مساله ناديده گرفته مي شود. براي همين هم خيلي از پدرها و مادرها که از کار ما آگاهي دارند و چيزهايي درباره اين خانه کودک شنيده اند، حتي اگر بچه هايشان تحت پوشش خانه کودک نباشند، وقتي بچه شان دزديده شده به اينجا مراجعه کرده اند و ما هم دنبال کارشان را گرفتيم و موارد بسيار زيادي هم بوده که سرانجام بچه هم پيدا نشده و اصلاً معلوم نشده چه بلايي بر سرش آمده است.»
فرهاد مرادي فعال حقوق کودک و يکي ديگر از فعالان داوطلب خانه کودک ...اما تحليلي اقتصادي تر از معضل کودک ربايي در منطقه دارد. به عقيده او آن بخش از چرخه اقتصادي اين منطقه که به اقتصاد جنايي معروف است، وسيع تر از آن است که به اين سادگي ها و بدون اقدام جدي نهادهاي دولتي مسوول بتوان مانعش شد. مرادي مي گويد؛ « بخش عمده و اغلب پنهان اقتصاد اين منطقه را اقتصاد جنايي در دست دارد مثل باندهاي توزيع مواد مخدر يا باندهاي فساد و حتي باندهاي فروش اندام. اين باندها اغلب براي جابه جايي مواد مخدر از بچه ها استفاده مي کنند. منطقه، يک پخش کننده عمده دارد و تعدادي زيرمجموعه که آخرين زيرمجموعه آن کودکاني هستند که دزديده مي شوند، تعداد زيادي از بچه هايي که دزديده مي شوند براي کار توزيع موادمخدر در منطقه و حتي در سطح شهر به کار گرفته مي شوند. اما متاسفانه حتي نهادهاي متولي در اين منطقه نسبت به موضوعي با اين سطح از اهميت حساسيت زيادي نشان نمي دهند و به همين خاطر هنوز زواياي زيادي از اين ماجراها پنهان مانده است. نهادهاي غيردولتي هم که در اينجا دارند فعاليت مي کنند، به خاطر فقر بودجه و البته محدوديت هاي موجود نمي توانند در اين زمينه کار پژوهشي و شناسايي اساسي انجام دهند. بنابراين نمي توان در حال حاضر بر اساس يافته هاي مستند پژوهشي حرف زد اما آنچه از 10 سال کار مستمر ما برمي آيد و در چارچوب مشاهدات و تجربيات عيني و تلخ ما مي گنجد، نشان دهنده آن است که وضعيت بچه ها در اين منطقه به شدت خطرناک و توام با انواع بهره کشي ها و آسيب هاست که دزديده شدن تنها يکي از آنها است.»
او مي گويد؛ «تا به حال و تا آنجايي که ما در طول اين سال ها پيگير بچه هاي اين محله بوده ايم، نديده ايم که مراجع قانوني چاره انديشي براي اين مشکلات داشته باشند يا کودک ربايي در اين منطقه را پيگيري کنند يا به هر حال به شکلي به مشکلات کودکان اين محله ها ورود کنند. ما هم اينجا علاوه بر مشاهده مستقيم اين حجم گسترده از بحران، در تلاش هستيم با همکاري داوطلبان مان مشکلات بي شمار 300 خانواده يي را که تحت پوشش داريم، به نوعي حل و فصل کنيم.»
عدالتي که شعارش را مي دهيد براي کيست
حرفي نيست. شعار محوري و مرکزي شما عدالت باشد. عدالت اجتماعي مهم تر از هر چيز ديگري است. شما حق داريد اما آيا انصاف اين نيست که دست کم به شعارهاي خودمان پايبند باشيم؟ آيا براي تحقق عدالت، هيات محترم دولت حتماً بايد با هواپيما به جنوب و شمال و شرق و غرب کشور سفر کنند؟ آيا همين جا کنار گوش خودمان را به همين سادگي فراموش کرده ايم چون سر و صداي رفتن به مناطق دوردست بيشتر است؟ اين سوال ها شايد سوال تک تک کودکاني باشد که دزديده مي شوند و معتاد به خانه بازمي گردند تا در همکاري شان براي توزيع مواد مخدر جاي ترديدي باقي نماند. اين سوال ها شايد همان سوال هايي باشد که کف اين کوچه ها،کنار سرنگ هاي آلوده به خون ريخته اند و بي جواب مانده اند.
در پاسخ به اين پرسش که سازمان بهزيستي يا شهرداري- که به هر حال به عنوان متوليان آسيب هاي اجتماعي و کودکان کار شناخته مي شوند- چه فکري براي بحران زندگي اين کودکان کرده اند. بي خيله آب پاکي را روي دستمان مي ريزد؛ «سقف نيازهاي اين بچه ها در سطح بهزيستي نيست. بهزيستي يک سازمان مياني است. اين سطح از بحران ها و مشکلات را بايد وزارتخانه هاي مربوط و مسوول دنبال کنند. اگر مهم ترين عامل اين حجم از فساد و اعتياد و کودک آزاري و کودک ربايي در اين منطقه، فقر است و بيکاري و فقدان آموزش، خب ما در کشورمان براي هر کدام از اين معضلات اجتماعي وزارتخانه هاي عريض و طويل داريم که بودجه اين امور را در اختيار دارند و بايد کار را در مسير درست خودش بيندازند. تا وقتي شما نتوانيد به يک پدر کودک آزار شغل بدهيد، چطور مي خواهيد کودک را نجات دهيد؟ اينکه بهزيستي به عنوان تنها متولي اين امور بيايد و بچه ها را به قول خودشان «جمع» کند و ببرد و يک هفته بعد هم دوباره رهايشان کند، مشکلي از اين بچه ها حل نمي کند. ضمن اينکه در همين مراکز نگهداري بهزيستي هم مواردي از کودک آزاري گزارش شده و اساساً يکي از بحث هاي ما با بهزيستي همين است که بالاخره چه زماني قرار است در هاي اين مراکز باز شود تا مورد بازرسي و ديده باني نهادي مدني قرار بگيرند؟»
بچه ها هم اغلب در خانه فضاهاي بسيار خشني را تجربه مي کنند تا جايي که کودک آزاري هاي خيلي شديد عادي ترين اتفاقي است که در خانه هاي اين منطقه مي افتد. براي همين هم اغلب بچه ها فراري مي شوند اما در خيابان هم چيز تازه يي در انتظارشان نيست بلکه با خشونت وسيع تر و بي رحم تري روبه رو مي شوند. بنابراين روشن است که اگر نهادهاي مسوول وظايف خود را به درستي انجام دهند و بودجه ها در جاي خود و بر مبناي کار کارشناسي صرف شوند، اصلاً اين همه مشکلات به وجود نمي آيد که چندين و چند سازمان و نهاد بخواهند درگير برطرف کردن شان باشند و کاري هم از پيش نبرند.»
افزايش کودک ربايي در جنوب تهران
پابرهنه با سرنگ و خون
گوشه يي از شهر با شادماني هاي جشنواره تئاتر کودک رنگارنگ شده، يک گوشه ديگر هفته کودکان است و کانون. روزنامه ها خبر از بچه هاي شهر مي دهند که با دست هاي بي گناه شان زنجيره صلح ساخته اند. جشنواره بادبادک ها تهران را موقتاً زيبا کرده. سال تحصيلي تازه آغاز شده و دبير کميته ملي تغذيه از پيچيدن صداي «زنگ شير» در مدرسه ها مي گويد و ما همه خوبيم. ما همه خوشحاليم که سال گذشته سه هزار کتاب کودک منتشر شده است و خدا را شکر که مجهز به يک جشنواره کودک خلاق هم هستيم. ما بار رسالت مان را به تمامي بر دوش کشيده ايم. حال همه ما خوب است و جهان جايي است در حوالي فراموشي ما. اما نه خيلي دور، نه خيلي نزديک، جايي همين اطراف، اينجا، درست جلو چشم شهروندان محترم، درست وسط يکي از قلب هاي تجاري پايتخت، اينجاست که هر روز کودکاني در معبر بادهاي بي ترحم، بسمل شدن را به جان مي پذيرند. اينجا، هيچ روزي با هيچ روزي فرق ندارد. از هياهوي شادمانه روز جهاني کودک هم حتي سهم اين بچه ها همچنان له شدن زير قدم هاي سنگين زندگي بود و بس. اينجا روزها چيزي نيستند مگر همان شرمساري جبران ناپذير. روزنامه اعتماد، فهيمه خضرحيدري :
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راه دوري نيامده ايم. حتي از پايتخت با همه شب هاي روشن و بزرگراه هاي پيچ در پيچش هم خارج نشده ايم. ما فقط از واگن هاي شلوغ مترو پرتاب شده ايم به يکي از ايستگاه هاي جنوب تهران و زندگي ناگهان چهره ديگري به خود گرفته است. راستي از جشن هاي شهر بزرگ تا طعم گس زندگي بچه هاي اين محله چند ايستگاه راه است؟
آيا کسي هست که بپرسد چرا کودکان يکي از محله هاي جنوب ماه هاست يکي پس از ديگري ناپديد مي شوند و به جست و جو نمي آيند و آخرش هم يا هرگز پيدا نمي شوند يا اگر پيدا شوند ديگر کودک نيستند که يک شبه استخوان ترکانده اند زير بار تجربه هاي شوم زودهنگام؟ آيا کسي سراغي از اين کودکان گرفته؟ آيا کسي از خودش مي پرسد بچه هاي دزديده شده، ربوده شده، گم شده يا هر صفت ديگري که شما دوست داريد- هر صفتي که پنهانکارانه تر و در نتيجه محترمانه تر به نظر مي آيد- چرا وقتي که بر حسب اتفاق پيدا مي شوند، ديگر کودک نيستند، تنها تفاله هايي از يک کودک اند؟
آيا يکي، تنها يکي از نهادهاي مسوولي که نام پرطمطراق توليت امور کودکان را بر دوش مي کشند تا به حال درباره سير صعودي افزايش کودک ربايي در اين محله ها چاره يي، برنامه يي انديشيده؟ با همه اين آياها و چراها است که راهي اين محله ها شده ايم و دنبال محل جديد «خانه کودک...» مي گرديم. سر راهمان، کودکاني در کوچه پرسه مي زنند که آموخته اند عمرشان را با قرصي نان معاوضه کنند.
اينجا هر ماه دست کم دو کودک ناپديد مي شوند
«هر ماه دست کم دو مورد ناپديد شدن يا ربوده شدن کودکان به خانه کودک... گزارش مي شود و در اغلب موارد هم پيگيري هاي ما و خانواده بچه ها به نتيجه يي نمي رسد.» اين جمله خبري تکان دهنده را مجيد بي خيله عضو هيات مديره انجمن حمايت از حقوق کودکان مي گويد و در ادامه اش يادآوري مي کند؛ «تا به حال اقدام مشخصي براي پايان دادن به اين وضعيت در منطقه انجام نشده است.» انگار آنها که مسوول و صاحب بودجه امور کودکان اند، بيشتر ترجيح مي دهند مساله يي تا اين حد بحراني را به دست زمان بسپارند يا به کلي فراموشش کنند.
اين روزها ديگر فايده ندارد که حکيمانه سري تکان دهيم و تکرار کنيم؛ «تو کز محنت ديگران بي غمي.» زندگي مدرن در کلانشهرهاي بي در و پيکري مثل تهران، ديگر فرصت اين افاضات را به شهرنشينان خسته و گرفتار نمي دهد. با وجود اين اما حتي درصورت بي توجهي محض به محنت ديگران، باز هم مي توان بخش ديگري از همين شعر پندگونه را تکرار کرد که؛ «بني آدم اعضاي يکديگرند.» و منفعت طلبانه به اين فکر کرد که اگر بخشي از جامعه آسيب جدي ببيند، بخش هاي ديگر را هم درگير خواهد کرد. اما انگار حتي همين بخش هم براي ما چندان جدي نيست. نه براي ما که براي نهادهاي مسوول و درگير هم.
با اين حال ميان اين بن بست هاي کج و معوج و کوچه هاي باريک، 10سالي هست که چراغي هم روشن است و مردان و زناني که بنيانگذاران «خانه کودک ...» بوده اند با مداخله مستقيم در بحران هاي زندگي کودکان منطقه، مي کوشند جريان بادها را تغيير دهند. مجيد بي خيله يکي از اعضاي قديمي اين خانه است؛ يکي از همان داوطلب هاي پرشوري که پابه پاي کودکان محروم يکي از مناطق جنوبي، 10 سال است که مي دود. او خيلي ها را مي شناسد. قصه هاي زيادي براي گفتن دارد. از بچه هايي مي گويد که دزديده شدند و تحت پوشش خانه کودک بودند و هرگز ديگر پيدايشان نشد و بچه هايي که پيدا شدند اما ديگر همان بچه هاي قديم نبودند.
پابرهنه با سرنگ و خون
بچه ها دل شان مي خواهد از خانه بيرون بروند و بيرون يعني آغاز جهان پرخطر يعني همه سرنگ هاي خون آلودي که معتادهاي محل پس از تزريق مواد مخدر انداخته اند کف کوچه و خيابان. شما راه مي رويد و زير پايتان پر است از سرنگ هاي خطرناک آلوده. بچه هاي کوچک، اغلب پابرهنه و حتي بدون يک جفت دمپايي لابه لاي سرنگ هاي خون آلود با سوزن هاي تيز، لي لي و شمع، گل، پروانه بازي مي کنند و هيچ کس پرواي سرنگ ها را ندارد، نه پدر و مادرهاي خمار و بيکار و خسته و عصبي و نه شهرداري منطقه که به هر حال مسوول جمع آوري زباله هاي شهر است و تازه مکانيزه و هموژنيزه و... هم هست. مجيد بي خيله عضو هيات مديره انجمن حمايت از حقوق کودکان مي گويد؛ «اين سرنگ ها هم يکي از ويژگي هاي طبيعي اين منطقه شده اند، فکري برايشان نشده و متاسفانه خانواده ها هم بي توجه اند تا جايي که ما حتي مي ترسيم از اينکه يک تست هپاتيت توي اين منطقه بگيريم. ترديد نکنيد که اين بيماري در ميان بچه هاي اين محله ها خيلي شايع است.»
در فاصله خانه منور و خانه سيتا اکبري، پسر و دختربچه يي که هر دو چندي پيش ربوده شده بودند، بعدها شهرداري لابد با اين اميد و هدف که کانون فتنه و فساد را برچيند،اين قسمت محله را خراب و بخش وسيعي از آن را به پارک و فضاي سبز تبديل کرده است. اما ساکنان خلافکار هنوز سر جاي خودشان هستند. آنها هنوز در منطقه پراکنده اند و کار خودشان را مي کنند. همان طور که اهالي خاک سفيد هم هنوز کار خودشان را مي کنند و تازه بخشي از آنها به اين منطقه مهاجرت کرده اند تا آشکارا نشانه يي باشند از اينکه آسيب هاي اجتماعي را با «بولدوزر» نمي توان حل و فصل کرد.
توي پارکي که امروز جاي اين قسمت محله را گرفته، معتادهاي محل بدون هيچ پنهان کاري تزريق مي کنند. موادفروش ها سرشان به کار خودشان گرم است .جاي خوبي است براي رديف جوان هاي بيکار و بي انگيزه. براي زن هاي وانهاده و مردان رهاشده. براي فراموش کردن خوشبختي و خورشيد.
آسيب ديده، آسيب مي زند
«بخش هايي از شهر هستند مثل اينجا يا مثل بعضي حاشيه هاي رهاشده که دولت هم کاري به آنها ندارد. اين مناطق را جمعيتي پر کرده که يکسره آسيب ديده و آزرده اند و شما خوب مي دانيد که کسي که آسيب ديده، مي خواهد آسيب برساند. اين مردم چيز ديگري نديده اند و راه ديگري براي زندگي نمي شناسند.»
مجيد بي خيله با اين توضيحات، از اين مناطق جنوب مي گويد؛ از کودکاني که در طول 10 سال گذشته دردهايشان را از نزديک، خيلي نزديک، لمس کرده. بي خيله و همکارانش سال 1379 کارشان را توي همين پارکي آغاز کردند که امروز محل مبادله مواد مخدر است. آن موقع گروهي از فعالان حقوق کودک جمعي 20نفره از کودکان کار سطح شهر را که بيشترشان در اين منطقه ساکن هستند، به پارک دعوت کردند و يک روز جمعه بود که سوادآموزي به اين کودکان شروع شد. بي خيله به ياد مي آورد؛ «کم کم تعداد بچه ها بيشتر شد و ما هم در جريان کار احساس کرديم سوادآموزي و ورزش تنها نياز اين بچه ها نيست بلکه نيازهاي روحي و رواني و مشاوره و تغذيه و خيلي مسائل ديگر هم هست. اين شد که به فکر اجاره مکاني در همين منطقه افتاديم و با همکاري شهرداري محل سابق خانه کودک را برپا کرديم. امسال 10 سالگي خانه کودک ... است و ما جاي قبلي مان را به دلايلي از دست داده ايم اما باز هم با همکاري شهرداري جاي تازه يي گرفته ايم و به زودي مي خواهيم 10 سال حضور مستمر در کنار بچه ها را جشن بگيريم.»
بي خيله «ترک تحصيل» را يکي از پديده هاي اجتماعي رايج در اين منطقه مي داند و مي گويد؛ «تمام مدرسه ها يک شيفته هستند و کلاس ها خيلي خلوت است در حالي که اينجا تعداد بچه ها در سنين مدرسه به مراتب بيش از ديگر مناطق شهر است.»
او از فسادي که در رگ هاي اين محله خانه کرده، مي گويد و دلش مي سوزد براي کودکاني که روزگاري کودکان خانه کودک ...بودند اما حالا چهره هاي معروف پارک اند.
کولي ها، افغان ها،خيلي فراموش شده و خيلي خشن باندهاي فساد و مواد مخدر محل را اداره مي کنند و کودکان همچنان که بزرگ و بزرگ تر مي شوند، بيشتر و بيشتر در منجلاب آنها شريک مي شوند. در کوچه ها که راه مي روي، به جز سرنگ هاي آلوده، صحنه هاي دردناک ديگري هم هست از جمله جسد بي جان و خون آلود حيوانات شهري؛ سگ يا گربه. نزديک ساختمان شوراياري محله، گربه يي در خون خودش غرق شده، پيداست که رگ گردنش را با چاقو بريده اند.
چرخه مخوف اقتصاد جنايي
خانه کودک ...در تمام طول اين سال ها رد پاي کودکان ناپديد شده را دنبال کرده اما آنچه در اين زمينه خاص به عنوان موفقيت به دست آورده، بسيار کم بوده است. مبارزه با کودک ربايي در حجمي تا اين وسيع کاري نيست که داوطلبان و فعالان مدني اين مرکز به تنهايي از عهده آن بربيايند. شايد لازم است نه تنها مسوولان بلکه مردم هم توجه بيشتري به وضعيت دردناک اين کودکان بکنند. «بي خيله» تاکيد مي کند که رها شدن و پس زدگي اين کودکان از سوي جامعه آ نها را در شرايط خطرناک تري قرار مي دهد. او مي گويد؛ «جامعه بايد به وضعيت اين کودکان واکنش نشان بدهد. اين مساله همه ماست. اين طور نيست که با خودمان بگوييم خب اينها تعدادي خانواده بي فرهنگ هستند که پشت سر هم بچه آورده اند و ريخته اند توي خيابان و تربيت شان هم نکرده اند. پس اين مشکل ما نيست. به نظر من اين طور نيست. اين طور فکر و نگاه بايد تغيير کند. بچه يي که پشت چراغ قرمز ايستاده و دارد فال مي فروشد، الزاماً گدا و انگل به دنيا نيامده. اينها بيش از هر چيز معلول فقر هستند، چه خودشان و چه خانواده هايشان.»
به گفته عضو هيات مديره انجمن دفاع از حقوق کودکان، محله ...محله به شدت آسيب خيزي است و شرايط به شدت بحراني دارد. از معضل اعتياد که در برخي کوچه پس کوچه ها و خانه هاي اين محله ريشه دوانده تا فقر شديد و فساد، همه نوع آسيب اجتماعي را در اين منطقه مي توان سراغ گرفت و در نتيجه بروز پديده يي مثل کودک ربايي هم در اين شرايط چندان نامحتمل نخواهد بود. بي خيله بازمي گردد به تجربه 10 ساله اش در اين منطقه؛ «مواردي که طي 10 سال گذشته به ما گزارش شده، خيلي خيلي زياد بوده و اين اواخر سير صعودي نگران کننده تري هم داشته است. همين حالا هم که شما چرخي توي برخي کوچه پس کوچه هاي اين محله بزنيد، با تعداد قابل توجهي آگهي هاي دست نويس مردم محلي روبه رو مي شويد که روي ديوارها چسبانده شده اند و خبر از گم شدن يا دزديده شدن بچه ها مي دهند و کاري که ما مي توانستيم با امکانات و اختيارات محدود خودمان در همه اين سال ها انجام بدهيم مثلاً اين بوده که رد بچه ها را پيگيري کنيم. به مراکز بهزيستي و کلانتري هاي نزديک مراجعه کنيم و فقدان بچه ها را گزارش کنيم. اما واقعيت اين است که متاسفانه نهاد مسوول، پيگير و رسيدگي کننده يي درباره اين فاجعه در منطقه وجود ندارد و خيلي راحت اين مساله ناديده گرفته مي شود. براي همين هم خيلي از پدرها و مادرها که از کار ما آگاهي دارند و چيزهايي درباره اين خانه کودک شنيده اند، حتي اگر بچه هايشان تحت پوشش خانه کودک نباشند، وقتي بچه شان دزديده شده به اينجا مراجعه کرده اند و ما هم دنبال کارشان را گرفتيم و موارد بسيار زيادي هم بوده که سرانجام بچه هم پيدا نشده و اصلاً معلوم نشده چه بلايي بر سرش آمده است.»
فرهاد مرادي فعال حقوق کودک و يکي ديگر از فعالان داوطلب خانه کودک ...اما تحليلي اقتصادي تر از معضل کودک ربايي در منطقه دارد. به عقيده او آن بخش از چرخه اقتصادي اين منطقه که به اقتصاد جنايي معروف است، وسيع تر از آن است که به اين سادگي ها و بدون اقدام جدي نهادهاي دولتي مسوول بتوان مانعش شد. مرادي مي گويد؛ « بخش عمده و اغلب پنهان اقتصاد اين منطقه را اقتصاد جنايي در دست دارد مثل باندهاي توزيع مواد مخدر يا باندهاي فساد و حتي باندهاي فروش اندام. اين باندها اغلب براي جابه جايي مواد مخدر از بچه ها استفاده مي کنند. منطقه، يک پخش کننده عمده دارد و تعدادي زيرمجموعه که آخرين زيرمجموعه آن کودکاني هستند که دزديده مي شوند، تعداد زيادي از بچه هايي که دزديده مي شوند براي کار توزيع موادمخدر در منطقه و حتي در سطح شهر به کار گرفته مي شوند. اما متاسفانه حتي نهادهاي متولي در اين منطقه نسبت به موضوعي با اين سطح از اهميت حساسيت زيادي نشان نمي دهند و به همين خاطر هنوز زواياي زيادي از اين ماجراها پنهان مانده است. نهادهاي غيردولتي هم که در اينجا دارند فعاليت مي کنند، به خاطر فقر بودجه و البته محدوديت هاي موجود نمي توانند در اين زمينه کار پژوهشي و شناسايي اساسي انجام دهند. بنابراين نمي توان در حال حاضر بر اساس يافته هاي مستند پژوهشي حرف زد اما آنچه از 10 سال کار مستمر ما برمي آيد و در چارچوب مشاهدات و تجربيات عيني و تلخ ما مي گنجد، نشان دهنده آن است که وضعيت بچه ها در اين منطقه به شدت خطرناک و توام با انواع بهره کشي ها و آسيب هاست که دزديده شدن تنها يکي از آنها است.»
او مي گويد؛ «تا به حال و تا آنجايي که ما در طول اين سال ها پيگير بچه هاي اين محله بوده ايم، نديده ايم که مراجع قانوني چاره انديشي براي اين مشکلات داشته باشند يا کودک ربايي در اين منطقه را پيگيري کنند يا به هر حال به شکلي به مشکلات کودکان اين محله ها ورود کنند. ما هم اينجا علاوه بر مشاهده مستقيم اين حجم گسترده از بحران، در تلاش هستيم با همکاري داوطلبان مان مشکلات بي شمار 300 خانواده يي را که تحت پوشش داريم، به نوعي حل و فصل کنيم.»
عدالتي که شعارش را مي دهيد براي کيست
حرفي نيست. شعار محوري و مرکزي شما عدالت باشد. عدالت اجتماعي مهم تر از هر چيز ديگري است. شما حق داريد اما آيا انصاف اين نيست که دست کم به شعارهاي خودمان پايبند باشيم؟ آيا براي تحقق عدالت، هيات محترم دولت حتماً بايد با هواپيما به جنوب و شمال و شرق و غرب کشور سفر کنند؟ آيا همين جا کنار گوش خودمان را به همين سادگي فراموش کرده ايم چون سر و صداي رفتن به مناطق دوردست بيشتر است؟ اين سوال ها شايد سوال تک تک کودکاني باشد که دزديده مي شوند و معتاد به خانه بازمي گردند تا در همکاري شان براي توزيع مواد مخدر جاي ترديدي باقي نماند. اين سوال ها شايد همان سوال هايي باشد که کف اين کوچه ها،کنار سرنگ هاي آلوده به خون ريخته اند و بي جواب مانده اند.
در پاسخ به اين پرسش که سازمان بهزيستي يا شهرداري- که به هر حال به عنوان متوليان آسيب هاي اجتماعي و کودکان کار شناخته مي شوند- چه فکري براي بحران زندگي اين کودکان کرده اند. بي خيله آب پاکي را روي دستمان مي ريزد؛ «سقف نيازهاي اين بچه ها در سطح بهزيستي نيست. بهزيستي يک سازمان مياني است. اين سطح از بحران ها و مشکلات را بايد وزارتخانه هاي مربوط و مسوول دنبال کنند. اگر مهم ترين عامل اين حجم از فساد و اعتياد و کودک آزاري و کودک ربايي در اين منطقه، فقر است و بيکاري و فقدان آموزش، خب ما در کشورمان براي هر کدام از اين معضلات اجتماعي وزارتخانه هاي عريض و طويل داريم که بودجه اين امور را در اختيار دارند و بايد کار را در مسير درست خودش بيندازند. تا وقتي شما نتوانيد به يک پدر کودک آزار شغل بدهيد، چطور مي خواهيد کودک را نجات دهيد؟ اينکه بهزيستي به عنوان تنها متولي اين امور بيايد و بچه ها را به قول خودشان «جمع» کند و ببرد و يک هفته بعد هم دوباره رهايشان کند، مشکلي از اين بچه ها حل نمي کند. ضمن اينکه در همين مراکز نگهداري بهزيستي هم مواردي از کودک آزاري گزارش شده و اساساً يکي از بحث هاي ما با بهزيستي همين است که بالاخره چه زماني قرار است در هاي اين مراکز باز شود تا مورد بازرسي و ديده باني نهادي مدني قرار بگيرند؟»
بچه ها هم اغلب در خانه فضاهاي بسيار خشني را تجربه مي کنند تا جايي که کودک آزاري هاي خيلي شديد عادي ترين اتفاقي است که در خانه هاي اين منطقه مي افتد. براي همين هم اغلب بچه ها فراري مي شوند اما در خيابان هم چيز تازه يي در انتظارشان نيست بلکه با خشونت وسيع تر و بي رحم تري روبه رو مي شوند. بنابراين روشن است که اگر نهادهاي مسوول وظايف خود را به درستي انجام دهند و بودجه ها در جاي خود و بر مبناي کار کارشناسي صرف شوند، اصلاً اين همه مشکلات به وجود نمي آيد که چندين و چند سازمان و نهاد بخواهند درگير برطرف کردن شان باشند و کاري هم از پيش نبرند.»
خمینی و مطهری عربها ایرانیان را ادم کردند
شاید ال احمد اغازگر این توهم تاریخی بودولی خمینی و مطهری وقیحانه انرا ادامه دادند
لینک زیر به زبان خودشان است.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FIYwOpoEq_c
لینک زیر به زبان خودشان است.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FIYwOpoEq_c
gozaresh 13 ABAN
تهران - خیابان ولیعصر- ساعت 10 صبح
همه مغازه ها تعطیل است. نیروی های انتظامی در گوشه و کنار خیابان به تعداد بسیار زیاد ایستاده اند. مردم در جهات مختلف درحال رفت و آمد هستند. به سمت خیابان طالقانی می رویم. تمام خیابان مملو از اتوبوس است. تعداد کمی از دانش آموزان دبستانی را برای مراسم آورده اند و عده ای هم بصورت پراکنده درحال راه رفتن هستند. هرچه جلو ترمی رویم، بر تعداد نیروها و تنوعشان افزوده می شود. زنی چادری چندبار "مرگ بر آمریکا" می گوید؛ و بچه های دبستانی تک و توک تکرار می کنند. به چهارراه سپهبد قرنی می رسیم. جایی که نزدیک سفارت آمریکاست. اما در آنجا نیروهای بسیج که امروز قیافه های عجیب و غریبی هم درمیان آنها دیده می شد، مانع از عبور مردم شدند و گفتند: «مردها می توانند رد شوند و زنها به سمت بالا بروند.» به سمت بالا یعنی پل کریمخان می رویم. جمعیت زیادند.
می گویند کروبی در میدان هفت تیر- ساعت 10:30 سخنرانی داشته است. جمعیت در زیر پل موج می زند. روی پل پر از مأمور است. مردم یکجا نمی ایستند و راه می روند. به همدیگر توصیه می کنند که "نایستید!". جلوی ادارت دولتی که تنها جایی است که باز است مأمور ایستاده، تا کسی در هنگام فرار به آنجا نرود. جعفر پناهی را در میان مردم می بینیم. پیرمردی به تنهایی "مرگ بر دیکتاتور" می گوید و ادامه می دهد: «آخه تا کی جور باشه؟ چقدر بکشیم؟» ناگهان یک زن با مأموران درگیر می شود که چرا اجازه نمی دهند مسیر خودش را برود و او را به سمت دیگری هدایت می کنند. با فریادهای زن جمعیت ملتهب می شود.
عده ای در میرزای شیرازی جمع شده اند و دست می زنند و شعار می دهند. به سمت جمعیت می رویم. بازهم فریاد دخترها بلندتر است. همه ماسک زده اند. صورتها پوشیده است. فریاد "مرگ بر دیکتاتور" بلند و بلندتر می شود و همین طور شعارهای "نتریسین! نترسین! ما همه با هم هستیم"، "ایرانی با غیرت، حمایت! حمایت!". بر تعداد جمعیت متشکل افزوده می شود. همه هستند، از هر سنی. زن و مرد. مثل همیشه خیلی ها خانوادگی آمده اند. شعارها بلند سر داده می شوند: "نه شرقی، نه غربی، دولت سبز ملی" (اگرچه من با هر سه کلمه این شعار یعنی دولت (دولت طبقه حاکم)، سبز (نماد مذهبی)، ملی (مبین ناسونالیسم) مخالفم.)، "سفارت روسیه، لانه جاسوسیه". در همین وقت گاردی ها حمله می کنند. اما جوانهای معترض مانع می شوند و نمی گذارند بیایند. این مسأله سه بار تکرار می شود. زنهای مسن که در میان جمعیتند، جوانها را تحسین می کنند. برایشان آرزوی موفقیت می کنند. جوانها با سنگ به سمت گاردی ها حمله می کنند. اینبار با نیروی بیشتری حمله می کنند. فریاد "مرگ بر خامنه ای!" در همه جا طنین می افکند. همه یکصدا فریاد می زنند: "خامنه ای قاتله، ولایتش باطله!". پیش خودم فکر می کنم، مگه در عصر صفویه هستیم که مردم دنبال ولایت خوب می گردند؟!
زنی فریاد می زند: "اینکه میگن عادله، قاتله! قاتله!" بسیجی ها با این شعارها وحشی تر می شوند و با شدت بیشتری به مردم حمله می کنند. به سمت یک نانوایی پناه می بریم. نانوا خوشحال می شود از اینکه این همه مشتری دارد، غافل از اینکه این جمعیت به خاطر مسأله دیگری اینجا جمع می شوند. نانوای بیچاره با پرتاب سنگ مزدوران به سمت شیشه نانوایی اش، تازه متوجه می شود که اینها مشتری نیستند. پیرمردی که جای مهر بر روی پیشانیش پیداست، با عصبانیت می گوید: «چرا اومدین تو نانوایی؟ مگه مجبورین تظاهرات کنین؟ هر کی تظاهرات می کنه، باید کتک هم بخوره!». یک لباس شخصی که وانمود می کند از مردم است، به داخل نانوایی می آید. درحالیکه همه شعار می دهند و در جهت مخالف گاردی ها حمله می کنند، او با شعار "مرگ بر خامنه ای!" به سمت گاردی ها می رود، اما کسی کار به کارش ندارد. در این موقع یک بسیجی به جلوی در می آید و به پسر جوانی اشاره می کند که «خودت بیا بیرون! و برو! کاری باهات نداریم.» اما مردم نمی گذارند برود. می گویند: «می گیرنت. نرو!». بعد از چند دقیقه پسر جوان با یکی از زنهای مسن می رود.
پسر جوانی را گرفته اند و کشان کشان او را با خود می برند. چند زن اعتراض می کنند، اما فایده ای ندارد. بالاخره برای خلاص شدن از دست بسیجی نفوذی به بیرون می رویم. مردی می گوید: «امروز مشخص می شود که پول نفت و بودجه های میلیاردی کجا رفته است. اینهمه نیروی گردن کلفت و تربیت شده برای سرکوب از کجا آمده اند؟!». زنی چادری که درحال بحث با بسیجی هاست با رکیک ترین الفاظ مواجه می شود و به او می گویند: «لازم نیست برای ما علامه شوی! گورت را گم کن و برو!»
به سمت پل کریمخان می روم. جمعیت باز هم در حال رفتن به سمت ولیعصر است. در جهت مخالف مردم حرکت می کنم. نیروها مثل چوب کبریت کنار دیوار ایستاده اند و دختر جوانی دستهایش را به علامت پیروزی به سوی نیروی انتظامی می برد و فریاد می زند: "مرگ بر دیکتاتور!" و چندین بار این شعار را تکرار می کند. زیرپل به جمعیتی که از طرفداران احمدی نژاد هستند، برمی خورم. دوباره جهتم را عوض می کنم و برمی گردم. زیرپل حافظ جمعیت دوباره متمرکز می شود و شعاردادن را از سرمی گیرند. طرفداران احمدی نژاد توان رویارویی با جمعیت زیاد مردم را ندارند. شعارها همچنان تکرار می شود. "مرگ بر دیکتاتور!"، "یا حسین، میرحسین"، "اوباما، یا با ما؟! یا با اونا؟!" پیش خودم باز فکر می کنم، گل بود به سبزه نیز آراسته شد، تا وقتی که این جنبش رهبری اش عوض نشه، در به همین پاشنه می چرخه. چقدر جای نیروی آگاه حس میشه؟!
حضور جوانان و خصوصاً دختران حیرت انگیز است. دخترها در شعارگویی لیدر هستند. بازهم گاردی ها حمله می کنند. گاز اشک آور می زنند. یکی از مردم در خانه اش را باز می کند و همه به داخل می رویم. اتحاد و همراهی مردم ستودنی است! دو پسر جوان که باتوم به سرشان خورده و خونین شده اند به داخل می آیند و مردم بهشان کمک می کنند. دخترها تاب ایستادن ندارند و به بیرون می روند و گاردی ها را هو می کنند. از خانه بیرون می آییم و به سمت ولیعصر می رویم.
جمعیت در حال حرکت است، اما به صورت پراکنده. مردم یا راه می روند و یا در کنار خیابان نشسته اند. یکی می گوید: «دانشگاه شریف دیشب شلوغ شده و دانشگاه تهران امروز صبح شلوغ بوده. یکی از شعارهایی که در دانشگاه تهران داده شده این بوده: "ننگ ما، ننگ ما، رهبر الدنگ ما!"» یکی دیگر می گوید: «دم دانشجوها گرم! سنگ تمام گذاشته اند.» مردم همه به همدیگر خسته نباشید می گویند و از اینکه کدام سمت شلوغ است، از یکدیگر سؤال می کنند. بعضی از نیروها مردم را به سمت داخل کوچه ها هدایت می کنند. یکی می گوید: «داخل کوچه ها نروید! اینطوری می خوان دستگیر کنند.»
به سر فاطمی می رسم که نیروی زیادی ایستاده است. می گویند هفت تیر شلوغ شده. تظاهرات امروز پراکنده تر از قبل بود و مردم کمتر یکجا متمرکز بودند. جوانی می گوید: «رژیم دیگه تو سراشیبی افتاده.» اگرچه ممکنه درست بگه، اما هنوز خیلی راه در پیش داریم. هنوز خیلی چیزها باید تغییر کنه. بازهم خیلی ها می گن که موسوی بهانه شده و چون کس دیگه ای نیست ما اسم اونو می یاریم. اونم یکی مثل بقیه است. بین بد و بدتر ما بد روانتخاب کردیم. اما الان دیگه اونم قبول نداریم. اون کانالی شده برای تغییرات بزرگ. اما من فکر می کنم که شعارها هنوز شکل سبز خودش رو داره و باید فکر مردم واقعاً تغییر کنه تا شعارها هم تغییر کنه. همه درمورد اینکه در دانشگاهها چه خبر بوده سؤال می کنند. واقعاً چشم امید خیلی ها به دانشگاه هاست و حرکت دانشجوها به همه انرژی میده.
به سمت میدان هفت تیر که میرم، گاردی ها حمله می کنند و مجبور میشم به داخل بیمارستانی پناه ببرم. جمعیت زیادی به داخل بیمارستان آمده اند. پرسنل بیمارستان هم با مردم به وسط خیابان می آیند و شعار می دهند. بسیجی ها حمله می کنند. به دنبال چند جوان می افتند که در حال فرار کردن هستند. آنها هم به داخل بیمارستان می آیند. بسیجی ها به داخل می آیند و در وسط سالن بیمارستان گاز اشک آور می زنند. ظاهراً دو بسیجی حسابی از طرف مردم کتک خورده اند و یکیشان حالش بسیار وخیم است و همین موضوع آنها را وحشی ترکرده است. جوانها که چوب هم دارند، یکی از دوستانشان را که در بیمارستان قایم شده بود، فراری می دهند و فرار می کنند و بسیجی ها در حالی که فریاد می زنند: «فرار کرد! فرار کرد!» به دنبال آنها می دوند.
یکی از پرسنل بیمارستان به من لباس فرم می دهد تا بپوشم، چون ظاهراً افرادی را که از بیرون به داخل بیمارستان رفته اند، دستگیر می کنند. دو پسر را که در نمازخانه پنهان شده بودند و دو دختر که در یکی از بخشها پناه گرفته بودند، دستگیر می کنند. اما چند نفر دیگر ازجمله من که پرسنل بیمارستان به موقع به دادمان رسیدند، نجات پیدا می کنیم. اما نمی توانیم از بیمارستان خارج شویم چونکه آنها در جلوی در ایستاده اند و هر کس که می خواهد داخل یا خارج شود را کنترل می کنند و از او کارت شناسایی می خواهند. بیمارستان فضایی به شدت امنیتی پیدا کرده و همه جای آن را می گردند تا اگر کسی قایم شده و یا مجروحین را شناسایی کنند. پزشکان بیمارستان در جواب بسیجی ها که چرا مجروحین را قبول کردید، می گویند: «ما وظیفه مان کمک به مردم و درمان آنهاست. فرقی نمی کند، هرکس باشد.» من تا چند ساعتی مجبور می شوم در آنجا بمانم. پرسنل بیمارستان می گویند که کروبی نزدیکی آنجا آمده و خواسته سخنرانی کنه که به او اجازه نداده اند و گاز اشک آور بسویش پرتاب کرده اند که به سر محافظش خورده. به هر حال از آنجا خارج می شوم و به خانه می روم.
شب، حوالی ساعت 7 که بیرون می آیم گاردی ها هنوز در خیابان هستند. همه مغازه ها تعطیل است. یک حکومت نظامی تمام عیار است. شب گذشته در تهران فریاد های "مرگ بر دیکتاتور!" باز هم سر داده شد. تعداد دستگیری های امروز خیلی زیاد بوده است. سوار تاکسی می شوم. راننده می گوید نزدیک به 1000 نفر گاردی را دیده که جلوی دانشگاه تهران ایستاده بودند و اجازه خروج به دانشجوها را نمی داده اند. مدام فحش می داد و از وضع موجود گلایه می کرد و می گفت: «آخوند ها رفتنی نیستند. مگه میشه یک مملکت رو به این راحتی از دست آخوندها در آورد.» تظاهرات و اتفاقات امروز شبیه 30 خرداد بود. اما این همه شور و انرژی و خواست تغییر باید در جهت درست هدایت شود. از دست موسوی کاری ساخته نیست و خودش هم فکر نمی کرد مردم چنین برخوردی کنند. باید آگاهی مردم برای تغییر بالا برود واین وظیفه نیروهای انقلابی است. خواست موسوی و تفکر اصلاح طلب در جهت منافع همین نظام است. اما تفکری درست است که در جهت منافع اکثریت مردم باشد.
این گزارش را نمی توانم بفرستم چون اینترنتها قطع است و امکان ارسال نمی باشد و از دیشب اینترنت و از امروز موبایلها قطع شده است. فردا شاید وضع اینترنت کمی بهتر باشد. امروز چهارمین روز بعد از 13 آبان است که اینترنتها قطع است.همه می گویند از وقتی مخابرات به دست سپاه افتاده این موضوع شدت پیدا کرده و بدتر از این هم خواهد شد. من هنوز نتوانسته ام که این گزارش را ارسال کنم. هنوز مردم و بخصوص جوانها درباره آن روز و شجاعتهایشان و همبستگی مردم و از شور و هیجان آن صحبت می کنند. جالب است که از هر قشر و تیپی که اصلاً دنبال این مسائل نبوده، حالا حساس شده اند و به وجد آمده اند، دروغگویی رژیم برای کسانی که خیلی پیگیر ماجراها نیستند هم ثابت شده است. مثلاً در گزارش تلویزیون ملی ایران از مراسم 13 آبان، برای اینکه جمعیت نیامده به تظاهرات را انبوه نشان بدهند و بگویند که زیاد بوده است، از تصاویر سال گذشته، مونتاژ و میکس آنها استفاده کردند. اما ظاهراً حضور مردم در تظاهرات خودجوش و عدم استقبال از مراسم حکومتی آنقدر دستپاچه شان کرده که از تصاویر اشتباه استفاده کرده اند. مثلا در یکی از تصاویر بیرق یوم الله 22 بهمن در دست جمعیت دیده می شد!؟
ما از هم اکنون خود را برای 16 آذر آماده می کنیم.■
اتحاد و همراهی مردم ستودنی است!
گزارشی از فعالین بذر- 13 آبان 1388
همه مغازه ها تعطیل است. نیروی های انتظامی در گوشه و کنار خیابان به تعداد بسیار زیاد ایستاده اند. مردم در جهات مختلف درحال رفت و آمد هستند. به سمت خیابان طالقانی می رویم. تمام خیابان مملو از اتوبوس است. تعداد کمی از دانش آموزان دبستانی را برای مراسم آورده اند و عده ای هم بصورت پراکنده درحال راه رفتن هستند. هرچه جلو ترمی رویم، بر تعداد نیروها و تنوعشان افزوده می شود. زنی چادری چندبار "مرگ بر آمریکا" می گوید؛ و بچه های دبستانی تک و توک تکرار می کنند. به چهارراه سپهبد قرنی می رسیم. جایی که نزدیک سفارت آمریکاست. اما در آنجا نیروهای بسیج که امروز قیافه های عجیب و غریبی هم درمیان آنها دیده می شد، مانع از عبور مردم شدند و گفتند: «مردها می توانند رد شوند و زنها به سمت بالا بروند.» به سمت بالا یعنی پل کریمخان می رویم. جمعیت زیادند.
می گویند کروبی در میدان هفت تیر- ساعت 10:30 سخنرانی داشته است. جمعیت در زیر پل موج می زند. روی پل پر از مأمور است. مردم یکجا نمی ایستند و راه می روند. به همدیگر توصیه می کنند که "نایستید!". جلوی ادارت دولتی که تنها جایی است که باز است مأمور ایستاده، تا کسی در هنگام فرار به آنجا نرود. جعفر پناهی را در میان مردم می بینیم. پیرمردی به تنهایی "مرگ بر دیکتاتور" می گوید و ادامه می دهد: «آخه تا کی جور باشه؟ چقدر بکشیم؟» ناگهان یک زن با مأموران درگیر می شود که چرا اجازه نمی دهند مسیر خودش را برود و او را به سمت دیگری هدایت می کنند. با فریادهای زن جمعیت ملتهب می شود.
عده ای در میرزای شیرازی جمع شده اند و دست می زنند و شعار می دهند. به سمت جمعیت می رویم. بازهم فریاد دخترها بلندتر است. همه ماسک زده اند. صورتها پوشیده است. فریاد "مرگ بر دیکتاتور" بلند و بلندتر می شود و همین طور شعارهای "نتریسین! نترسین! ما همه با هم هستیم"، "ایرانی با غیرت، حمایت! حمایت!". بر تعداد جمعیت متشکل افزوده می شود. همه هستند، از هر سنی. زن و مرد. مثل همیشه خیلی ها خانوادگی آمده اند. شعارها بلند سر داده می شوند: "نه شرقی، نه غربی، دولت سبز ملی" (اگرچه من با هر سه کلمه این شعار یعنی دولت (دولت طبقه حاکم)، سبز (نماد مذهبی)، ملی (مبین ناسونالیسم) مخالفم.)، "سفارت روسیه، لانه جاسوسیه". در همین وقت گاردی ها حمله می کنند. اما جوانهای معترض مانع می شوند و نمی گذارند بیایند. این مسأله سه بار تکرار می شود. زنهای مسن که در میان جمعیتند، جوانها را تحسین می کنند. برایشان آرزوی موفقیت می کنند. جوانها با سنگ به سمت گاردی ها حمله می کنند. اینبار با نیروی بیشتری حمله می کنند. فریاد "مرگ بر خامنه ای!" در همه جا طنین می افکند. همه یکصدا فریاد می زنند: "خامنه ای قاتله، ولایتش باطله!". پیش خودم فکر می کنم، مگه در عصر صفویه هستیم که مردم دنبال ولایت خوب می گردند؟!
زنی فریاد می زند: "اینکه میگن عادله، قاتله! قاتله!" بسیجی ها با این شعارها وحشی تر می شوند و با شدت بیشتری به مردم حمله می کنند. به سمت یک نانوایی پناه می بریم. نانوا خوشحال می شود از اینکه این همه مشتری دارد، غافل از اینکه این جمعیت به خاطر مسأله دیگری اینجا جمع می شوند. نانوای بیچاره با پرتاب سنگ مزدوران به سمت شیشه نانوایی اش، تازه متوجه می شود که اینها مشتری نیستند. پیرمردی که جای مهر بر روی پیشانیش پیداست، با عصبانیت می گوید: «چرا اومدین تو نانوایی؟ مگه مجبورین تظاهرات کنین؟ هر کی تظاهرات می کنه، باید کتک هم بخوره!». یک لباس شخصی که وانمود می کند از مردم است، به داخل نانوایی می آید. درحالیکه همه شعار می دهند و در جهت مخالف گاردی ها حمله می کنند، او با شعار "مرگ بر خامنه ای!" به سمت گاردی ها می رود، اما کسی کار به کارش ندارد. در این موقع یک بسیجی به جلوی در می آید و به پسر جوانی اشاره می کند که «خودت بیا بیرون! و برو! کاری باهات نداریم.» اما مردم نمی گذارند برود. می گویند: «می گیرنت. نرو!». بعد از چند دقیقه پسر جوان با یکی از زنهای مسن می رود.
پسر جوانی را گرفته اند و کشان کشان او را با خود می برند. چند زن اعتراض می کنند، اما فایده ای ندارد. بالاخره برای خلاص شدن از دست بسیجی نفوذی به بیرون می رویم. مردی می گوید: «امروز مشخص می شود که پول نفت و بودجه های میلیاردی کجا رفته است. اینهمه نیروی گردن کلفت و تربیت شده برای سرکوب از کجا آمده اند؟!». زنی چادری که درحال بحث با بسیجی هاست با رکیک ترین الفاظ مواجه می شود و به او می گویند: «لازم نیست برای ما علامه شوی! گورت را گم کن و برو!»
به سمت پل کریمخان می روم. جمعیت باز هم در حال رفتن به سمت ولیعصر است. در جهت مخالف مردم حرکت می کنم. نیروها مثل چوب کبریت کنار دیوار ایستاده اند و دختر جوانی دستهایش را به علامت پیروزی به سوی نیروی انتظامی می برد و فریاد می زند: "مرگ بر دیکتاتور!" و چندین بار این شعار را تکرار می کند. زیرپل به جمعیتی که از طرفداران احمدی نژاد هستند، برمی خورم. دوباره جهتم را عوض می کنم و برمی گردم. زیرپل حافظ جمعیت دوباره متمرکز می شود و شعاردادن را از سرمی گیرند. طرفداران احمدی نژاد توان رویارویی با جمعیت زیاد مردم را ندارند. شعارها همچنان تکرار می شود. "مرگ بر دیکتاتور!"، "یا حسین، میرحسین"، "اوباما، یا با ما؟! یا با اونا؟!" پیش خودم باز فکر می کنم، گل بود به سبزه نیز آراسته شد، تا وقتی که این جنبش رهبری اش عوض نشه، در به همین پاشنه می چرخه. چقدر جای نیروی آگاه حس میشه؟!
حضور جوانان و خصوصاً دختران حیرت انگیز است. دخترها در شعارگویی لیدر هستند. بازهم گاردی ها حمله می کنند. گاز اشک آور می زنند. یکی از مردم در خانه اش را باز می کند و همه به داخل می رویم. اتحاد و همراهی مردم ستودنی است! دو پسر جوان که باتوم به سرشان خورده و خونین شده اند به داخل می آیند و مردم بهشان کمک می کنند. دخترها تاب ایستادن ندارند و به بیرون می روند و گاردی ها را هو می کنند. از خانه بیرون می آییم و به سمت ولیعصر می رویم.
جمعیت در حال حرکت است، اما به صورت پراکنده. مردم یا راه می روند و یا در کنار خیابان نشسته اند. یکی می گوید: «دانشگاه شریف دیشب شلوغ شده و دانشگاه تهران امروز صبح شلوغ بوده. یکی از شعارهایی که در دانشگاه تهران داده شده این بوده: "ننگ ما، ننگ ما، رهبر الدنگ ما!"» یکی دیگر می گوید: «دم دانشجوها گرم! سنگ تمام گذاشته اند.» مردم همه به همدیگر خسته نباشید می گویند و از اینکه کدام سمت شلوغ است، از یکدیگر سؤال می کنند. بعضی از نیروها مردم را به سمت داخل کوچه ها هدایت می کنند. یکی می گوید: «داخل کوچه ها نروید! اینطوری می خوان دستگیر کنند.»
به سر فاطمی می رسم که نیروی زیادی ایستاده است. می گویند هفت تیر شلوغ شده. تظاهرات امروز پراکنده تر از قبل بود و مردم کمتر یکجا متمرکز بودند. جوانی می گوید: «رژیم دیگه تو سراشیبی افتاده.» اگرچه ممکنه درست بگه، اما هنوز خیلی راه در پیش داریم. هنوز خیلی چیزها باید تغییر کنه. بازهم خیلی ها می گن که موسوی بهانه شده و چون کس دیگه ای نیست ما اسم اونو می یاریم. اونم یکی مثل بقیه است. بین بد و بدتر ما بد روانتخاب کردیم. اما الان دیگه اونم قبول نداریم. اون کانالی شده برای تغییرات بزرگ. اما من فکر می کنم که شعارها هنوز شکل سبز خودش رو داره و باید فکر مردم واقعاً تغییر کنه تا شعارها هم تغییر کنه. همه درمورد اینکه در دانشگاهها چه خبر بوده سؤال می کنند. واقعاً چشم امید خیلی ها به دانشگاه هاست و حرکت دانشجوها به همه انرژی میده.
به سمت میدان هفت تیر که میرم، گاردی ها حمله می کنند و مجبور میشم به داخل بیمارستانی پناه ببرم. جمعیت زیادی به داخل بیمارستان آمده اند. پرسنل بیمارستان هم با مردم به وسط خیابان می آیند و شعار می دهند. بسیجی ها حمله می کنند. به دنبال چند جوان می افتند که در حال فرار کردن هستند. آنها هم به داخل بیمارستان می آیند. بسیجی ها به داخل می آیند و در وسط سالن بیمارستان گاز اشک آور می زنند. ظاهراً دو بسیجی حسابی از طرف مردم کتک خورده اند و یکیشان حالش بسیار وخیم است و همین موضوع آنها را وحشی ترکرده است. جوانها که چوب هم دارند، یکی از دوستانشان را که در بیمارستان قایم شده بود، فراری می دهند و فرار می کنند و بسیجی ها در حالی که فریاد می زنند: «فرار کرد! فرار کرد!» به دنبال آنها می دوند.
یکی از پرسنل بیمارستان به من لباس فرم می دهد تا بپوشم، چون ظاهراً افرادی را که از بیرون به داخل بیمارستان رفته اند، دستگیر می کنند. دو پسر را که در نمازخانه پنهان شده بودند و دو دختر که در یکی از بخشها پناه گرفته بودند، دستگیر می کنند. اما چند نفر دیگر ازجمله من که پرسنل بیمارستان به موقع به دادمان رسیدند، نجات پیدا می کنیم. اما نمی توانیم از بیمارستان خارج شویم چونکه آنها در جلوی در ایستاده اند و هر کس که می خواهد داخل یا خارج شود را کنترل می کنند و از او کارت شناسایی می خواهند. بیمارستان فضایی به شدت امنیتی پیدا کرده و همه جای آن را می گردند تا اگر کسی قایم شده و یا مجروحین را شناسایی کنند. پزشکان بیمارستان در جواب بسیجی ها که چرا مجروحین را قبول کردید، می گویند: «ما وظیفه مان کمک به مردم و درمان آنهاست. فرقی نمی کند، هرکس باشد.» من تا چند ساعتی مجبور می شوم در آنجا بمانم. پرسنل بیمارستان می گویند که کروبی نزدیکی آنجا آمده و خواسته سخنرانی کنه که به او اجازه نداده اند و گاز اشک آور بسویش پرتاب کرده اند که به سر محافظش خورده. به هر حال از آنجا خارج می شوم و به خانه می روم.
شب، حوالی ساعت 7 که بیرون می آیم گاردی ها هنوز در خیابان هستند. همه مغازه ها تعطیل است. یک حکومت نظامی تمام عیار است. شب گذشته در تهران فریاد های "مرگ بر دیکتاتور!" باز هم سر داده شد. تعداد دستگیری های امروز خیلی زیاد بوده است. سوار تاکسی می شوم. راننده می گوید نزدیک به 1000 نفر گاردی را دیده که جلوی دانشگاه تهران ایستاده بودند و اجازه خروج به دانشجوها را نمی داده اند. مدام فحش می داد و از وضع موجود گلایه می کرد و می گفت: «آخوند ها رفتنی نیستند. مگه میشه یک مملکت رو به این راحتی از دست آخوندها در آورد.» تظاهرات و اتفاقات امروز شبیه 30 خرداد بود. اما این همه شور و انرژی و خواست تغییر باید در جهت درست هدایت شود. از دست موسوی کاری ساخته نیست و خودش هم فکر نمی کرد مردم چنین برخوردی کنند. باید آگاهی مردم برای تغییر بالا برود واین وظیفه نیروهای انقلابی است. خواست موسوی و تفکر اصلاح طلب در جهت منافع همین نظام است. اما تفکری درست است که در جهت منافع اکثریت مردم باشد.
این گزارش را نمی توانم بفرستم چون اینترنتها قطع است و امکان ارسال نمی باشد و از دیشب اینترنت و از امروز موبایلها قطع شده است. فردا شاید وضع اینترنت کمی بهتر باشد. امروز چهارمین روز بعد از 13 آبان است که اینترنتها قطع است.همه می گویند از وقتی مخابرات به دست سپاه افتاده این موضوع شدت پیدا کرده و بدتر از این هم خواهد شد. من هنوز نتوانسته ام که این گزارش را ارسال کنم. هنوز مردم و بخصوص جوانها درباره آن روز و شجاعتهایشان و همبستگی مردم و از شور و هیجان آن صحبت می کنند. جالب است که از هر قشر و تیپی که اصلاً دنبال این مسائل نبوده، حالا حساس شده اند و به وجد آمده اند، دروغگویی رژیم برای کسانی که خیلی پیگیر ماجراها نیستند هم ثابت شده است. مثلاً در گزارش تلویزیون ملی ایران از مراسم 13 آبان، برای اینکه جمعیت نیامده به تظاهرات را انبوه نشان بدهند و بگویند که زیاد بوده است، از تصاویر سال گذشته، مونتاژ و میکس آنها استفاده کردند. اما ظاهراً حضور مردم در تظاهرات خودجوش و عدم استقبال از مراسم حکومتی آنقدر دستپاچه شان کرده که از تصاویر اشتباه استفاده کرده اند. مثلا در یکی از تصاویر بیرق یوم الله 22 بهمن در دست جمعیت دیده می شد!؟
ما از هم اکنون خود را برای 16 آذر آماده می کنیم.■
اتحاد و همراهی مردم ستودنی است!
گزارشی از فعالین بذر- 13 آبان 1388
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
hope and audacity of hope
well I hope President Obama remembers his fiery speech prior to residing at white house. Mr. Obama gave us hope that change is possible even under the most dire circumstances. Today Iranian Youth are picking up the banner of hope and giving their lives for change. Moving away from theocratic state of national,riligious,gender based discrimination. On Nov 4th demonstrations they were
chanting Obama you are either with us or with them (repressive state apparatus of Islamic republic). question remains we ask you Mr. president are you siding with millions of freedom loving Iranians from all walks of life who are chanting independence, freedom and Iranian republic or are you siding with those in power who are torturing and killing us.
Obama ya ba oonayee ya ba ma?
chanting Obama you are either with us or with them (repressive state apparatus of Islamic republic). question remains we ask you Mr. president are you siding with millions of freedom loving Iranians from all walks of life who are chanting independence, freedom and Iranian republic or are you siding with those in power who are torturing and killing us.
Obama ya ba oonayee ya ba ma?
and the story continues, i was reading this at peik iran site. Shah abas safavi the one who started this insanity. we are all suffering from his delusinal idea of a sect hostile to reality hiding under banner of Imam hossein and "martyrs" at karbala.
اینک نظری بیندازیم به پاره ای از شاهکارهای بشردوستانه این پادشاه: « شاه اسماعیل اول
در سال 910 هجری در یزد بود که از سلطان میرزای بایقرا نامه ای به او رسید. در این نامه پادشاه تیموری او را به جای شاه اسماعیل، میرزا اسماعیل خطاب کرده بود. شاه اسماعیل این امر را بهانه کرد و بی خبر بر شهر طبس تاخت و هفت هزار تن از مردم بیگناه آنجا را که از رعایای سلطان میرزا بودند کشت و به گفتۀ یکی از مورخان، به واسطه آن: آتش غضب نوابِ جهانی منتفی شد!»
«... آتش غضب این (پادشاه) صوفی ی صاحب جمال ... به صُوَر و اشکال دیگر هم اطفاء می شده است ... دیگر آنکه فرمان می داد گوشت بدن محکوم را قزلباش ها خام خام بخورند، چنان که حسین کره چلائی که با شاه اسماعیل جنگید و آخر در قلعۀ فیروزکوه گرفتار شد؛ در میدان اصفهان گوشت آن بیچاره را خام خام خوردند ..»[2] و یا «تن آن دشمن بیچاره را عسل مالیدند تا زنبوران اورا شب و روز آزار دهند و سپس او را زنده زنده – و غالباً در قفس آهنین – آتش می زد که با بیچاره بدبخت محمد کریم حاکم ابرقو همین معامله را کرد و عاقبت او را در میدان اصفهان زنده آتش زدند.»
اینک نظری بیندازیم به پاره ای از شاهکارهای بشردوستانه این پادشاه: « شاه اسماعیل اول
در سال 910 هجری در یزد بود که از سلطان میرزای بایقرا نامه ای به او رسید. در این نامه پادشاه تیموری او را به جای شاه اسماعیل، میرزا اسماعیل خطاب کرده بود. شاه اسماعیل این امر را بهانه کرد و بی خبر بر شهر طبس تاخت و هفت هزار تن از مردم بیگناه آنجا را که از رعایای سلطان میرزا بودند کشت و به گفتۀ یکی از مورخان، به واسطه آن: آتش غضب نوابِ جهانی منتفی شد!»
«... آتش غضب این (پادشاه) صوفی ی صاحب جمال ... به صُوَر و اشکال دیگر هم اطفاء می شده است ... دیگر آنکه فرمان می داد گوشت بدن محکوم را قزلباش ها خام خام بخورند، چنان که حسین کره چلائی که با شاه اسماعیل جنگید و آخر در قلعۀ فیروزکوه گرفتار شد؛ در میدان اصفهان گوشت آن بیچاره را خام خام خوردند ..»[2] و یا «تن آن دشمن بیچاره را عسل مالیدند تا زنبوران اورا شب و روز آزار دهند و سپس او را زنده زنده – و غالباً در قفس آهنین – آتش می زد که با بیچاره بدبخت محمد کریم حاکم ابرقو همین معامله را کرد و عاقبت او را در میدان اصفهان زنده آتش زدند.»
Monday, November 9, 2009
Poet
Dr. the poet
He drinks vodka as if it was water; I'd only seen John Wayne gulp down whiskey in old westerns like that. We are taking him to Seattle airport our poet is lost. Our revolutionary poet has a PHD in philosophy from Cambridge; his poems question our lives after loss of great opportunities some praising dead heroes or refusing to accept their death some chastising the ones who are alive for lack of revolutionary enthusiasm. Yet its 10 am he is drinking his absolute vodka straight getting ready for his show in Chicago. He is the only contemporary poet I know who has a PHD in philosophy we wish him luck and bid him farewell in a cold Seattle morning.
He drinks vodka as if it was water; I'd only seen John Wayne gulp down whiskey in old westerns like that. We are taking him to Seattle airport our poet is lost. Our revolutionary poet has a PHD in philosophy from Cambridge; his poems question our lives after loss of great opportunities some praising dead heroes or refusing to accept their death some chastising the ones who are alive for lack of revolutionary enthusiasm. Yet its 10 am he is drinking his absolute vodka straight getting ready for his show in Chicago. He is the only contemporary poet I know who has a PHD in philosophy we wish him luck and bid him farewell in a cold Seattle morning.
For whom to write
For whom to write
I ask my old friend Babak, he smokes his thin More cigarette pushing last remainder of smoke from his lungs. I'm trying to convince him to write again I've read his work I know how creative and inspiring his writings used to be. As we move thru this beautiful park in Vancouver he says who should I write for?
Write for future generation let them know what we went thru try to guide them inspire them.
This generation, are you serious?
Yes I answer write for them who else for?
Our old friends believe everything has changed, there fore anything goes. I say ok let's imagine that is so but I know I can't take shit for my headache for pain to go away I have to take aspirin.
We both laugh, he continues when I first published a collection of my short stories I was23 years old influenced by lu shun I learned from his simple way of writing his language was language of common folks. Not bad for a 23 years old teacher from Azerbaijan However good my work was frowned upon by intellectual elite in Tehran. None the less in certain circles my work was well received and this fame goes under your skin, you feel immortal and life seems full of potential to gain more recognition.
Now I come here to this park sit here at this same bench, and laugh at my naïve way of looking at life. I'm alone no one understands me and before I open my mouth I'm stamped, branded, categorized and boxed as "traditional left" all cause I still believe aspirin is aspirin and shit is shit.
Summer of 2007
n.tonkaboni
I ask my old friend Babak, he smokes his thin More cigarette pushing last remainder of smoke from his lungs. I'm trying to convince him to write again I've read his work I know how creative and inspiring his writings used to be. As we move thru this beautiful park in Vancouver he says who should I write for?
Write for future generation let them know what we went thru try to guide them inspire them.
This generation, are you serious?
Yes I answer write for them who else for?
Our old friends believe everything has changed, there fore anything goes. I say ok let's imagine that is so but I know I can't take shit for my headache for pain to go away I have to take aspirin.
We both laugh, he continues when I first published a collection of my short stories I was23 years old influenced by lu shun I learned from his simple way of writing his language was language of common folks. Not bad for a 23 years old teacher from Azerbaijan However good my work was frowned upon by intellectual elite in Tehran. None the less in certain circles my work was well received and this fame goes under your skin, you feel immortal and life seems full of potential to gain more recognition.
Now I come here to this park sit here at this same bench, and laugh at my naïve way of looking at life. I'm alone no one understands me and before I open my mouth I'm stamped, branded, categorized and boxed as "traditional left" all cause I still believe aspirin is aspirin and shit is shit.
Summer of 2007
n.tonkaboni
Fountain pens
Fountain pens
Your strange habits, one that to this day amazed me was the way you wrote. I don't mean your style of writing, or subject of what you wrote. Your writing always inspired me and still does when I read the old letters you sent me or your short stories. What amazed me was the way you kept 7 or 8 fountain pens ink filled and ready on top of your desktop. I guess this was your way of saying desktop means desktop not the one computer screen. Your Luddite tendency I used to call it. Your writing had to be done in the nook sunniest spot in our home, where you had good view of Seattle sky light.
I never asked you why so many pens or what was your preference? Did you use old Parker which you inherited from your grand dad for certain subjects or the old Schaefer for other?
Did you use them differently sad stori for one happy or entertaining ones with other.
Your strange habits, one that to this day amazed me was the way you wrote. I don't mean your style of writing, or subject of what you wrote. Your writing always inspired me and still does when I read the old letters you sent me or your short stories. What amazed me was the way you kept 7 or 8 fountain pens ink filled and ready on top of your desktop. I guess this was your way of saying desktop means desktop not the one computer screen. Your Luddite tendency I used to call it. Your writing had to be done in the nook sunniest spot in our home, where you had good view of Seattle sky light.
I never asked you why so many pens or what was your preference? Did you use old Parker which you inherited from your grand dad for certain subjects or the old Schaefer for other?
Did you use them differently sad stori for one happy or entertaining ones with other.
Universal Love
Universal Love
We put on our masks, each playing his or her own role in the masquerade. Most not knowing unconsciously participates in this game of love and hate. I used to believe that economic conditions were solely responsible for our miserable condition. If we didn't have this barrier would end all our hatred, racism, sexism and unconscionable wars. We'd attain that state of "universal love" which Fuerbach had hoped for. Yet there is much more to it than that we hate, we go to wars, participate in unimaginable crimes against humanity against our own souls and conscious. And then we create monuments and world bodies to oversee our future actions. We chant "never again" and we then go about our business as usual attitude justifying torture, hunger, illiteracy, pain and collective punishment of a whole nation. Simply by shrugging our shoulders from responsibility of these crimes and saying well "they were Muslims, Jew, Hindu, Communists…
We put on our masks, each playing his or her own role in the masquerade. Most not knowing unconsciously participates in this game of love and hate. I used to believe that economic conditions were solely responsible for our miserable condition. If we didn't have this barrier would end all our hatred, racism, sexism and unconscionable wars. We'd attain that state of "universal love" which Fuerbach had hoped for. Yet there is much more to it than that we hate, we go to wars, participate in unimaginable crimes against humanity against our own souls and conscious. And then we create monuments and world bodies to oversee our future actions. We chant "never again" and we then go about our business as usual attitude justifying torture, hunger, illiteracy, pain and collective punishment of a whole nation. Simply by shrugging our shoulders from responsibility of these crimes and saying well "they were Muslims, Jew, Hindu, Communists…
On why you are alive
On why you are alive and they aren't
Let's face it,
let's be honest the only reason you are alive today is because when ever things got out of hand you walked in the shadows. Don't get me wrong I'm not questioning your bravery let's not be ridiculous about it this isn't about your ego we're just trying to tell your story our story, story of those who made it out alive out of those tumultuous horror of years.
Can you really come up with any other explanation oh luck you say, those bullets, those bombs, guns and knives were coming for all of us and yet I see no war wounds no torture scars on you. The only reason your alive is some where in you mind you must have told yourself let's save a little of me for the future. Remember the first demonstration you participated in Iran? Why did you walk the side walk after the Hezbollah started throwing stones at demonstrators? Beside the shock of it none of you had seen any thing like this except a few who had made it here before February insurrection. The most horrible demonstration you had taken part in was the one protesting shah's visit to Washington DC. That felt like real battle D.C police went out of their way breaking heads, arm and legs of Iranian students, but even that fell short compare to what you were facing on that Sunday after noon in front of university of Tehran. No one expected such level of violence. This was the demonstration called for by national democratic front in support of ayandegan a liberal newspaper which had criticized certain policies of newly formed government. So the newspaper print shop was attacked by hezbolahi pressure groups when Khomeini called for closing of the newspaper calling it a" mouthpiece of U.S. imperialism". Only small part of revolutionary left sided with the freedom of decent and press the rest unfortunately chose to side with the government. On that day your friends had asked to go to the of the demonstration to help protect the protesters from attack of pressure groups of hoodlums who were armed with knives and heavy metal chains. You had so many questions in your mind who is arming them how did they get all this stones later on became apparent they had used city service trucks to load and bring stones well organized effort on part of reactionaries. And most of the left still in winter hibernation was quite unconscious of what was really taking place in our society. Pro Russian Tudeh was pretty much in a dreamland siding with r Islamic fraction of government fighting against the liberal and moderate elements within freedom movement.
They really were hoping for similar scenario as in Afghanistan where pro Russian pseudo socialist parties had gained total of the state by overthrowing the monarch and forcing him to exile in Italy. You were confused not part of this trend your small group of intellectuals were trying so hard to find a path out of this madness. We were hoping for an alternative independent and left writing programs and plans for a better future for our people. Fighting the good the good fight and now I think all those programs and meetings aside did any single one of them make any sense to realities of post insurrection period. Could we have made any real meaningful effort to move our dominated repressed society any where near our dreams, beyond its morbid, fanatical predicament.
We needed a revolutionary path opening intelligentsia which we've lacked for so many years. We've had intellectuals who were basically importing ides without a clear idea of themselves or their society. You used to say we don't have it and you'd defend plethora of pro western intellectuals from Forooghi,Malcom, Talebof, Heidarkhan, Arani and others who simply wanted to copy European renaissance to Iran's political economic situation.
"we have no national identity after Mongol and Arab invasions." Hence you saw task at hand to join an international process and that was already pronounced and planned by the third international and genuine revolutionary parties that adhered to it. But was that enough, I mean we kept on saying "applying these theories to concrete conditions of our own societies" till that became more like a mantra with no real meaning like many other slogans void of revolutionary spirit and life.
To some extent though I owe my life to you! When your dogmas gave way to serious doubts, many of us started to have skepticism on the process of social change. So unintentionally you saved lives of more than a few who were thinking of going back home and push the organization's efforts in opening a new front against despotic rule which at the time was nothing less than a mass revolutionary suicide born out of total desperate situation we were in.
So here I am actually thanking you for what at the time I thought was simply cowardice on your part!
We are alos what we've lost
"We are also what we lost"
Where do we start telling our story? Start it from formation of a town may be Northern Iran prior to Arab or Mongol invasions. Bring to light history of resistance against Arab invaders. We've not come up with our version of what happened to our culture, to our psyche as a nation. Whoever writes that story must pay detailed attention to different anti invader freedom seeking movement against Arab and other invaders. There was early work by Sadegh Hedayat to write storied and plays like (maziar). we have to reconstruct a national identity a cultural identity we have to psycho analyze results of what happened to a nation collectively. A national identity out of this discourse which is not victor's version of who we are. We should begin by story of our own families maybe every one of us should begin there, find a voice within our close family,if not a close friend of family. We have to overcome years of dust dust of lies and misinterpretation and outright misleading distorted images drawn by invaders of who we are.
In more recent times we have to overthrow all the distractive propaganda dished out by our so called intellectuals Muslim or no Muslim left in distorting our national identity under guise of so-called proletarian internationalism or political Islam.
Some might argue on positive role of Marxist or pseudo Marxist intellectuals in Iran we should reexamine their practices and work from our main perspective of rebuilding national confidence and identity. Revolutionary or counter revolutionary left alike acted irresponsibly and according to a set prescribe agenda from Comintern or later dominating revisionist parties. Those intellectuals who left tudeh party in early fifties equally failed to achieve or even strive in this direction. Ale ahmad with his total embrace of anti democratic anti nationalist elements put his stamp of approval on historically proven enemies of constitutional revolution and mass movement struggling for emancipation from years of superstiotion, despotism and feudal dominated cultere and economy. We have to reexamine his "socio-feudal" thought and draw from secular and democratic traditions of constitutional revolution. Expose those who sided with the despotic monarch and colonial powers their treacherous activities must be brought in to daylight and be exposed for what it represented. What led intellectuals such as ale Ahmad to reach such conclusion? Was this just a back lash against pro British elements within constitutional revolution or was it just a lopsided caricature of Tudeh party and their bosses in Kremlin which led them to these preposterous positions? We can't sit here on this side of history and lament on what ifs we have to go deep, find roots of our problems. We can't blame our predecessors while we ourselves our carriers of the same disease. If they blindly followed Stalin and Cominform how different have we been in our intellectual attitudes tailing behind this or that international trend. Here we see no originality in either secular or religious circles. We adopt ideas copying this or that fashionable thinking. One prescription cure all or sanke oil approach to delicate particular problems. We easily accept Post Modern thought if one even remotely could pin point what that really is or how it would apyly to our particular conditions.
We are still ignoring our own cultural identity crisis.
Years ago a fried who had just come from France was all Foucault Drida… completely immersed in post modern colors and accent. He was from a small village near masjid soleiman I asked him, do you know people in your village still are wrangling with basic life necessities like drinkable water? They don't have access to any medical facility or are living in shacks? Should we really get lost in these fruitless arguments when as a nation we lag behind basic achievements of modern society.
On the other hand we have Islamists who criticize the nationalists like Malcolm as stooges of western liberalism and chastise them for copying the western thought meanwhile what remains a paradox is that where did they bring their religion from? How they betrayed our national interests and capitulated to British or later Russian colonial powers under guise of "saving Islam from infidels" in face of all historical evidence its amazing how intellectuals were silent or far worse supportive of treacherous role played by major figures such as sheikh Noori. Glorifying lackey of Russian colonialism as hero in anti colonial struggle by prominent intellectuals like ale Ahmad was beginning of an end for responsible intellectual intent.
Al Ahmad hatred of Tudeh party or his impatience for secular liberal inclined project led him to take a social feudal stand, one which we have yet to overcome. His downfall led to continuation of an eclectic path, mixing secular democratic agenda with most reactionary backward elements within democratic movement.
Very few intellectuals stood up to these predominant eclectics of sixties anti monarchist movement. Adding to this dilemma 25 years of despotic rule of U.S sponsored Pahlavi dictatorship. Facto of the matter remains secular project never came to fruition at best it was a mismatch of effort by individual intellectuals. Some genuinely committed in their effort like Hedayat, Kassravi, Dehkhoda and more recent work by mirfetroos.
We have to build on their tradition and move our nation out of the present quagmire of lies and deceit by islamists and their allies. In countries like Sudan, Iran, Pakistan where populace has had first hand taste of theocratic despotic. rule our secular democratic discourse will find many adherents, knowing full well that political Islam's project has hit the thick wall of reality and total bankruptcy of grand façade apparent to so many worldwide.
Where do we start telling our story? Start it from formation of a town may be Northern Iran prior to Arab or Mongol invasions. Bring to light history of resistance against Arab invaders. We've not come up with our version of what happened to our culture, to our psyche as a nation. Whoever writes that story must pay detailed attention to different anti invader freedom seeking movement against Arab and other invaders. There was early work by Sadegh Hedayat to write storied and plays like (maziar). we have to reconstruct a national identity a cultural identity we have to psycho analyze results of what happened to a nation collectively. A national identity out of this discourse which is not victor's version of who we are. We should begin by story of our own families maybe every one of us should begin there, find a voice within our close family,if not a close friend of family. We have to overcome years of dust dust of lies and misinterpretation and outright misleading distorted images drawn by invaders of who we are.
In more recent times we have to overthrow all the distractive propaganda dished out by our so called intellectuals Muslim or no Muslim left in distorting our national identity under guise of so-called proletarian internationalism or political Islam.
Some might argue on positive role of Marxist or pseudo Marxist intellectuals in Iran we should reexamine their practices and work from our main perspective of rebuilding national confidence and identity. Revolutionary or counter revolutionary left alike acted irresponsibly and according to a set prescribe agenda from Comintern or later dominating revisionist parties. Those intellectuals who left tudeh party in early fifties equally failed to achieve or even strive in this direction. Ale ahmad with his total embrace of anti democratic anti nationalist elements put his stamp of approval on historically proven enemies of constitutional revolution and mass movement struggling for emancipation from years of superstiotion, despotism and feudal dominated cultere and economy. We have to reexamine his "socio-feudal" thought and draw from secular and democratic traditions of constitutional revolution. Expose those who sided with the despotic monarch and colonial powers their treacherous activities must be brought in to daylight and be exposed for what it represented. What led intellectuals such as ale Ahmad to reach such conclusion? Was this just a back lash against pro British elements within constitutional revolution or was it just a lopsided caricature of Tudeh party and their bosses in Kremlin which led them to these preposterous positions? We can't sit here on this side of history and lament on what ifs we have to go deep, find roots of our problems. We can't blame our predecessors while we ourselves our carriers of the same disease. If they blindly followed Stalin and Cominform how different have we been in our intellectual attitudes tailing behind this or that international trend. Here we see no originality in either secular or religious circles. We adopt ideas copying this or that fashionable thinking. One prescription cure all or sanke oil approach to delicate particular problems. We easily accept Post Modern thought if one even remotely could pin point what that really is or how it would apyly to our particular conditions.
We are still ignoring our own cultural identity crisis.
Years ago a fried who had just come from France was all Foucault Drida… completely immersed in post modern colors and accent. He was from a small village near masjid soleiman I asked him, do you know people in your village still are wrangling with basic life necessities like drinkable water? They don't have access to any medical facility or are living in shacks? Should we really get lost in these fruitless arguments when as a nation we lag behind basic achievements of modern society.
On the other hand we have Islamists who criticize the nationalists like Malcolm as stooges of western liberalism and chastise them for copying the western thought meanwhile what remains a paradox is that where did they bring their religion from? How they betrayed our national interests and capitulated to British or later Russian colonial powers under guise of "saving Islam from infidels" in face of all historical evidence its amazing how intellectuals were silent or far worse supportive of treacherous role played by major figures such as sheikh Noori. Glorifying lackey of Russian colonialism as hero in anti colonial struggle by prominent intellectuals like ale Ahmad was beginning of an end for responsible intellectual intent.
Al Ahmad hatred of Tudeh party or his impatience for secular liberal inclined project led him to take a social feudal stand, one which we have yet to overcome. His downfall led to continuation of an eclectic path, mixing secular democratic agenda with most reactionary backward elements within democratic movement.
Very few intellectuals stood up to these predominant eclectics of sixties anti monarchist movement. Adding to this dilemma 25 years of despotic rule of U.S sponsored Pahlavi dictatorship. Facto of the matter remains secular project never came to fruition at best it was a mismatch of effort by individual intellectuals. Some genuinely committed in their effort like Hedayat, Kassravi, Dehkhoda and more recent work by mirfetroos.
We have to build on their tradition and move our nation out of the present quagmire of lies and deceit by islamists and their allies. In countries like Sudan, Iran, Pakistan where populace has had first hand taste of theocratic despotic. rule our secular democratic discourse will find many adherents, knowing full well that political Islam's project has hit the thick wall of reality and total bankruptcy of grand façade apparent to so many worldwide.
Sangak
Sangak
Another sleepless night passes, one with memories of you. I don't know why you remain so present so vividly alive so far away geographically and emotionally, maybe some times you feel my presence too or is this only my wishful thinking.
People here are extremely judgmental perhaps its direct results of repression and 30percent unemployment. They are so quick in liking and then hating you. Hate not love, general loss of compassion for life, abuse and neglect not love in relation ships. Generally hateful and uncomfortably numb to what goes on around them. Strange voice from loud speakers spew dusty dogma from Arabian sand dune, you can easily taste the blood and sand in your mouth.
Last week I had an opportunity to go abroad with a relative who is hated for her wealth. Immediately I was scorned and cast aside almost as I f I had collaborated with the enemy. I'd like to see these folks under similar position of power and wealth. I've seen too many of them hiding in ugliness of others. I've seen them brag how they never compromise and yet when confronted by easy chair of power, wealth and comfort, how they melt like snow on a sunny day. Twofaced back stabbing compatriots relative of mine, I guess when you are invaded by hordes of repressive nomadic tribes you have to hide any sign of intelligence to save your life you cheat lie to save your skin for another day. This was collective psychological effect of a desert dwelling culture over taking a once flourishing and civilized nation. Wednesday I went to get my favorite bread its flat bread like most Persian bread but this one is baked in an over with surface of pebbles. Hence it's called Sangak or bread made on pebbles.
Gradually price of bread which is subsidized by government is going up. Think of it skyrocketed like most basic necessities of life. Once in a while you hear some one in line complain and almost every one node in agreement with what has been said, how ever rarely any one says anything in fear of not knowing thinking maybe the one who is voicing or protesting the high prices or government might be a member of security forces.
This is life after leaving you here in a place which could be the most wonderful place on this planet with its natural beauty and people who might once again be as great as they were prior to Arab invasion.
Shirley Horn
Shirley Horne
You told me first time you heard Shirley Horne you called local jazz station and asked them which album was the song from. Next day as poor as you were you went and bought her CD. You liked the music I listened to and except a few wild albums you used to listen to I liked your taste in music too. You were one of few genuine people I had come across in a long time since my days in Berkeley I was amazed by your dedication to revolutionary politics and yes your clear understanding of race and gender issues and the way you despised U.S unjust policies home and abroad.
I'm writing these lines years later, we are living separate lives with all the love we had between us. I'm in a place far away from where I imagined I'd be by Caspian Sea in a villa my dad had built a month before he passed a way. It’s a hot summer nigh almost midnight the sound of waves and Shirley Horne permeate thru my room.
Tonight is another one of those sleepless lonely times you warned me about. In less than a few hours the sound of Moazen calling believers to prayer will mix in with Shirley Horne's beautiful voice, reminding me how far apart we are from each other.
You told me first time you heard Shirley Horne you called local jazz station and asked them which album was the song from. Next day as poor as you were you went and bought her CD. You liked the music I listened to and except a few wild albums you used to listen to I liked your taste in music too. You were one of few genuine people I had come across in a long time since my days in Berkeley I was amazed by your dedication to revolutionary politics and yes your clear understanding of race and gender issues and the way you despised U.S unjust policies home and abroad.
I'm writing these lines years later, we are living separate lives with all the love we had between us. I'm in a place far away from where I imagined I'd be by Caspian Sea in a villa my dad had built a month before he passed a way. It’s a hot summer nigh almost midnight the sound of waves and Shirley Horne permeate thru my room.
Tonight is another one of those sleepless lonely times you warned me about. In less than a few hours the sound of Moazen calling believers to prayer will mix in with Shirley Horne's beautiful voice, reminding me how far apart we are from each other.
Years past YOU
Voice that hunts me
Yours
Oceans away resounding miles, years past you
Cold and lonely
Just like you said it'd be
Days past
Long walks by Caspian Sea
Greeting fishermen braving the stormy sea
Years miles from other side of you
n.tonkaboni
Yours
Oceans away resounding miles, years past you
Cold and lonely
Just like you said it'd be
Days past
Long walks by Caspian Sea
Greeting fishermen braving the stormy sea
Years miles from other side of you
n.tonkaboni
Mentirosos
Mentiroso
Radio playing our favorite tune; remember the one with real raunchy bit to it. Good to salsa with if I only knew how. I watched you dance so many times every time you heard it as if it was your first. I kept asking what she was singing and you said it about cheating lying bastard lover. We both laughed Mentiroso plays on the radio and I can almost see you moving your beautiful face side to side extending your arms asking me to dance with you. What was her name yea Azucar Moreno or something close to it? Real sweet just like sugar like you full of life
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W0S81T41S3Y&feature=related
Radio playing our favorite tune; remember the one with real raunchy bit to it. Good to salsa with if I only knew how. I watched you dance so many times every time you heard it as if it was your first. I kept asking what she was singing and you said it about cheating lying bastard lover. We both laughed Mentiroso plays on the radio and I can almost see you moving your beautiful face side to side extending your arms asking me to dance with you. What was her name yea Azucar Moreno or something close to it? Real sweet just like sugar like you full of life
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W0S81T41S3Y&feature=related
cup of espresso
Cup of espresso
A lmost half inch of crèma on top I lowly poor steamed milk over it in my cup and yes it tastes perfect.
As I was sipping my espresso all this was far from my mind I was enjoying the moment life living it for a change I was in the Zen of drinking my cup of espresso. Really didn't care who thought of what I was doing whether it was kosher halal or haram , didn't care about the past or the future. Just enjoying my cup of coffee or a cup of macchiato now that I'm labeled westerner I was drinking as if it was my last cup.
If those fanatics want to label me a westernized let it be so , however lets remind them things they label western like coffee, has its roots and origins here long before we were banned by Savafid rulers on us thru their barbaric intimidation, first closing coffee houses which to this day are called ghahvehkhooneh with one difference they only serve tea!!!
Or the tie they despise as signature of being westernized is actually derived from Muslim Croat regiment during crusade who wore a similar scarf to tie in time of battle. Since then gradually this tie or Cravat became a part of western attire.
Simple pleasures of life, it’s a cup of espresso after 8 months of not drinking good coffee it's bliss.
You only value things only in their absence, thinking how many cups of coffee I didn't enjoy, how I silenced my emotions my joy, cause of something which at the moment I thought was more important. Come to think of it I didn't appreciate people in my life either some how the cause or resistance as we used to call it was of more importance meanwhile we lost sight of real human emotions. We became people who couldn't really connect with the world around us.
A lmost half inch of crèma on top I lowly poor steamed milk over it in my cup and yes it tastes perfect.
As I was sipping my espresso all this was far from my mind I was enjoying the moment life living it for a change I was in the Zen of drinking my cup of espresso. Really didn't care who thought of what I was doing whether it was kosher halal or haram , didn't care about the past or the future. Just enjoying my cup of coffee or a cup of macchiato now that I'm labeled westerner I was drinking as if it was my last cup.
If those fanatics want to label me a westernized let it be so , however lets remind them things they label western like coffee, has its roots and origins here long before we were banned by Savafid rulers on us thru their barbaric intimidation, first closing coffee houses which to this day are called ghahvehkhooneh with one difference they only serve tea!!!
Or the tie they despise as signature of being westernized is actually derived from Muslim Croat regiment during crusade who wore a similar scarf to tie in time of battle. Since then gradually this tie or Cravat became a part of western attire.
Simple pleasures of life, it’s a cup of espresso after 8 months of not drinking good coffee it's bliss.
You only value things only in their absence, thinking how many cups of coffee I didn't enjoy, how I silenced my emotions my joy, cause of something which at the moment I thought was more important. Come to think of it I didn't appreciate people in my life either some how the cause or resistance as we used to call it was of more importance meanwhile we lost sight of real human emotions. We became people who couldn't really connect with the world around us.
Going West
Going west
End of summer 1976, it seems as if we are all from a village that doesn't have a school for us to continue our education. A mass migration of sort, we are leaving at going away good bye parties disco music blares out of loud popular 8 track stereos as we dance our last dances and eat our last of good home made meals which will miss for many years to come. Also a time of separation from first loves which some will never see again. We take bits and pieces of home with us some even taking cans of classic dishes in a vain attempt to have a little comfort and familiarity of home with us. However this fades away quickly. Replaced by cheap campus self service food. Ending any hope of recreating a home environment abroad. Years later in places like Los Angeles or London few restaurants pop up and gradually they become centers of Iranian gathering. Hence in comparison we accepted western ways of life and culture much faster than people who moved abroad after us. They even showed certain resistance to us and our way of life at times criticizing us for our being assimilated and westernized. Every aspect of life seemed different marked with limitless freedom. When I got to London I befriended Aram who was also a distant relative. My friend was suffering from manic depression and I think schizophrenia a few years older than me, he was a communist I'd seen pictures of five men on the wall of his room in an aristocratic home his father had purchased for him and his mother and sister. Later I found out that they were portrait five major leaders of communist movement done on silk Meslm. His devotion was s almost like a pious catholic or Muslim who believes in saints and martyrs. However this is one world he conjures and lives in, remnant of his early teens in U.S where he joined confederation of Iranian students. Confederation was a very active organization struggling to overthrow despotic monarchy in Iran. An unwanted consequence of pro west despotic oligarchy's need for technocrats which had let to creation of a rather large community of opponents in the heart of it's main sponsor of torture and horror.
Aram was a gentle soul who was exposed to politics at early age and like most youth became disillusioned after a few years of active participation. He felt comfortable wit me and had allowed me in his world. We would go to see movies and some times pay visit to Piccadilly SQ. Whore houses where he felt more at ease than actually dating women and going to discos which were quite popular at the time. He shattered god image of "king of kings" and to certain degree my belief in Islam. Once while I was staying at their house we smelled something burning in the back yard, there we found him pouring kerosene over an already burning picture of his majesty and a copy of Quran. He turned to us as if he was making a speech in front of a large audience and shouted " by burning these symbols of darkness and superstition I'm burning all rigid beliefs …" and started singing an old anthem which he later told me was an anthem of officer's organization of Tudeh party. Which he believed was the sole fruition of 1950's revolutionary movement in Iran. I was sixteen and this information mostly passed thru me going to discos. Freedom of dating girls and staying out late was thrilling. London in those years was not as diverse as today, however women in discos or my school were open minded. There were remnants of sixties free love and counter culture still evident and presently alive. There was high tension between I R A and occupying British forces. Intensified bombings and terror tactics by IRA had London police body search people before entering public places such as discos. None of this really sank in, we were young and from middle class had money in our pockets and were enjoying our time. I came across a few books by supporter of opigf and translated Farsi edition of works by Marx, Engels, Lenin and Mao in old Chinese neighborhood in London. But they really didn't make any sense due to the fact that I was illiterate in political economy terminology. However aloof we were we didn't like the repression of political dissent back home.
I'd heard my father showing resentment towards Pahlavi's's despotism at times making fun of their national anthem or their ridiculous pompous ceremonies such as the farce of celebrating 2500 years of monarchy in Persepolis. He was a heart and lungs specialist (Bronchologist) he had first hand experience with true life of people especially downtrodden and poor who were prime victim of tuberculosis. Hence for him these ravish careless splurges seemed scandalous. Through him I had heard of life in Europe mainly Southern Italians and their charming ways of life, their kindness and realness, their wonderful cuisine. In early 70s Iran we were stamped by superficial emulation of American life style. Our adaptation of west was on surface never going to depths of counter culture of sixties in Europe and America. Youth would grow long hair and listen to Lennon, Dylan or Crosby stills, Nash, and young or Pink Floyd without really grasping what they stood for. We lacked any understanding of anti war movement of youth or sympathies shown in French student movement towards people dominated by west.
End of summer 1976, it seems as if we are all from a village that doesn't have a school for us to continue our education. A mass migration of sort, we are leaving at going away good bye parties disco music blares out of loud popular 8 track stereos as we dance our last dances and eat our last of good home made meals which will miss for many years to come. Also a time of separation from first loves which some will never see again. We take bits and pieces of home with us some even taking cans of classic dishes in a vain attempt to have a little comfort and familiarity of home with us. However this fades away quickly. Replaced by cheap campus self service food. Ending any hope of recreating a home environment abroad. Years later in places like Los Angeles or London few restaurants pop up and gradually they become centers of Iranian gathering. Hence in comparison we accepted western ways of life and culture much faster than people who moved abroad after us. They even showed certain resistance to us and our way of life at times criticizing us for our being assimilated and westernized. Every aspect of life seemed different marked with limitless freedom. When I got to London I befriended Aram who was also a distant relative. My friend was suffering from manic depression and I think schizophrenia a few years older than me, he was a communist I'd seen pictures of five men on the wall of his room in an aristocratic home his father had purchased for him and his mother and sister. Later I found out that they were portrait five major leaders of communist movement done on silk Meslm. His devotion was s almost like a pious catholic or Muslim who believes in saints and martyrs. However this is one world he conjures and lives in, remnant of his early teens in U.S where he joined confederation of Iranian students. Confederation was a very active organization struggling to overthrow despotic monarchy in Iran. An unwanted consequence of pro west despotic oligarchy's need for technocrats which had let to creation of a rather large community of opponents in the heart of it's main sponsor of torture and horror.
Aram was a gentle soul who was exposed to politics at early age and like most youth became disillusioned after a few years of active participation. He felt comfortable wit me and had allowed me in his world. We would go to see movies and some times pay visit to Piccadilly SQ. Whore houses where he felt more at ease than actually dating women and going to discos which were quite popular at the time. He shattered god image of "king of kings" and to certain degree my belief in Islam. Once while I was staying at their house we smelled something burning in the back yard, there we found him pouring kerosene over an already burning picture of his majesty and a copy of Quran. He turned to us as if he was making a speech in front of a large audience and shouted " by burning these symbols of darkness and superstition I'm burning all rigid beliefs …" and started singing an old anthem which he later told me was an anthem of officer's organization of Tudeh party. Which he believed was the sole fruition of 1950's revolutionary movement in Iran. I was sixteen and this information mostly passed thru me going to discos. Freedom of dating girls and staying out late was thrilling. London in those years was not as diverse as today, however women in discos or my school were open minded. There were remnants of sixties free love and counter culture still evident and presently alive. There was high tension between I R A and occupying British forces. Intensified bombings and terror tactics by IRA had London police body search people before entering public places such as discos. None of this really sank in, we were young and from middle class had money in our pockets and were enjoying our time. I came across a few books by supporter of opigf and translated Farsi edition of works by Marx, Engels, Lenin and Mao in old Chinese neighborhood in London. But they really didn't make any sense due to the fact that I was illiterate in political economy terminology. However aloof we were we didn't like the repression of political dissent back home.
I'd heard my father showing resentment towards Pahlavi's's despotism at times making fun of their national anthem or their ridiculous pompous ceremonies such as the farce of celebrating 2500 years of monarchy in Persepolis. He was a heart and lungs specialist (Bronchologist) he had first hand experience with true life of people especially downtrodden and poor who were prime victim of tuberculosis. Hence for him these ravish careless splurges seemed scandalous. Through him I had heard of life in Europe mainly Southern Italians and their charming ways of life, their kindness and realness, their wonderful cuisine. In early 70s Iran we were stamped by superficial emulation of American life style. Our adaptation of west was on surface never going to depths of counter culture of sixties in Europe and America. Youth would grow long hair and listen to Lennon, Dylan or Crosby stills, Nash, and young or Pink Floyd without really grasping what they stood for. We lacked any understanding of anti war movement of youth or sympathies shown in French student movement towards people dominated by west.
Our saviours
Our saviors
We were in awe of their lectures at UC Berkeley; they were mainly Iranian student graduates of Berkeley or other major universities who had made it out alive out of Iran after 1982 coup. Similar to our own predicament they had fled Iran thru Turkey or Pakistan borders.
Their situation was a bit different than ours they were accepted in academic circles therefore steady job was provided them once they made it back to US. Their interpretation of events political, literary, economic life significantly affected our small community of exiles.
Their take on our demise considerably mattered to many of us who had become disoriented, depressed and disillusioned, any voice of reason which tried to make sense of it all was welcomed. Among them Ali's thought was refreshing and inspiring. Simply by moving our attention from the miserable state we were in his lectures on love, psychological interpretation of one thousand one night discussions of recent literary works by current authors in Iran were all wonderful playful ploy crafted to move us to a different realm of magic and playful childish enchantment. His lectures returned us to a world that was familiar the world many of us had lost in our early teens to lofty ideals which we had sheepishly accepted as eternal universal truth. For a group that had been shocked to their core, who had lost their precious dear comrades some in front of their own eyes either in the war with Iraq or in battles with the reactionaries in power.
We were suffering from PTSD just the humiliating journey which took many of us thru turkey and Pakistan. Life for a few years under guise UNCHR and scraps of aid they provided refugees was enough to leave deep emotional scars on your soul. Add to this pressure from a holier than thou group among us who were pushing this notion that we had become soft and that we must go back regroup and continue resistance. They'd attack others as westernized, passive or worse resort to other derogatory slurs and innuendos found in their artillery of demeaning terminology. When asked seriously what their plans were they'd put a real serious face on and talk security and importance of keeping plans secret. They lacked any originality like most of us lost without a clue on what had really happened in the past few years. In light of such experiences many of us were brought back to life by these lectures. It was life reaffirming process which brought us back from a state of malaise and indifference to one of actually feeling life and yes in some cases joining and continuing the resistance. Their efforts saved lives, our lives.
Only if this community of support could embrace a larger group political exiles many more could have been saved. We lost so many dear friends to depression, suicide, alcoholism… or just giving up and living unhappy lives. We should be grateful to our friends who had clarity of vision in those decisive years to see necessities of our new situation. They made it clear to continue on suicidal path of armed struggle would lead to further annihilation of a generation who had the dedication and commitment to social change. To lose more from this generation was loss of remnants of that period of revolutionary optimism .
Gratitude and thank them for saving my life and life of many more
We were in awe of their lectures at UC Berkeley; they were mainly Iranian student graduates of Berkeley or other major universities who had made it out alive out of Iran after 1982 coup. Similar to our own predicament they had fled Iran thru Turkey or Pakistan borders.
Their situation was a bit different than ours they were accepted in academic circles therefore steady job was provided them once they made it back to US. Their interpretation of events political, literary, economic life significantly affected our small community of exiles.
Their take on our demise considerably mattered to many of us who had become disoriented, depressed and disillusioned, any voice of reason which tried to make sense of it all was welcomed. Among them Ali's thought was refreshing and inspiring. Simply by moving our attention from the miserable state we were in his lectures on love, psychological interpretation of one thousand one night discussions of recent literary works by current authors in Iran were all wonderful playful ploy crafted to move us to a different realm of magic and playful childish enchantment. His lectures returned us to a world that was familiar the world many of us had lost in our early teens to lofty ideals which we had sheepishly accepted as eternal universal truth. For a group that had been shocked to their core, who had lost their precious dear comrades some in front of their own eyes either in the war with Iraq or in battles with the reactionaries in power.
We were suffering from PTSD just the humiliating journey which took many of us thru turkey and Pakistan. Life for a few years under guise UNCHR and scraps of aid they provided refugees was enough to leave deep emotional scars on your soul. Add to this pressure from a holier than thou group among us who were pushing this notion that we had become soft and that we must go back regroup and continue resistance. They'd attack others as westernized, passive or worse resort to other derogatory slurs and innuendos found in their artillery of demeaning terminology. When asked seriously what their plans were they'd put a real serious face on and talk security and importance of keeping plans secret. They lacked any originality like most of us lost without a clue on what had really happened in the past few years. In light of such experiences many of us were brought back to life by these lectures. It was life reaffirming process which brought us back from a state of malaise and indifference to one of actually feeling life and yes in some cases joining and continuing the resistance. Their efforts saved lives, our lives.
Only if this community of support could embrace a larger group political exiles many more could have been saved. We lost so many dear friends to depression, suicide, alcoholism… or just giving up and living unhappy lives. We should be grateful to our friends who had clarity of vision in those decisive years to see necessities of our new situation. They made it clear to continue on suicidal path of armed struggle would lead to further annihilation of a generation who had the dedication and commitment to social change. To lose more from this generation was loss of remnants of that period of revolutionary optimism .
Gratitude and thank them for saving my life and life of many more
Memories and anti memories
Memories and anti memories
Julian cannonball mixes well with the sound of rain fall and storm coming over Caspian that shakes the old walnut tree outside my window. From the town I can hear the voice of Moazen who sounds strange and distant over loud speakers where maybe a century ago my grandfather's father was the ….. of the mosque. Even thou from a religious family I'm not that religious for that matter I can't remember when was the last time I prayed. My father was an atheist and in those shaky years of uncertain dominance of secularism I don't remember ever school authorities or others hold a mass prayer. I'd seen my grand mother praying for a long time first her daily prayers and then reading of quran which she didn't understand but was able to read the words. Girls of well to do families were allowed to learn Arabic reading and writing but that was solely for purpose of reciting Ayeh from Quran without actually understanding the content. For some clerics to understand the meaning of what was said in Quran could lead to sacrilegious thoughts and agnosticism. I'd see her pray whenever we'd go for summer vacation. She'd wake up in early morning light before everyone woke up and I'd join her in her solitude and wait for her to finish and then she'd go get a few fresh eggs from the hen house and boil them for my breakfast. When I finally made it back after almost 30 years of exile first morning after so many years I heard this familiar voice one call to prayer by a Moazenzadeh. For a moment I was taken back to days before escaping to Europe. However this strange voice from the mosque this call to prayer is different it has an Arabic tone to it while the old Moazen zadeh's call to prayer was based on Iranian traditional music. i was thinking why they'd use this call to prayer over the old one. The content is the same while one has roots in Persian music and has connection to a time prior to fiasco they call Islamic revolution. There is nothing familiar and that's exactly why it is used, the real enemy for despots and totalitarian regimes is memory. Memory causes comparing what used to be and what exists. Hence memory and those who have memories of a time that religion was of meditative and personal value
Julian cannonball mixes well with the sound of rain fall and storm coming over Caspian that shakes the old walnut tree outside my window. From the town I can hear the voice of Moazen who sounds strange and distant over loud speakers where maybe a century ago my grandfather's father was the ….. of the mosque. Even thou from a religious family I'm not that religious for that matter I can't remember when was the last time I prayed. My father was an atheist and in those shaky years of uncertain dominance of secularism I don't remember ever school authorities or others hold a mass prayer. I'd seen my grand mother praying for a long time first her daily prayers and then reading of quran which she didn't understand but was able to read the words. Girls of well to do families were allowed to learn Arabic reading and writing but that was solely for purpose of reciting Ayeh from Quran without actually understanding the content. For some clerics to understand the meaning of what was said in Quran could lead to sacrilegious thoughts and agnosticism. I'd see her pray whenever we'd go for summer vacation. She'd wake up in early morning light before everyone woke up and I'd join her in her solitude and wait for her to finish and then she'd go get a few fresh eggs from the hen house and boil them for my breakfast. When I finally made it back after almost 30 years of exile first morning after so many years I heard this familiar voice one call to prayer by a Moazenzadeh. For a moment I was taken back to days before escaping to Europe. However this strange voice from the mosque this call to prayer is different it has an Arabic tone to it while the old Moazen zadeh's call to prayer was based on Iranian traditional music. i was thinking why they'd use this call to prayer over the old one. The content is the same while one has roots in Persian music and has connection to a time prior to fiasco they call Islamic revolution. There is nothing familiar and that's exactly why it is used, the real enemy for despots and totalitarian regimes is memory. Memory causes comparing what used to be and what exists. Hence memory and those who have memories of a time that religion was of meditative and personal value
Jome Bazar
Friday flea market in Tehran
We are creatures of our habits ever since I moved to Berkeley on Saturday s I'd found myself at Ashby BART station flea market. Especially in lonelier times when most friends had moved from Berkeley and forever friendships were broken up by realities of life, moving for jobs back East or simply basis for friendships change most important of all people change.
I'd spend an hour or so getting basic necessities and at times quite unnecessary watches, fountain pens, nice bottles or cheap art works or music and later on fascination with older books first editions or simply interesting books.
Years have passed I finally have made my way back home I go to a Friday market in Tehran in one of the oldest parts of this mega city. Once this area was hub nub of elite, intellectuals, government and technocrats few theaters and hotels. Further up the street Housing embassies of major powers. Laleh Zar Used to have a Great shopping district which provided latest fashion, great restaurants and café's. Now especially after February insurrection of 1979 it has definitely lost its lure like most of this once vibrant live city.
I come here once a month covering my loneliness and in a way am trying to reconnect to the past I left behind once February insurrection happened to us like a horrible accident a horrifying explosion of sort which threw us all over the world separated and disconnected, even here when in epicenter of the devastating event.
Last time I was there I found this toy fire truck similar to which my mother had bought me when I was eight or nine years old. I guess others come here for the same reason as me searching for the past they've lost. We search for the lost years the lost people the burnt years the burnt people we all have them.
The burnt years of our lives are silenced in high pitch sound of sellers and haggling of customers. We've all lost precious moments and people in our lives, we come here to silence the disturbing sound outside, quietly we lament our lost unattainable past.
We are creatures of our habits ever since I moved to Berkeley on Saturday s I'd found myself at Ashby BART station flea market. Especially in lonelier times when most friends had moved from Berkeley and forever friendships were broken up by realities of life, moving for jobs back East or simply basis for friendships change most important of all people change.
I'd spend an hour or so getting basic necessities and at times quite unnecessary watches, fountain pens, nice bottles or cheap art works or music and later on fascination with older books first editions or simply interesting books.
Years have passed I finally have made my way back home I go to a Friday market in Tehran in one of the oldest parts of this mega city. Once this area was hub nub of elite, intellectuals, government and technocrats few theaters and hotels. Further up the street Housing embassies of major powers. Laleh Zar Used to have a Great shopping district which provided latest fashion, great restaurants and café's. Now especially after February insurrection of 1979 it has definitely lost its lure like most of this once vibrant live city.
I come here once a month covering my loneliness and in a way am trying to reconnect to the past I left behind once February insurrection happened to us like a horrible accident a horrifying explosion of sort which threw us all over the world separated and disconnected, even here when in epicenter of the devastating event.
Last time I was there I found this toy fire truck similar to which my mother had bought me when I was eight or nine years old. I guess others come here for the same reason as me searching for the past they've lost. We search for the lost years the lost people the burnt years the burnt people we all have them.
The burnt years of our lives are silenced in high pitch sound of sellers and haggling of customers. We've all lost precious moments and people in our lives, we come here to silence the disturbing sound outside, quietly we lament our lost unattainable past.
Hitting the jackpot!!!
It's quite difficult to detect his barely noticeable northern Iranian accent. We are sitting in bar coffee shop some where near the MIT campus. My friend farhad is enjoying his amber lager specialty of this bar he drinks up last of what is left in the pitcher and immediately orders another one fearing I might fall behind. We are ordering our second pitcher of amber lager they say its Irish brewed and since its an Irish bar and it gets you tipsy after the first pitcher it really doesn't matter what it is if they poured some cheap domestic bear and added some color you'd drink it and say oh its for sure Irish. Last I remember farhad was in Santa Monica where he totally got depressed and had a nervous breakdown. He was played with by a scoundrel, cock teasing wife a friend. He was ashamed for his role in the fiasco and took the blame for the affair. This completely jeopardized his own family his wife and children in the process. Finally it was Taraneh his wife who took charge moved the family to Boston a secluded area of town. She wanted to be in an academic environment similar to one in Santa Monica. We had a close nit community of friends before this incident working hard and really tried to figure out what went wrong on weekends and that usually meant drinking from Friday night straight to Sunday almost every one joined in shipwrecked small community of exiles who were in mourning loss of friends who were recently executed but moreover we were mourning our own lives our own state of hopeless, ineffective lives. When you fly high, the fall is fatal.
He says: " so commander where do we go from here."
I can barely hear what he says, its hard to talk over loud rock a Billy Mark Knopfler song calling Elvis… for a moment I remember days in Santa Monica when he was not so pathetically morbid and so morally broke. Quite different when we heard friends and comrades in arms exectuted or died in battles with government forces. I also witnessed their demise, depression and complete deterioration politically and ideologically.
I'm not a commander I answer harshly I just took orders from people who were commanding. I was a good foot soldier really believing commanders like you. He laughs yea you are right, but we gave the leadership to a new generation to carry forward. I mean what do you expect from us? "
I think of so many things like decency, dedication, leadership and most important of all not to fuck your best friend's wife! But I refrain; I'm too drunk to get in to this argument now. So I say forget it how is life now are you happy are you content here?
He laughs content? Way beyond that I've hit the jack pot! I ask him what you mean.
"Well I've married a woman who has every thing I ever dreamed of, she is intelligent hard working, owns her own house and yet she knows her place within our culture and loves me. What else can a man want? It's been almost two years since we lost most of our friends and to feel happy is something I can't even pretend to be. How ever I say congratulations I'm happy for you, cheers and drink up.
By know we have finished the third pitcher of lager and we are both quite drunk. He asks "what's bothering you? Are you still mourning her loss fuck it man be happy start living." "You think we'd do any different if we had come to power? Good we didn't we'd fuck over a whole generation of people who stood or tried to stand in our wad. If you thought they were repressive …" I jump in his sorry in break his line of sorry excuses and say: I don't know but tell me about Monir, he shouts back fuck I knew you'd ask that. Well she was wife of one our best friends and you fucked her. He responds half drunk: "no I didn't"
Surprisingly I ask no?
He laughs and says: " no she fucked me I mean really messed me up, she was the one who came on to me. She was well aware of serious problems between me and Taraneh but she came to try me out. See how it would be with an older man and as this grew we were actually planning on our future together maybe move from California go east we thought at firs. She knew that my father had left me some money here she was young and very ambitious, tired of our meaningless political harangues. She wanted a better life for herself I was in my early forties may be I was more sensitive than her husband with a guaranteed future. None the less I still believe she was the one who seduced me. Admit it she has that ability she doesn't look much or that hot but she was young and you know we are weak when it comes to that. She gave and I mean really gave and I too k it without any thought. And when shit hit the fan it was beyond any ones control. "
He takes a dip hit of smoke and as he exhales the smoke asks "was your father a happy man?"
I'm taken back by his question and say: no come to think of it. If I had his life, his bitter experiences I wouldn't be happy either. He went thru so much I mean if we compare he went thru oil nationalization , Tudeh party fiasco, the coup and betrayal of its central committee. Then he was part of the leadership that stood their ground and tried to fight back the CIA sponsored coup they were defeated and he live in jungles up north, came to Tehran and was arrested but the junta couldn't tie him to the leadership. He was released after facing the worse time of torture and execution of Tudeh and other forces of resistance. After a few months of freedom due to stupidity of his brother his connection to Tudeh central committee was exposed and he was arrested went to prison and faced most horrid year of his life in then notorious ghezel hessar prison.
Like he has found something precious he jumps and says: " that’s fucking it. How in the world you think my father was he was broken down just the same maybe not as sever as your father but none the less he was a pessimist and bitter. This hopelessness effects next generations. It poisons family life. Family is where one is nourished like a plant in good soil. As a child you need to see love you need to hear laughter you need to feel hope generosity morality and optimism. All the good things in life and what we got was the opposite so you think my children or yours be happy when they start families of their own?"
I don't see Farhad as a "mother fucker" what he repeated saying till he was blue when things got out of control back in California. He was trying to take blame for his affair with Monir.
He continues: " I created hell for my wife and kids I just hope the you will move and not be dragged in quagmire of my hopelessness and despair. "
For once he is actually letting go of himself and his selfish ways. But I can't help and interject so now we have to blame our fathers for our weaknesses and shortcoming in life.
"no I didn't say blame. I'm not blaming anyone I'm saying we are by product of our social environment and conditions. If you grow in a nourishing environment in the ideal place you become that, you perpetuate growth, hope and optimism. That's all"
I agree nodding my head in agreement I say but still we have a responsibility as individuals. We can't go on and behave irresponsibly and then say well my father was like that or mother was so. I ask him do you really believe if you father was an optimist you'd resist Monir seduction. He shrugs his shoulder finishes what's left of his beer and walks toward the exit door. That was last I saw Farhad last I heard he had become a very successful developer as he liked to phrase it returned to his class base and I often question if we ever really left it?!
It's quite difficult to detect his barely noticeable northern Iranian accent. We are sitting in bar coffee shop some where near the MIT campus. My friend farhad is enjoying his amber lager specialty of this bar he drinks up last of what is left in the pitcher and immediately orders another one fearing I might fall behind. We are ordering our second pitcher of amber lager they say its Irish brewed and since its an Irish bar and it gets you tipsy after the first pitcher it really doesn't matter what it is if they poured some cheap domestic bear and added some color you'd drink it and say oh its for sure Irish. Last I remember farhad was in Santa Monica where he totally got depressed and had a nervous breakdown. He was played with by a scoundrel, cock teasing wife a friend. He was ashamed for his role in the fiasco and took the blame for the affair. This completely jeopardized his own family his wife and children in the process. Finally it was Taraneh his wife who took charge moved the family to Boston a secluded area of town. She wanted to be in an academic environment similar to one in Santa Monica. We had a close nit community of friends before this incident working hard and really tried to figure out what went wrong on weekends and that usually meant drinking from Friday night straight to Sunday almost every one joined in shipwrecked small community of exiles who were in mourning loss of friends who were recently executed but moreover we were mourning our own lives our own state of hopeless, ineffective lives. When you fly high, the fall is fatal.
He says: " so commander where do we go from here."
I can barely hear what he says, its hard to talk over loud rock a Billy Mark Knopfler song calling Elvis… for a moment I remember days in Santa Monica when he was not so pathetically morbid and so morally broke. Quite different when we heard friends and comrades in arms exectuted or died in battles with government forces. I also witnessed their demise, depression and complete deterioration politically and ideologically.
I'm not a commander I answer harshly I just took orders from people who were commanding. I was a good foot soldier really believing commanders like you. He laughs yea you are right, but we gave the leadership to a new generation to carry forward. I mean what do you expect from us? "
I think of so many things like decency, dedication, leadership and most important of all not to fuck your best friend's wife! But I refrain; I'm too drunk to get in to this argument now. So I say forget it how is life now are you happy are you content here?
He laughs content? Way beyond that I've hit the jack pot! I ask him what you mean.
"Well I've married a woman who has every thing I ever dreamed of, she is intelligent hard working, owns her own house and yet she knows her place within our culture and loves me. What else can a man want? It's been almost two years since we lost most of our friends and to feel happy is something I can't even pretend to be. How ever I say congratulations I'm happy for you, cheers and drink up.
By know we have finished the third pitcher of lager and we are both quite drunk. He asks "what's bothering you? Are you still mourning her loss fuck it man be happy start living." "You think we'd do any different if we had come to power? Good we didn't we'd fuck over a whole generation of people who stood or tried to stand in our wad. If you thought they were repressive …" I jump in his sorry in break his line of sorry excuses and say: I don't know but tell me about Monir, he shouts back fuck I knew you'd ask that. Well she was wife of one our best friends and you fucked her. He responds half drunk: "no I didn't"
Surprisingly I ask no?
He laughs and says: " no she fucked me I mean really messed me up, she was the one who came on to me. She was well aware of serious problems between me and Taraneh but she came to try me out. See how it would be with an older man and as this grew we were actually planning on our future together maybe move from California go east we thought at firs. She knew that my father had left me some money here she was young and very ambitious, tired of our meaningless political harangues. She wanted a better life for herself I was in my early forties may be I was more sensitive than her husband with a guaranteed future. None the less I still believe she was the one who seduced me. Admit it she has that ability she doesn't look much or that hot but she was young and you know we are weak when it comes to that. She gave and I mean really gave and I too k it without any thought. And when shit hit the fan it was beyond any ones control. "
He takes a dip hit of smoke and as he exhales the smoke asks "was your father a happy man?"
I'm taken back by his question and say: no come to think of it. If I had his life, his bitter experiences I wouldn't be happy either. He went thru so much I mean if we compare he went thru oil nationalization , Tudeh party fiasco, the coup and betrayal of its central committee. Then he was part of the leadership that stood their ground and tried to fight back the CIA sponsored coup they were defeated and he live in jungles up north, came to Tehran and was arrested but the junta couldn't tie him to the leadership. He was released after facing the worse time of torture and execution of Tudeh and other forces of resistance. After a few months of freedom due to stupidity of his brother his connection to Tudeh central committee was exposed and he was arrested went to prison and faced most horrid year of his life in then notorious ghezel hessar prison.
Like he has found something precious he jumps and says: " that’s fucking it. How in the world you think my father was he was broken down just the same maybe not as sever as your father but none the less he was a pessimist and bitter. This hopelessness effects next generations. It poisons family life. Family is where one is nourished like a plant in good soil. As a child you need to see love you need to hear laughter you need to feel hope generosity morality and optimism. All the good things in life and what we got was the opposite so you think my children or yours be happy when they start families of their own?"
I don't see Farhad as a "mother fucker" what he repeated saying till he was blue when things got out of control back in California. He was trying to take blame for his affair with Monir.
He continues: " I created hell for my wife and kids I just hope the you will move and not be dragged in quagmire of my hopelessness and despair. "
For once he is actually letting go of himself and his selfish ways. But I can't help and interject so now we have to blame our fathers for our weaknesses and shortcoming in life.
"no I didn't say blame. I'm not blaming anyone I'm saying we are by product of our social environment and conditions. If you grow in a nourishing environment in the ideal place you become that, you perpetuate growth, hope and optimism. That's all"
I agree nodding my head in agreement I say but still we have a responsibility as individuals. We can't go on and behave irresponsibly and then say well my father was like that or mother was so. I ask him do you really believe if you father was an optimist you'd resist Monir seduction. He shrugs his shoulder finishes what's left of his beer and walks toward the exit door. That was last I saw Farhad last I heard he had become a very successful developer as he liked to phrase it returned to his class base and I often question if we ever really left it?!
Made in Japan
Made in Japan
There a re moments when you start noticing things around you. It might be your father's car , a house hold item like a mixer in the kitchen or refrigerator. For me it was the refrigerator in my uncle's home when there was no electricity in his home our ancestral home. It worked with kerosene. It amazed me how some thing which burned kerosene would produce ice. Especially in hot and humid Caspian summers it was such luxury to have a cold Canada Dry my drink of choice. When electricity came to this village I'd see fans made in Japan in my uncle's house or my dad's cousin. To own made in Japan items then was a luxury. They had National bran fans, Samsung radios and later on when my uncle bought a Schwab Lawrence TV close family and friends would gather every night to watch U.S television programs like long running Payton Place and for us kids there was Bewitched or various cartoons. Every one young and old would sit in large guest room sip tea and not blink an eye lid watching their favorite show. Gradually every family bought their own TV and on Payton Place nights fewer and fewer showed up. Made in Japan TVs put an End to a long held tradition of visiting family after dinner time.
There a re moments when you start noticing things around you. It might be your father's car , a house hold item like a mixer in the kitchen or refrigerator. For me it was the refrigerator in my uncle's home when there was no electricity in his home our ancestral home. It worked with kerosene. It amazed me how some thing which burned kerosene would produce ice. Especially in hot and humid Caspian summers it was such luxury to have a cold Canada Dry my drink of choice. When electricity came to this village I'd see fans made in Japan in my uncle's house or my dad's cousin. To own made in Japan items then was a luxury. They had National bran fans, Samsung radios and later on when my uncle bought a Schwab Lawrence TV close family and friends would gather every night to watch U.S television programs like long running Payton Place and for us kids there was Bewitched or various cartoons. Every one young and old would sit in large guest room sip tea and not blink an eye lid watching their favorite show. Gradually every family bought their own TV and on Payton Place nights fewer and fewer showed up. Made in Japan TVs put an End to a long held tradition of visiting family after dinner time.
Monica
Monica
I never told her aboutMonica. Maybe I didn't want to make her feel there was some one else whom I loved not as mush her but definitely loved. Lorna came to California with her parents after September 11of 1973 CIA coup which installed Augusto Pinochet in power. Her father a very well known British banker and her mom from Chile to this day I can't remember which town. When she first told me her father was quite wealthy a banker financier of sort it sounded awkward that a wealthy family had escaped after the coup. Apparently her mom had a brother who was part of Allende government; he was arrested in the days after the coup, taken in to custody and never heard from again like many who perished in Santiago soccer stadium. They had some sympathy towards the Allende government and that was enough flee the country after the coup. Lorna was kind and generous in early stages of her political awakening; she was studying political science and logic at Berkeley. I had just separated and was working two shifts a day one at a print shop owned and operated by a group of friends and at night worked at a café in Cody's bookstore on telegraph avenue. We became good friends at first spending most of the time off work and later at night going to la Pena a political cultural center on Shattuck Avenue in Berkeley run by a group of Chilean and other Latin American political exiles. She was barely 16 when she left Chile now in her early twenties she often remembered those days of upheaval and often wondered what happened to her family to her revolutionary uncle who was murdered by Pinochet and CIA trained henchmen. After a tiring night at work she asked me if I wanted to come over, I knew she is dating some one but I was not sure if they were still together. So I accepted and jokingly said what are you going to make for dinner, she laughed with her eyes glowing and said let me surprise you. I walked to her apt after work it wasn't that far from campus above a furniture store. I rang the bell she appeared from the window she motioned to be quite and threw me a key to enter. She opened the door gave me a warm long hug like we had not seen each other for the longest time. I held her in my arms and as we ended the long embrace she held my hand in hers taking me to the kitchen where she was making empanadas. She asked me to open a nice bottle of merlot she had brought from her parents house they lived not far from Berkeley about 20 miles or so. She could commute but she preferred this small studio which she had taken over the lease from a close friend who was a basq and probably an ETA member which was quite active at the time. She was so different, yes challenging definitely different in the way question the way thing were. We drank the bottle of merlot and ate most of empanadas. She asked me if I could stay the night we went to her bed and talked and held each other till morning. We were both afraid of the future, we had found in each other something precious which we thought might be threatened by having sex, we didn't want to lose what we had. Love like that was hard to find we shared so much in our beliefs in our way of life. She was from a well to do family, she could have had anything she wanted but she chose working hard while at Berkeley her philosophy of life was simple. Live simply so others could simply live. Her apt was furnished by furniture that was left by Martha her basq friend on the wall there was a poster of a painting by Frida Kahlo the one in which she is knifed by Diego. She is open to new literary works she loved Kundera most specially his unbearable lightness of being maybe she knew what's in our future. In Berkeley of those days one could still be inspired to dream to write to try to live other way than the competitive life of get rich quick. How ever people fail they adopt what seems normal and acceptable by all. Main test for many students comes after graduation. Life on Berkeley campus of those years was like living a bubble.Monica was amazed by street personalities, people who lived in a dream world of their own either by use of drugs or simply living in ideal world of their own. Some would carry conversations with those who no longer were present old friends or relatives. Some carrying on serious philosophic or political conversation others on illusive trips as one of our friends used to say " a trip which they never returned from". There we so many among them David was our favorite. He would wear similar suit and hat as Frank Sinatra, he had a small speaker amp and mike which he carried with him and stood in front of Bancroft entrance near administration building and sang favorites from Sinatra albums. Any time we saw him on campus he would jokingly sing "strangers in the night, what were the chances, exchanging glances…" or how ever the song went.
We meet at Lapena on Shattuck for a drink and then head to her home or mine life was simple but I was so involved with my political activism and gradual influx of comrades who were escaping and needed help that I lost some one so dear and generously loving.
At times we are blind to our own needs to our own well being. I lost her simply by not seeing a future for myself. By ignoring the precious gift life had given me. Or maybe love sometimes is so beautiful that you are happy to have memories of when love was fresh and sweet. Maybe she has caught herself smiling at our moments together when love was bliss.
I never told her aboutMonica. Maybe I didn't want to make her feel there was some one else whom I loved not as mush her but definitely loved. Lorna came to California with her parents after September 11of 1973 CIA coup which installed Augusto Pinochet in power. Her father a very well known British banker and her mom from Chile to this day I can't remember which town. When she first told me her father was quite wealthy a banker financier of sort it sounded awkward that a wealthy family had escaped after the coup. Apparently her mom had a brother who was part of Allende government; he was arrested in the days after the coup, taken in to custody and never heard from again like many who perished in Santiago soccer stadium. They had some sympathy towards the Allende government and that was enough flee the country after the coup. Lorna was kind and generous in early stages of her political awakening; she was studying political science and logic at Berkeley. I had just separated and was working two shifts a day one at a print shop owned and operated by a group of friends and at night worked at a café in Cody's bookstore on telegraph avenue. We became good friends at first spending most of the time off work and later at night going to la Pena a political cultural center on Shattuck Avenue in Berkeley run by a group of Chilean and other Latin American political exiles. She was barely 16 when she left Chile now in her early twenties she often remembered those days of upheaval and often wondered what happened to her family to her revolutionary uncle who was murdered by Pinochet and CIA trained henchmen. After a tiring night at work she asked me if I wanted to come over, I knew she is dating some one but I was not sure if they were still together. So I accepted and jokingly said what are you going to make for dinner, she laughed with her eyes glowing and said let me surprise you. I walked to her apt after work it wasn't that far from campus above a furniture store. I rang the bell she appeared from the window she motioned to be quite and threw me a key to enter. She opened the door gave me a warm long hug like we had not seen each other for the longest time. I held her in my arms and as we ended the long embrace she held my hand in hers taking me to the kitchen where she was making empanadas. She asked me to open a nice bottle of merlot she had brought from her parents house they lived not far from Berkeley about 20 miles or so. She could commute but she preferred this small studio which she had taken over the lease from a close friend who was a basq and probably an ETA member which was quite active at the time. She was so different, yes challenging definitely different in the way question the way thing were. We drank the bottle of merlot and ate most of empanadas. She asked me if I could stay the night we went to her bed and talked and held each other till morning. We were both afraid of the future, we had found in each other something precious which we thought might be threatened by having sex, we didn't want to lose what we had. Love like that was hard to find we shared so much in our beliefs in our way of life. She was from a well to do family, she could have had anything she wanted but she chose working hard while at Berkeley her philosophy of life was simple. Live simply so others could simply live. Her apt was furnished by furniture that was left by Martha her basq friend on the wall there was a poster of a painting by Frida Kahlo the one in which she is knifed by Diego. She is open to new literary works she loved Kundera most specially his unbearable lightness of being maybe she knew what's in our future. In Berkeley of those days one could still be inspired to dream to write to try to live other way than the competitive life of get rich quick. How ever people fail they adopt what seems normal and acceptable by all. Main test for many students comes after graduation. Life on Berkeley campus of those years was like living a bubble.Monica was amazed by street personalities, people who lived in a dream world of their own either by use of drugs or simply living in ideal world of their own. Some would carry conversations with those who no longer were present old friends or relatives. Some carrying on serious philosophic or political conversation others on illusive trips as one of our friends used to say " a trip which they never returned from". There we so many among them David was our favorite. He would wear similar suit and hat as Frank Sinatra, he had a small speaker amp and mike which he carried with him and stood in front of Bancroft entrance near administration building and sang favorites from Sinatra albums. Any time we saw him on campus he would jokingly sing "strangers in the night, what were the chances, exchanging glances…" or how ever the song went.
We meet at Lapena on Shattuck for a drink and then head to her home or mine life was simple but I was so involved with my political activism and gradual influx of comrades who were escaping and needed help that I lost some one so dear and generously loving.
At times we are blind to our own needs to our own well being. I lost her simply by not seeing a future for myself. By ignoring the precious gift life had given me. Or maybe love sometimes is so beautiful that you are happy to have memories of when love was fresh and sweet. Maybe she has caught herself smiling at our moments together when love was bliss.
Farangis
Farangis
Her father was in his mid fifties ex political section of royal Iranian army{rokne dow} still loyal to his majesty long after his majesty's death and far from his home. He says "we thought all this was temporary we'd seen far worse during Mossadegh years. Some how they all like to lessen importance of Dr. Mossadegh by dropping his academic credentials. Monarchists are so proud of that past the glorious past which brought many technocrats and bureaucrats unprecedented fortune and fame. They were not like those who greatly benefited from monarch and royal court and turned against them as soon as wind changed direction. They blame them for every imaginable crime, yet forgetting one minor fact their total participation in Monarch's tyrannical rule. I'm dating his younger daughter and colonel certainly not pleased with a lefty dating and far worse marrying his daughter. He and his wife principal of a major precollege school were typical of intellectuals selling out after failure of oil nationalization movement. a few months prior to February insurrection they made their move and joined their daughters in marine county Northern California. First he bought a house in a upscale neighborhood and later opened a mechanic shop near by when he saw the funds running low and finally it registered this is not a short stay rather a long exile. As me and Farangis got engaged we'd pay them a visit every other weekend. They'd asked me to stay away from politics and I'd agreed to their demand thinking a little lie would save my relationship with Farangis. Like all exiles colonel had dreams of one day returning to Iran. All exiles regardless of their political beliefs shared this dream, this yearning to go back to the land which once nourished you.
As hostile our two world views were, we tried to make friends and not let politics get in the way of our relationship. He invited me to go fish with him; we took their small boat of to sea for what seemed like a fishing trip. However colonel was obviously concerned for future of her young daughter. He was tall still in shape with a marine county boating club cap on he could easily pass for a Greek fisherman. He grabbed couple of beers and handed one over to me he raised his beer and said "let it go where there is no sadness" I smiled and said to your health. He looked me right in the eye and said "I know who you are and what you are up to." I'm not shocked by his brazen words and motion with my hands as if I'm killing a mosquito in the air and ask what do you mean you know me, what am I up to?
He said I knew your father even though we didn’t share same politics but I had respect for him and his group. When I first joined the military academy many of our instructors had nationalist or communist inclinations. Like many young men of my generation I had leftist inclinations. Your father was a leading member of Tudeh party central committee and oversaw Tudeh activities in Northern Province. He was well respected and yes dedicated to the cause of independence. I say this because I know for a fact that he was opposed to giving Northern oil to Soviets, when most of central committee was for giving Caspian see oil to Russians. Strange years not as strange as what we are going through right now, I understand your dreams hopes and aspirations, however these are decisive years for you and Farangis. What after a few years of marriage you have a child have you thought of your future your child's future? You are responsible for that future more than any political belief, how are you going to guarantee a bright future for that child, do you understand that?" I answer I most certainly do but there are no guarantees sir did you ever think you end up here? Colonel is upset by my question gets up and checks his fishing rod. Obviously I've hit a nerve I'm in another world of my own dreams my promises to recently fallen brave friends. He is not aware of the thoughts torturous nightmares which keep me awake every night or the shame I feel for merely being alive the guilt of leaving friends behind. He brings another bottle of beer opens it hands it to me as if he knows what I'm going thru none the less he continues: " you don't know what you are wasting. This precious gift this life your youth and all its grand possibilities you are throwing it all away. Unfortunately my daughter is following you in the same abyss. "
I'm kind of tipsy from the beer and nostalgic music from the tape player I ask which abyss are you referring to sir he says first and foremost please stop saying sir second you are in it why do you ask me?
You mean to have this hope for a better for world a just and egalitarian society, to end wars, hunger, illiteracy … all this pain and anguish is this what you call the abyss. You refer to this hope as falling in to abyss?
" yes when you put all your life your productive years in to this lofty notion and pursue it as if nothing else matters and when one day you realize how illusive this grand dream was and what great price you have paid for it you understand what I mean by falling in to abyss." As he talks I am reminded of hossein's last month of life after a year o making it out of Iran and then Karachi he had come to ask for work or see if I could find him a job. He was really depressed after a year of hell in Pakistan he was finding himself alone, unemployed with a kid and a wife who had completely abandoned him and their hopes and dreams. After a year of hell in Karachi, loss of his comrades he had made it to Berkeley but completely drained with no money unemployed in a new apathetical and passive surroundings. He finally jumped in to cold water s of san Francisco bay ending his life. I'm nodding my head in agreement yes despair that’s a dangerous place to be. But Mr. Farokhi what you are asking me is to forget the condition of my homeland to forget….
"Yes I want you to pay attention to you and my Farangis I want you to think that but my wanting doesn't change the path you have chosen maybe one day you realize this and I hope it wont be that far, sooner the better. "
I thank him for his concern but almost like a guilty person I confess and give in admitting of having hopes for our future on this planet to some one who I considered a traitor to our nation to humanity's aspirations for a just and egalitarian future. So I ask him why you think some one puts all their effort, life their whole existence to achieve these hopes and dreams. Do you think it's just some personal vendetta against fascism, imperialism or whatever it might be? Why some one throws every thing away and joins revolutionary struggle? He shrugs his shoulder and says "there are so many different reasons all I'm saying is nothing will change".
I ask and how do you explain being thrown out of your own home, living thousands of miles away?
"Yes personally things change" he says" but the way things are, I mean you will always have oppressed and downtrodden as you folks like to say and oppressors. The y only change titles, nationalists, fascists, socialists it doesn't matter. Thing will never change."
I really don't want to get in to this boring argument so I nod as if I'm in agreement. yes quite an odd place to be with your future father in law so I cut his speech short by asking what do you suggest, do you simply ask all the youth students and activists give up and go about their business. He irrevocably answers "yes that’s exactly what I propose just like a horse with side blinders on you must focus on the road ahead not the side ways. I believe you have to achieve beyond what your parents have achieved." He seems tired of this conversation he feels he has delivered the message he stretches and yawns well I don't think we're going to catch anything tonight. Let's head back."
I try to keep a straight face I'm broken inside; I've heard the same arguments from friends. I'm getting used to this none of it really hits the way it should we're heading back and as we get closer to their pier and near their house it's comforting to hear Farangis laughing loud with her mom and sister.
Her father was in his mid fifties ex political section of royal Iranian army{rokne dow} still loyal to his majesty long after his majesty's death and far from his home. He says "we thought all this was temporary we'd seen far worse during Mossadegh years. Some how they all like to lessen importance of Dr. Mossadegh by dropping his academic credentials. Monarchists are so proud of that past the glorious past which brought many technocrats and bureaucrats unprecedented fortune and fame. They were not like those who greatly benefited from monarch and royal court and turned against them as soon as wind changed direction. They blame them for every imaginable crime, yet forgetting one minor fact their total participation in Monarch's tyrannical rule. I'm dating his younger daughter and colonel certainly not pleased with a lefty dating and far worse marrying his daughter. He and his wife principal of a major precollege school were typical of intellectuals selling out after failure of oil nationalization movement. a few months prior to February insurrection they made their move and joined their daughters in marine county Northern California. First he bought a house in a upscale neighborhood and later opened a mechanic shop near by when he saw the funds running low and finally it registered this is not a short stay rather a long exile. As me and Farangis got engaged we'd pay them a visit every other weekend. They'd asked me to stay away from politics and I'd agreed to their demand thinking a little lie would save my relationship with Farangis. Like all exiles colonel had dreams of one day returning to Iran. All exiles regardless of their political beliefs shared this dream, this yearning to go back to the land which once nourished you.
As hostile our two world views were, we tried to make friends and not let politics get in the way of our relationship. He invited me to go fish with him; we took their small boat of to sea for what seemed like a fishing trip. However colonel was obviously concerned for future of her young daughter. He was tall still in shape with a marine county boating club cap on he could easily pass for a Greek fisherman. He grabbed couple of beers and handed one over to me he raised his beer and said "let it go where there is no sadness" I smiled and said to your health. He looked me right in the eye and said "I know who you are and what you are up to." I'm not shocked by his brazen words and motion with my hands as if I'm killing a mosquito in the air and ask what do you mean you know me, what am I up to?
He said I knew your father even though we didn’t share same politics but I had respect for him and his group. When I first joined the military academy many of our instructors had nationalist or communist inclinations. Like many young men of my generation I had leftist inclinations. Your father was a leading member of Tudeh party central committee and oversaw Tudeh activities in Northern Province. He was well respected and yes dedicated to the cause of independence. I say this because I know for a fact that he was opposed to giving Northern oil to Soviets, when most of central committee was for giving Caspian see oil to Russians. Strange years not as strange as what we are going through right now, I understand your dreams hopes and aspirations, however these are decisive years for you and Farangis. What after a few years of marriage you have a child have you thought of your future your child's future? You are responsible for that future more than any political belief, how are you going to guarantee a bright future for that child, do you understand that?" I answer I most certainly do but there are no guarantees sir did you ever think you end up here? Colonel is upset by my question gets up and checks his fishing rod. Obviously I've hit a nerve I'm in another world of my own dreams my promises to recently fallen brave friends. He is not aware of the thoughts torturous nightmares which keep me awake every night or the shame I feel for merely being alive the guilt of leaving friends behind. He brings another bottle of beer opens it hands it to me as if he knows what I'm going thru none the less he continues: " you don't know what you are wasting. This precious gift this life your youth and all its grand possibilities you are throwing it all away. Unfortunately my daughter is following you in the same abyss. "
I'm kind of tipsy from the beer and nostalgic music from the tape player I ask which abyss are you referring to sir he says first and foremost please stop saying sir second you are in it why do you ask me?
You mean to have this hope for a better for world a just and egalitarian society, to end wars, hunger, illiteracy … all this pain and anguish is this what you call the abyss. You refer to this hope as falling in to abyss?
" yes when you put all your life your productive years in to this lofty notion and pursue it as if nothing else matters and when one day you realize how illusive this grand dream was and what great price you have paid for it you understand what I mean by falling in to abyss." As he talks I am reminded of hossein's last month of life after a year o making it out of Iran and then Karachi he had come to ask for work or see if I could find him a job. He was really depressed after a year of hell in Pakistan he was finding himself alone, unemployed with a kid and a wife who had completely abandoned him and their hopes and dreams. After a year of hell in Karachi, loss of his comrades he had made it to Berkeley but completely drained with no money unemployed in a new apathetical and passive surroundings. He finally jumped in to cold water s of san Francisco bay ending his life. I'm nodding my head in agreement yes despair that’s a dangerous place to be. But Mr. Farokhi what you are asking me is to forget the condition of my homeland to forget….
"Yes I want you to pay attention to you and my Farangis I want you to think that but my wanting doesn't change the path you have chosen maybe one day you realize this and I hope it wont be that far, sooner the better. "
I thank him for his concern but almost like a guilty person I confess and give in admitting of having hopes for our future on this planet to some one who I considered a traitor to our nation to humanity's aspirations for a just and egalitarian future. So I ask him why you think some one puts all their effort, life their whole existence to achieve these hopes and dreams. Do you think it's just some personal vendetta against fascism, imperialism or whatever it might be? Why some one throws every thing away and joins revolutionary struggle? He shrugs his shoulder and says "there are so many different reasons all I'm saying is nothing will change".
I ask and how do you explain being thrown out of your own home, living thousands of miles away?
"Yes personally things change" he says" but the way things are, I mean you will always have oppressed and downtrodden as you folks like to say and oppressors. The y only change titles, nationalists, fascists, socialists it doesn't matter. Thing will never change."
I really don't want to get in to this boring argument so I nod as if I'm in agreement. yes quite an odd place to be with your future father in law so I cut his speech short by asking what do you suggest, do you simply ask all the youth students and activists give up and go about their business. He irrevocably answers "yes that’s exactly what I propose just like a horse with side blinders on you must focus on the road ahead not the side ways. I believe you have to achieve beyond what your parents have achieved." He seems tired of this conversation he feels he has delivered the message he stretches and yawns well I don't think we're going to catch anything tonight. Let's head back."
I try to keep a straight face I'm broken inside; I've heard the same arguments from friends. I'm getting used to this none of it really hits the way it should we're heading back and as we get closer to their pier and near their house it's comforting to hear Farangis laughing loud with her mom and sister.
Old man Saleh
OLD MAN SALEH FROM UNITED YEMEN
He gets his coffee and Danish as he pays I thank him guessing his accent is Arabic by saying shokran. His face glows with a genuine smile that I’ve not seen in years. With my broken rather shattered Arabic I try to understand his kind gestures and words. Mixing English with shattered Arabic I ask him where is he from, he tells me he is from the united Yemen. Instantly I’m reminded of certain calmness that is so rare in a big city with sky scrapers and rude selfish individualized brainwashed populace that looks at another human being only in terms of the extra space they occupy. He calmly sits and drinks from his coffee looking at me as if I’ve known him for years. I ask him how is Yemen now, he takes a bite off his Danish and quickly drinks the hot coffee raises his hand to the air and says Al hamd o Allah ( with the help of Allah!) things are much better now everything is Islamic and we don’t fight our brothers in the North. He makes gestures to the big skyscrapers and greed probably trying to tell me he rejects all of the big city glamour. Then he points to his Islamic Green hat and says when we go and we all go in the eyes of god poor or rich are the same. He asks me where I’m from as soon as I answer he tells me how strong Iran is and how U.S is trying to over throw the Islamic regime. He says now that the Islamist won the civil war in Yemen every thing is Islamic and thus better. I think how things got better for us how the rich and poor gap deepened, due to Islamist economics. I express my concern and he answers I’m the government and I’m the people. I think of my government and the thought that I would have anything to do with those butchers, murderers and fanatics in power fills me with disgust. The fact of the matter is that me and my government are two complete separate entities. The one’s in power, the ones who are ruling my people with the force of bayonet, rape intimidation and torture at best are only remnants of Mongol invaders who burned and raped, pillaged and destroyed. I’m trying not to argue with him he tells me that he doesn’t care about politics that much and the secret to his long life has been just that. He shows me pictures of his big family 21 grand children from 4 sons and 2 daughter. I disagree with him but I’m grateful to Saleh for his calmness and simplicity, his modesty and humble manners. For a few moments I thought I’m not in this big city with skyscrapers and harsh life, I imagined having this discussion by still, calm water reservoir in a green and healthy Yemeni village.
He gets his coffee and Danish as he pays I thank him guessing his accent is Arabic by saying shokran. His face glows with a genuine smile that I’ve not seen in years. With my broken rather shattered Arabic I try to understand his kind gestures and words. Mixing English with shattered Arabic I ask him where is he from, he tells me he is from the united Yemen. Instantly I’m reminded of certain calmness that is so rare in a big city with sky scrapers and rude selfish individualized brainwashed populace that looks at another human being only in terms of the extra space they occupy. He calmly sits and drinks from his coffee looking at me as if I’ve known him for years. I ask him how is Yemen now, he takes a bite off his Danish and quickly drinks the hot coffee raises his hand to the air and says Al hamd o Allah ( with the help of Allah!) things are much better now everything is Islamic and we don’t fight our brothers in the North. He makes gestures to the big skyscrapers and greed probably trying to tell me he rejects all of the big city glamour. Then he points to his Islamic Green hat and says when we go and we all go in the eyes of god poor or rich are the same. He asks me where I’m from as soon as I answer he tells me how strong Iran is and how U.S is trying to over throw the Islamic regime. He says now that the Islamist won the civil war in Yemen every thing is Islamic and thus better. I think how things got better for us how the rich and poor gap deepened, due to Islamist economics. I express my concern and he answers I’m the government and I’m the people. I think of my government and the thought that I would have anything to do with those butchers, murderers and fanatics in power fills me with disgust. The fact of the matter is that me and my government are two complete separate entities. The one’s in power, the ones who are ruling my people with the force of bayonet, rape intimidation and torture at best are only remnants of Mongol invaders who burned and raped, pillaged and destroyed. I’m trying not to argue with him he tells me that he doesn’t care about politics that much and the secret to his long life has been just that. He shows me pictures of his big family 21 grand children from 4 sons and 2 daughter. I disagree with him but I’m grateful to Saleh for his calmness and simplicity, his modesty and humble manners. For a few moments I thought I’m not in this big city with skyscrapers and harsh life, I imagined having this discussion by still, calm water reservoir in a green and healthy Yemeni village.
For the doctor
For the Doctor
I’m commuting for almost 2 hours a day to a job that you probably would not have approved. I’m not a physician. I get up 5 in the morning and get back around the same time at night. Working hard for average living. I don’t contribute anything to the betterment of my people’s lives. I just sometimes sound like I am but there is always the moment of truth and I guess after a hard day work in a bakery that’s the moment of truth for me, the long commute lets me think over and rerun my life through my head. I’ve realized with all that has happened to me at best I have been echo of who you were. No! I didn’t become a surgeon, stay home to fight the tyranny, didn’t join the World Health Organizations efforts to combat tuberculosis nor did I open a sliding scale clinic for people of my region. As a matter of fact I don’t feel any belonging to any region, the mere fact that I have problem writing these lines in my native tongue is testimony to the fact. When you were at my age, you were already an M.D from Tehran University Medical school, had married with your first son on his way, prior to that you were active with the labor and anti imperialist movement against British and U.S conglomerates, had organized landless peasants, workers and others to oppose the C.I.A orchestrated coup. You didn’t escape the country for a resort by the Black Sea; as members of that dreadful central committee did. you went to the jungles By the Caspian and hid for almost two years until they arrested you. Most regrettably though I never heard you talk about all that you had done the more I think about this I see how you resembled the fruit baring tree in our folk slang that has it’s branches down. You never boasted of all that you had achieved in such short lifetime. I heard about you through people, the ones that loved and admired you. I still tell your anecdotes, people find them hilarious. Like the one about the man who could not bear the weight of Karbalas martyr’s banner!
Life turned out to be more difficult than what you had pampered us with. Home in the capital and the way you provided for us, vacation home by the Caspian. Going to places from restaurant to the Bazaar and people treating us so nice just because we were son or daughter of the Dr. In that whole village I thought every one knew who you were and that made the world of my childhood such secure and safe place, that is why, I have had such hard time adjusting to my life in exile. Exile is a world of its own; it’s like living on an eggshell, unpredictable. More than anything you could imagine. Every day of this past 15 years have passed in a state of anticipating capture and murder of friends back home or right here far from the actual battle lines. Ten years ago they murdered Ali while he was driving cab in Washington. They had threatend to kill him two weeks before actually carrying out their evil plans. He had just graduated and was planning to go back to Sweden. I remember how you used to point to him and say how proud you were of him for becoming a champion and continuing his education while working hard at Keyhan. They murdered him and they have murdered so many others to a point that most activists abroad feel the terror in Tehran.
I miss our long trips to the Caspian Sea or to you favorite spot 5000 feet above the sea, where the familiar myst of late after noon fog surrounded you and your entourage, as you smoked your pipe. Your love of people so rare and distant these days. I believe in the Communism that you practiced was so different than what was hated by many under its rule. This was easy to see whenever you walked in the old bazaar people gathered around you talking, some seeking medical help, others for a job in the city. I compare and I constantly am confronted with how little I’ve achieved. I tried to cover all this by putting your generation down and now all that my generation had done and said, all my generations loud mouthing and deafening agitation mostly have stopped at that level. Don’t get me wrong though as I write these lines there are dedicated selfless revolutionaries who are holding high the red banner of oppressed and dispossessed. When I compare and the predominant apathy of my generation and the ones after me I bow my head down to you!!!
I think of you almost everyday, things you used to do, I used to take long naps with you as you took your afternoon naps before going to your little clinic in the heart of poor district. As you slept you used to listen to radio Tehran’s afternoon traditional Persian music. I remember the first time you heard the voice of young Siamak Shadjarian, you were so impressed that you were telling every one how talented he was.
I’m glad that you never had to experience life in exile, You can’t imagine the immense feeling of being uprooted, and the feeling of guilt for the ones you left behind as they died under torture or in battle. More than anything this longing of being there at least to say farewell to you when they buried you. I wanted to see with my own eyes that people were not mourning your life, rather they were celebrating a good life. Even in your death in the way people glorified you and came from all over to show their appreciation, you taunted and ridiculed the fanatics in power that people love their servants even though you died a communist. Over thirty thousands showed up and I wish I was there even for a few minutes to see what you and your life meant to so many!
They killed Majid too. I remember Majid on his new motorcycle delivering our organization's paper from town to town. I knew they would kill him the way he was known for his activities he was working closely with the group in the jungles, very committed to our ideals.
I’ve heard how father of Majid came to your funeral ,crying over the death of his son. After they tortured him for hours and then it was his own uncle who carried out the execution. It was said that the whole village could hear him cry like a wounded Tiger as he heard the last bullet ripping through his son’s heart. I’ve also heard that he was asking you his old friend to go patch up his sons wounds the day they were preparing your body for burial. Whole town heard him cry loud “Dr. my son’s body is torn to pieces go heel his wounds” as he beat his chest and pulled his hair.
Now I understand what you meant when you’d say “heaven and hell is here, you rip what you sow right here”. For hours on I wonder over the bits of information that I remember. This is another aspect of life in exile it is like gathering all you can from a frozen picture framed in your memory. You try very hard to recreate the views, sounds, tastes, and emotions. Like the way you’d spread all the papers on the ground and try to make sense of the way things had changed. The hardest of all is to remember your face your voice ah I’d give anything to once more hear you sing just like the times we would drive together to the North by the Caspian. I know some day I’ll be closer to the land I was uprooted from, I know some day I’ll go and get lost in the haze of 5 o’clock fog and may be then I’ll regain all of you that I’ve lost.
I’m commuting for almost 2 hours a day to a job that you probably would not have approved. I’m not a physician. I get up 5 in the morning and get back around the same time at night. Working hard for average living. I don’t contribute anything to the betterment of my people’s lives. I just sometimes sound like I am but there is always the moment of truth and I guess after a hard day work in a bakery that’s the moment of truth for me, the long commute lets me think over and rerun my life through my head. I’ve realized with all that has happened to me at best I have been echo of who you were. No! I didn’t become a surgeon, stay home to fight the tyranny, didn’t join the World Health Organizations efforts to combat tuberculosis nor did I open a sliding scale clinic for people of my region. As a matter of fact I don’t feel any belonging to any region, the mere fact that I have problem writing these lines in my native tongue is testimony to the fact. When you were at my age, you were already an M.D from Tehran University Medical school, had married with your first son on his way, prior to that you were active with the labor and anti imperialist movement against British and U.S conglomerates, had organized landless peasants, workers and others to oppose the C.I.A orchestrated coup. You didn’t escape the country for a resort by the Black Sea; as members of that dreadful central committee did. you went to the jungles By the Caspian and hid for almost two years until they arrested you. Most regrettably though I never heard you talk about all that you had done the more I think about this I see how you resembled the fruit baring tree in our folk slang that has it’s branches down. You never boasted of all that you had achieved in such short lifetime. I heard about you through people, the ones that loved and admired you. I still tell your anecdotes, people find them hilarious. Like the one about the man who could not bear the weight of Karbalas martyr’s banner!
Life turned out to be more difficult than what you had pampered us with. Home in the capital and the way you provided for us, vacation home by the Caspian. Going to places from restaurant to the Bazaar and people treating us so nice just because we were son or daughter of the Dr. In that whole village I thought every one knew who you were and that made the world of my childhood such secure and safe place, that is why, I have had such hard time adjusting to my life in exile. Exile is a world of its own; it’s like living on an eggshell, unpredictable. More than anything you could imagine. Every day of this past 15 years have passed in a state of anticipating capture and murder of friends back home or right here far from the actual battle lines. Ten years ago they murdered Ali while he was driving cab in Washington. They had threatend to kill him two weeks before actually carrying out their evil plans. He had just graduated and was planning to go back to Sweden. I remember how you used to point to him and say how proud you were of him for becoming a champion and continuing his education while working hard at Keyhan. They murdered him and they have murdered so many others to a point that most activists abroad feel the terror in Tehran.
I miss our long trips to the Caspian Sea or to you favorite spot 5000 feet above the sea, where the familiar myst of late after noon fog surrounded you and your entourage, as you smoked your pipe. Your love of people so rare and distant these days. I believe in the Communism that you practiced was so different than what was hated by many under its rule. This was easy to see whenever you walked in the old bazaar people gathered around you talking, some seeking medical help, others for a job in the city. I compare and I constantly am confronted with how little I’ve achieved. I tried to cover all this by putting your generation down and now all that my generation had done and said, all my generations loud mouthing and deafening agitation mostly have stopped at that level. Don’t get me wrong though as I write these lines there are dedicated selfless revolutionaries who are holding high the red banner of oppressed and dispossessed. When I compare and the predominant apathy of my generation and the ones after me I bow my head down to you!!!
I think of you almost everyday, things you used to do, I used to take long naps with you as you took your afternoon naps before going to your little clinic in the heart of poor district. As you slept you used to listen to radio Tehran’s afternoon traditional Persian music. I remember the first time you heard the voice of young Siamak Shadjarian, you were so impressed that you were telling every one how talented he was.
I’m glad that you never had to experience life in exile, You can’t imagine the immense feeling of being uprooted, and the feeling of guilt for the ones you left behind as they died under torture or in battle. More than anything this longing of being there at least to say farewell to you when they buried you. I wanted to see with my own eyes that people were not mourning your life, rather they were celebrating a good life. Even in your death in the way people glorified you and came from all over to show their appreciation, you taunted and ridiculed the fanatics in power that people love their servants even though you died a communist. Over thirty thousands showed up and I wish I was there even for a few minutes to see what you and your life meant to so many!
They killed Majid too. I remember Majid on his new motorcycle delivering our organization's paper from town to town. I knew they would kill him the way he was known for his activities he was working closely with the group in the jungles, very committed to our ideals.
I’ve heard how father of Majid came to your funeral ,crying over the death of his son. After they tortured him for hours and then it was his own uncle who carried out the execution. It was said that the whole village could hear him cry like a wounded Tiger as he heard the last bullet ripping through his son’s heart. I’ve also heard that he was asking you his old friend to go patch up his sons wounds the day they were preparing your body for burial. Whole town heard him cry loud “Dr. my son’s body is torn to pieces go heel his wounds” as he beat his chest and pulled his hair.
Now I understand what you meant when you’d say “heaven and hell is here, you rip what you sow right here”. For hours on I wonder over the bits of information that I remember. This is another aspect of life in exile it is like gathering all you can from a frozen picture framed in your memory. You try very hard to recreate the views, sounds, tastes, and emotions. Like the way you’d spread all the papers on the ground and try to make sense of the way things had changed. The hardest of all is to remember your face your voice ah I’d give anything to once more hear you sing just like the times we would drive together to the North by the Caspian. I know some day I’ll be closer to the land I was uprooted from, I know some day I’ll go and get lost in the haze of 5 o’clock fog and may be then I’ll regain all of you that I’ve lost.
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