Pedestrian

Long ago, before I was a student, there was a horror story called the TOEFL for every Iranian student wishing to make their way abroad (United States).

Before they got their admission, before they made that famed horror trip to the Cypriot or Turkish American embassies for visa, they had to make another trip abroad, to take the TOEFL – Test of English as a Foreign Language. There was no place in Tehran to take the test and it is an absolute must for the admission process so students had no choice but to travel … Yes, all for a stupid test.

The costs added up to inifinity. Aside from the application fees (roughly $100 per university), with each student wanting to apply to as many places as possible, there was one trip to Turkey for the TOEFL. Then another for visa application … If daddy wasn’t going to be paying the bills, it was a financially excruciating process.

Although that should tell you a lot: even that didn’t stop thousands of students from applying to the United States every year. I always wondered: the world is a huge place, why not try other options instead?

But aside from the price tag, the other obstacle Iranian students always face is lack of a credit card – necessary for every fee and transaction. Those without close relatives in the West have to resort to all sorts of bizarre techniques. There are actually now pseudo “companies” in Tehran that charge you a fee and apply for you, using their own credit cards.

And then, one magic day - I’m sure we all remember where we were when it happened - it was announced that the TOEFL would be held in Tehran 4 times a week.

The heavens rejoiced.

But last week, Sanjesh, the body responsible for holding the tests in Tehran announced that ETS would no longer be holding the TOEFL in Tehran … due to the new round of sanctions on Iranian banks.*

Yes, I’m sure that will kill off the Iranian nuclear program in cold blood.

Of course that’s the least of the troubles the sanctions will cause the average Iranian. In fact, with all the other options Iranian students have (taking the IELTS instead, opting to go anywhere but the United States, etc) this doesn’t really add up to anything at all. But it’s just one more reminder of where these sanctions are really going and who they are really hurting: ordinary students, businessmen, manufacturers, etc, etc.

There is only one point to these sanctions that I see cleary: Remember when Ahmadinejad revealed the 16 year old girl who enriches uranium in her basement to help Iran’s nuclear program? Think of all the potentialIranian nuclear scientists, who will only manage to become mediocre basement-uranium-enrichers. I’m absolutely certain that the world is now a much safer place.

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Sanjesh has since announced that it will continue to host ETS in Tehran although a schedule has not been released.

Welcome to the “Followers of the Leader” Social Networking Site

Looks like his excellency the octopus was on to something! Tabnak [the site affiliated with "pragmatic conservative" and presidential nominee Mohsen Rezaie] reports that the first “social networking site dedicated to the lovers of the supreme leader” has been launched.

You can check it out here (the spaces are intentional, delete them after pasting in your browser):

http:// velayat madaran. ir/

The actual site is called “Velayatmadaran” meaning “followers of the leader”.

Tabnak also reports that “this site was launched because the followers of Hez-bollah [not the Lebanese party, but "party of god", referring to followers of the leader] felt a responsiblity to counter the soft war the enemy has launched [on the Islamic Republic] in the virtual world”.

According to Tabnak, the site was launched for two reasons:

1. Creating a friendly environment on the web for the followers of the leader to converse and exchange ideas

2. Creating a culture of resistance so that the followers of the leader are better familiarized with the methods to defeat the enemies of the sacred Islamic Republic of Iran

You can connect, network, upload video, audio, images and more … You can join by clicking the button on the left of his excellency’s picture. When asked to choose your country, if you are Palestinian or Israeli, you can choose from “Occupied Palestinian Territories” or “Dear Palestine”.

I smell a certain Hassan Abbasi.

By now, the world cup has come and gone and the real victor, aside from Spain and Coca Cola … was Paul the Octopus.

I’m sure you’ve all heard and read extensively on Paul, so I will not waste your time talking about this awesome Octopus.

What I do want to talk about is the awesome owner of the facebook page, “Hazrat-e Okhtapus” (His Excellency the Octopus).

His Excellency the Octopus claims to “not be political”. But he’s really a euphemism for the Supreme Leader of Iran. He posts about 4 to 5 messages everyday, sometimes accompnaied by pictures (the above picture was released yesterday, with the message “the flag of his excellency’s holy establishment was released today.”) The messages always refer to a famous quote by Khamenei or his rift with Mousavi et al or his relationship with Ahmadinejad. They are extremely witty, smart and lmao funny.

This is another photo with the title “viva his excellency! note: his excellency wearing a local costume on one of his provincial visits.”

And another titled: “a warm meeting with the people near the Persian Gulf after the inauguration of  Jamaran [a neighborhood norht of Tehran where Ayatollah Khomeini lived] battleship. A Devotee of his excellency is congratulating him.”

This image was uploaded by a fan. The creature’s arms are labeled “Hamas”, “IRGC”, “Hezbollah”, etc, etc.

Another cartoon uploaded to the page is by renowned Iranian cartoonist Mana Neyestani as he chronicles the story of the Darghir family. The octopus is shown in the middle. The right tank is labeled “people”. The left tank is labeled “leaders of the coup d’etat”. The catch is that the left tank also has a juice carton inside – it is jokingly (and sometimes seriously) said that Ahmadinejad woos people into the streets promising them free food and juice.

I am not able to really capture the humor in these English translations. So if you can read Persian, head on to his facebook page, read his notes … and enjoy!

You can also reach his excellency at: hazrat.okhtapous@gmail.com‬

I have been travelling for the past few weeks …

On these adventures, I was surprised by how many times this happened:

random stranger/cab driver/salesman: “where are you from?”

Pedestrian: “Iran”

random stranger: “ah! Iran? so you’re green?!”

What could I do but smile?

And it happened as many times as this happened:

random stranger/cab driver/salesman: “where are you from?”

Pedestrian: “Iran”

random stranger: “ah! Ahmadinejad ROCKS” (substitute “rocks” with any synonym)

These latter folks were in for a serious lecture.

It is a hot summer in Iran, and the feeling of my skin burning under the sun, while usually painful, was welcoming. It reminds me of home, of the hot Khuzestan sun, and I stand there, under the scalding heat, like a stupid idiot, just happy that the sun is warm enough to take me home.

Because that is what I find the most awe inspiring about travel: despite the glare of “the other”, you are simultaneously confronted witht he most oddly familiar sights, sounds and smells …What I liked about the picture I’ve posted above is its familiarity. It could have have been anywhere in my hometown in Khuzestan, in Tehran or Kashan.

Goes to show that no matter where you’re from or what language you speak, “home” resonates with us all.

No, I haven’t forgotten that tomorrow is June 12th. That day. That glorious, hopeful, horrendous day.

Tomorrow, the streets of Tehran will be eerily quiet. There will be traffic, there will be noise, there will be pollution and people shouting swear words out of frustration just like any other day. But for many of us, time will stop and the world will go dark. Memories will take us away, one by one.

And the world might look down and declare: “look, it’s only been a year, and already they’ve forgotten.”

But we haven’t forgotten and never will. You might not see it, but who are you to judge?

Tomorrow the streets of Tehran might look like they do any other day. But if you look closely, if somehow you could force that black, archaic veil off that city for just a moment, you’d see a very different sight indeed. You’d see millions of people whose hearts are beating like mad, whose sweaty palms almost gives them away. You’d see people in mourning and celebration, because June 12th is all of those things.

June 12th isn’t just the day we died, but the day we chose to live.

For my generation, from now ’till forever, the world will be divided into two chunks: before and after 22 khordaad 88 (June 12th, 2009).

Something happened that day, and we might spend the rest of our lives trying to figure out what it was exactly. But even if that’s what it takes … so be it.

Mohammad Nourizad is a writer, producer and journalist. He began his work for IRIB with the late Morteza Avini’s Revayateh Fath [Tales of Resistance] – a documentary series on the Iran-Iraq war.

Prior to the election, he wrote for the hardline newspaper Keyhan, but what made him a household name was his support of the opposition after the election, and his letters to the supreme leader for which he is now serving time in prison.

I previously translated his fourth letter to the supreme leader. Here he recounts meeting Tehran’s prosecutor general, Jafari Dowlat Abadi.

He has also published a fifth letter to the leader today.

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They take me every which way, while I am blindfolded. When I enter the room, I see a forty something year old man sitting across a long table.  He shows me the other end of the table and I sit down. After the usual greetings …

He says: Mr. Nourizad, I really didn’t want to see you here. Why do you have to be here?

I say: This is my home. I believe I’m a landlord here, not a lunatic felon who is here to be disciplined and punished.

He says: You’re causing quite a mess these days. The guard has written me and has complained that you’ve punched him and ripped his shirt!

I say: the difference between that guard and I is that his letter reaches you in two days, but a letter I wrote to the prosecutor general more than a month ago, has yet to reach him.

The man who is sitting opposite me raises his amputated arm and tries to scratch his face. This is when I know that the person sitting opposite me, who seems to have the nerves of steel, is no one other than Tehran’s prosecutor general, Jafari Dowlat Abadi. I’d heard before that the prosecutor general had lost one of his arms up to his wrist, in the war.

I say: you must be Mr. Jafari.

He says: yes

I say: they took me out of my prison cell for a walk and then raided my cell while I was gone, taking my personal belongings.

He goes through some notes he has in front of him. Then he says: why must you write “we are alive and so we shall live” on your t-shirt?

I say: what part of our intelligence and security services will this simple sentence of mine affect?

He says: this reminds me of Descartes who said: “I protest therefore I am!”

I say: your friends took two of my writings from my personal belongings. You have my permission to read them and get them to those they were intended for. The first is called the secret of the donkey’s “hee-haw” and the second piece is called a letter to members of parliament. I don’t care much about the first piece which is directed at the Intelligence Ministry, but give my second letter to Mr. Larijani, the head of parliament, so he can distribute it and read it for other MPs.

He says: I have nothing to do with parliament. But why don’t you write a letter to the father [Khamenei]? If you write it, we will get it to the father really fast, through Mr. Larijani of the judiciary. If you ask for a pardon in the letter, it will be even better.

I say: I will not ask for a pardon, because I believe I have done nothing wrong. The problem with my letters is that nobody sees that I write them out of concern. Like today, it’s been 3 days now that I’ve been on a hunger strike, why? Because I can’t find any legal authority who actually respects the law.

He laughs. The word “hunger strike” makes him laugh.

He says sincerely: no Mr. Nourizad, do not go on a hunger strike.

I say: They’ve transferred me from ward 240, from a prison cell with a bath and a toilet, to ward 209. A cell which has no facilities, in scalding heat. I insist that I want to see the guardian of the ward, but they pay no attention. When I hit on the cell door out of protest, the door opens, the guard gets violent, he calls on others and the five of them pick me up from the ground and throw me back hard. My head gives a thud sound. My shoulders are injured. My eyesight is worse and I have a terrible headache.

I say: and this is how headaches turn into nausea.

He accepts my words, but insists that I stop my strike.

I say: Mr. Jafari, I am determined to continue my hunger strike. It’s been three days now and I had to drag myself here with much difficulty. I have not even had a cup of water or sugar. They’ve taken x-rays of my shoulders at the prison. There might not be anything in the x-rays, but I’m on this strike because of the lawlessness of your friends. You will drag my body out of the prison cell in a few days.

He says: it’s not right for you to kill yourself with your own two hands.

I say: why did Imam Hussein [3rd Shia Imam, who according to Shi'a history, was murdered by the tyrant caliphate Yazid] do it then?

He says: Because he was confronting Yazid.

I say: Wherever there is lawlessness, there is a Yazid. Like our legal system which I’m sure has nothing to do with Islam. You take “p” [he probably means Palizban] and send him to prison, but you leave free all those he has exposed. You arrest Shahram Jazayeri, and give … [probably Sadeq Mahsouli] who has become a multi-millionaire through laundering government funds, a ministerial position.

I say: This system is so dysfunctional and decrepit that someone like … is easily used by others, and through his driver and mother, commits the most atrocious injustices.

He says: these very clever men have given 200 Million Tomans [~$200,000] to his mosque.

I say: I’ve heard too. But I’ve also heard that they’ve given a villa to his driver, and they’ve asked him to sign many things. As a prosecutor general, you have no courage to protest? Why? Because you are too needy of this high table and your high rank.

He says: that’s not true. I’m just a war veteran.

I say: so what? High ranks are coveted by everyone, war veteran or not. Why don’t you protest? This system is rife with incompetent, unjust judges.

He says: It is, but not around me.

I say: Why don’t you resign?

He says: I remain here so I might be able to do some good.

I say: everyone tries to justify their own wrong deeds using that excuse.

I say: most of our system is stained with bribery and smuggling. Most disregard the law. But you’ve thrown me in jail for telling the truth, and you’ve allowed ignorant interrogators to beat me and threaten my family. But those who are misusing  government funds are free. And you don’t even have the courage to arrest them.

I say: justice in our legal system is only a big joke. I’m in prison for criticizing this justice which has fallen ill. And those who are responsible for the illness of our legal, financial and security systems are free and are even given support.

The prosecutor general listens to my words calmly, and reiterates his request that I write a letter to the leader.

I say: I will write, but only the way I want to.

He says: just write.

They bring me a pen and paper, and while I am struggling after 3 days of a hunger strike, I write: “if someone visits a holy city and sees that city being overpowered by the stench of garbage, do they have no right to complain? Must they arrest him and throw him in prison for complaining? This is what has happened to me. I don’t see this much ugliness befitting of the revolution. A revolution which took all that effort. In prison, I have been subject to the brutal beating of ignorant interrogators. Interrogators who use the most vile ways to force prisoners to confess. Interrogators who use the dirtiest ways, and the most despicable language. I really wish that I could come to you and tell you of the second Kahrizak and to tell you of the despicable behavior shown by those who claim to be the soldiers of Islam …”

I do not fold the letter, and I give it to the prosecutor. In a separate letter I write to him: “when my verdict hasn’t been announced yet, why am I being kept in a maximum security prison?” And I ask him to be transferred to the general ward. Now that I write this, I am in the general ward. In section 7, hall 5.

~Mohammad Nourizad

I was only 5 years old, but I remember this picture. I remember this scene well (or at least have always thought I do).

I remember we were having dinner around the table.

Bahram Afshar, the long reigning IRIB news anchor came on and told us: Imam Khomeini, otherwise known as Ayatollah Khomeini, was dead.

DEAD.

dEaD.

I vaguely remember eating my dinner, feeling a deep, gnawing feeling in my throat. I didn’t know what it meant, but I felt that it had to mean something bad.

You see, to those of us born after the revolution, Khomeini was the president, prime minister, supreme leader, godfather, guardian, head of the army, head of Basij … he was in charge of everything and anything remotely important. The country made no sense without him, he was the country and the country was him.  Rafsanjani and Mousavi were pictures I only barely recognized. Khoemini on the other hand was everywhere. He was on TV every night before the news, he was on every noon. He was on every newspaper and inside every book. There he was, forever that bearded old godfather, sitting around a band of enthusiastic admirers ready to carry out his every wish and command.

During the war, state TV was my only outlet into the outside world – except when I was in Khuzestan, when we would have access to Arab satellite channels. There on those satellite channels for the first time I saw images of unveiled, “immodest” women on TV and it was so surprising and strange … it was like a completely different universe.

My parents tried their best to keep politics out of our home, and now, looking back, I am so grateful. There were 5 year olds my age who carried the political bitterness and fatigue of 30 years olds with them everywhere.

Despite my questions and curiosity, my parents tried to shield me away from that until I started school. So my view of my politics was limited to my grandfather who would always remind me that Khomeini is a vile tyrant, my silent parents, and IRIB’s kiddie shows which made him out to be a fairy godfather. I loved those shows, and believed a lot of what they told me.

I had images of a Khomeini who was the kind, gentle guardian which made no sense compared to the words my grandfather spoke. I didn’t even know what a “tyrant” was.

I remember the days that ensued. The whole city, Tehran, was in a cloud of black cloth and mourning. No doubt much of it was forced on the dear old city by the strong propaganda machines, but somehow, despite my young age, I could also feel the authenticity of a lot of that mourning and a real sense of loss. Many people were genuinely sad … or  now, thinking back, maybe they were more scared than sad, not knowing where the country would go without the man who had been at the reign for so long. Khomeini and his legacy seemed to have taken the country hostage, and without him, nobody knew what would remain.

The war, and Khomeini was the only life a lot of us had ever known.

And then, one day, the war was over. Khomieni was dead. And we started picking up the pieces … all over again.

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Afshar coming on the next day and officially announcing that Khamenei would be the new supreme leader:

May 24th marks the liberation of Khoramshahr [in the province of Khuzestan] in the Iran-Iraq war, the end of Iraqi occupation of Iran … and what should have been the end of this brutal, eight year war.

As a native of Khuzestan, I spent many hot, grueling summers during the war in the province. Here is a story of those bittersweet days, and the memory of a faithful friend.

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A red and white border collie. A big, humongous fellow with a heart to match.

He had been the family’s herding dog before that prized, lucrative herd had been sold amidst the chaos of the war; a reminder of grandeur that once was … and was now dissolved into age old memory of a distant, forgotten glamour.

Fidel – pronounced Feadel in Persian. I’m not sure where that name came from or who chose it. An admirer of Castro perhaps?

He would spend most of the day in the huge field between two homes: my great grandmother’s on one side and my grandfather’s on the other. This piece of land had once supposedly belonged to a huge, beautiful garden. But it was now a dump for the family’s old farming machinery.

Years later, when I think about it, it was somehow ironic that everything in that place smelt of faded glory: the homes, the garden (or rather, junkyard), the people … and the dog.

Perhaps it was great-grandfather’s legacy that was lingering there; a big, powerful man who had been at once avant-garde and extremely archaic. In a time when people barely went out to visit nearby towns, he had traveled the world, he had written diaries, he had drank the most exquisite wines and had hosted some of the most exquisite gatherings. But he had been an authoritarian figure whose philosophy in life towards his children had been: throw man a fish … don’t teach him how to fish.

The result was that once the fisherman was dead, nobody knew how to catch anything anymore.

His wife, an old, wrinkled woman who changed from adorably cute to hideous depending on her mood lived in the home opposite my grandfather’s. This was the same notorious lady who would ride horses, hunt, and shoot birds and deer better than many of her male compatriots. And she did all of this at the same time when most females her age were unwilling or unable to make it outside their own homes. I remember her kisses. I kept a napkin in my pocket at all times to wipe off her spit.

But I also remember the cookies she made us. She would take proper care to make mine shaped into people. And I distinctly remember that one of life’s greatest pleasures was getting up early in the morning and running to her home for fresh baked cookies – including my man. It was a pleasure each and every time to bite off his head.

Wild flowers had grown amidst the machines in the field and many days I would spend my time climbing, sitting on and playing around them. This happened even during summers when the heat would turn the metal into boiling rods. This was Khuzestan after all; temperatures soared beyond 40 degrees Celsius (104 Fahrenheit) during the summertime. The result was that my arms and legs were always half burnt and bruised from the burning rods. I would then walk home with the flowers I had picked amidst those large, unattractive pieces of metal.

Fidel would always be there, watching me, sitting beside me, or playing catch. As this was a more traditional family, he was not allowed indoors. But we could play all we wanted outside and not have to worry about anyone complaining.

He was a quiet, reserved fellow. As for his love life, his mistresses, children he may have fathered … to this day, it remains all but a mystery.

My father’s uncle would stop by once and a while and give him a checkup. He would give him shots sometimes, medicine or a good cleanse in some sort of antibacterial liquid. It was especially torture to watch him get the shots because he hated them. And he knew full well when they would be coming.

I remember our first encounters. I had never met a dog and only knew them from the pictures in the books mom read. I was terrified of his mouth and of the saliva that was always hanging there like a pouring waterfall, and of his teeth. But once we got more acquainted and I decided he was never going to be using them around me, our relationship began to flourish.

People would continuously come and go through that house. It was a place for family and friends to relocate if there was a need. This was a time of war, the early days of the Iran-Iraq war, and daily, there was news of cousins or aunts having their homes demolished by bombs and air raids. Those who relocated to this place were the lucky ones. There were too many people who never got the chance to relocate – their homes had been bombed whilst they were inside.

I must have met dozens of people while we stayed there. In my mind, I just loved the company. I figured they were there on vacation – like we were.

That is the story my parents always told: never did I imagine that we were really homeless nomads fleeing the war. They always told me we were there on vacation to see the family, and I absolutely loved our “vacations” and the chance to spend time with family.

Fidel would never tread near the houses. As if he somehow knew the kindness would only continue if he kept his distance.

He had a wonderful appetite. In fact, he ate pretty much anything that was thrown at him. My uncle would say: Feadel mesl-e een saghayeh loos-e khareji nist. (Fidel is not like those snobbish, foreign dogs). The kinds we saw in American movies on the Arab satellite channels. The movies where people had beautiful dogs and flowing, shiny long hair and ran in happy field bursting with joy and wonder: that was the khareji [foreign] lifestyle of which we knew.

But his appetite was especially helpful to me when we had fish, sabzi polo [rice with herbs] or things of the variety I didn’t like. I would always ask to go outside and sit with Fidel to eat. Once there, he would take good care of my dinner. Of course, that eventually made me feel guilty and sometimes I’d give him some of the good dinners too: kabab or fried chicken.

One year, when we went back, Fidel wasn’t around anymore. I asked my uncle where he had gone, and he was quick to mention that he was sold to a herd. “He was getting bored lying around here all day”.

I was sad not to have my old friend around. The place, the field, seemed empty without him. Wasn’t he too old to be running after a herd? That didn’t cross my mind. But his absence did not occupy me for long. I soon forgot about it – and him.

The truth was that Fidel had also served as the homes’ guard dog. During the war, daily robberies were much more common. Once, when the whole household was out for a few days, thieves had climbed over the wall and into the field. Uncle had found Fidel lying dead when they returned.

I lost a great, wonderful friend in the war. But many others lost siblings and parents and children. I guess life had been more than fair.

But I think of him still; and I think of those big, gigantic pieces of metal where we would play. And in my mind’s eye, I create a most beauteous image. Fidel was probably much older and run down than what I remember. The flowers in that field were probably much less beauteous than what I remember; the metal junk much more hideous.

Since, I have returned many times. It has been years since anybody lived there. Great grandmother has passed. The houses stand deserted and half ruined. The field is flooded with wild, uncomely weeds. And the rotted machines sit there still more burnt and chipped than they have ever been.

What I particularly remember from that place was the big, red iron door and the gold and marble doorknob. The door is chipped and broken. The gold has rusted into an ugly brown. But the oak tree is there still … the only life that has remained. I sit there in its shade and look inside through the window. And perhaps, if I look a little harder, I will see a little girl walking out the back door with a dish full of sabzi polo and fried fish. I’d ask to have her share it, and listen hard to all that she had to say while we – or rather, I – ate.

We’d then walk out the back door to an old, tired, sleepy dog. We would watch him eat the fish with delight and then pick some flowers and weeds amidst the burning metal left deserted in the junkyard. I would look hard and try to store memories the way they really happened. I would make sure to remember the unattractiveness of the garden; the tired eyes of a worn out, exhausted dog.

But you know what? I don’t really want to do that. Memories are only as good as we let them be, and I have no regrets.

Not much good news coming out of Iran … It gets worse and worse. And just when you think it couldn’t get worse, it gets even worse. Sometimes I think the mere fact that we’re a country still where people breathe and live and study … is a divine miracle, as I’m sure many Iranians have thought before me.

Jafar Panahi, the Iranian director who has been in prison for months now has started a hunger strike.

In a letter released today, he reveals that early Saturday morning, his prison cell was “raided” by prison guards and he and his cellmates were forced to stand “without clothing” in the cold. In the morning, he was interrogated and accused of trying to film inside the prison cell.

He also writes that he has been threatened that his entire family will be taken into custody if he does not cooperate, and his daughter will be taken to “an unsafe detention center”.

He writes: “I have not had anything to eat or drink since Sunday morning. And now I declare if the following demands are not met, I will continue this hunger strike. I will not tolerate turning into a lab rat, where every minute I am accused of the most insane crimes and where I am under constant mental and physical torture.

1) a meeting with my family and being fully reassured of their well-being

2) a right to a lawyer, after 77 days, and the right to talk to him/her

3) my full release until the date of my trial

Sorry for being so remiss in posts lately … as June 12th approaches, I feel an overwhelming sense of grief and longing … all over again.

For a while I thought that things were back to  normal ……… the chaotic normalcy we are used to as Iranians. But with the executions, with the fast approaching anniversary of the election … Now I realize that things aren’t back to normal (whatever that is) … and will never be again. At least for quite some time.  The feelings are still so raw and real … as if it was just yesterday I cast that vote into the ballot box.

But that’s another day, and another cup of coffee.

Here’s some good music for the weekend.

If you’re Iranian, you have probably seen this by now:

But here are some university students at University of Tehran’s school of engineering performing the same song:

I previously posted videos of engineering students performing in their dormitories here:

And another one, here.

According to RajaNews, the pro-government news site, “unknown sources” in the province of Esfahan have released a video game titled “War with sedition leaders” where war planes get to shoot Mousavi, Karoubi and Khatami running on the ground.

The partners in crime, in turn, get to shoot at the airplanes with guns …

I’d say it’s a pretty accurate depiction of what’s happening on the ground: an army of planes crushing people with nothing to defend themselves.

I was meaning to write about Mohammad Bahman Beigi ever since I wrote the post on The New School.

How ironic that he passed away this week, and Iranian blogistan is abuzz with the news of his death … and his life.

Kalemeh writes of this departure:

It was exactly a year ago when Mir Hossein Mousavi visited the province of Fars as he was traveling the country for his presidential campaign. During his time in Fars, he went to meet a teacher. A teacher of the ashayer [nomadic tribes]. A teacher to all the ashayer teachers. A teacher who passed away a day before Teacher’s Day [May 1st].

Bahman Beigi officially gave his blessing to Mousavi’s campaign during the visit.

Mohammad Bahman Beigi in Iran is known as a writer, and a pioneer of education for nomadic communities in Iran. He was born into the Iranian Qashqai tribe in the southern region of Fars. His parents were put into exile by the government of Reza Shah (they were against the government’s Takhteh Ghapoo program – forced housing programs for the tribes) and so he followed them into exile to Tehran. The Qasqai and Bakhtiari tribes were very powerful militarily and financially, and thus feared by the central government. They were forces to be reckoned with, and subsequent governments were actively involved in housing them, relocating them, sometimes fighting them, and “integrating” (aka pacifying) their communities.

Bahman Beigi studied law at the University of Tehran, and held government clerical positions for a  short time, before finding them unbearable and returning to the tribe. He recounts all of this beautifully in his autobiography: Bokharayeh Man, Eeelee Man. Under Truman’s Point Four Program, Bahman Beigi began working with the central government to design curriculum and schools for the tribes. (In his inaugural address, Truman stated the fourth objective of his foreign policy to be “we must embark on a bold new program for making the benefits of our scientific advances and industrial progress available for the improvement and growth of underdeveloped areas”)

Bahman Beigi (far right) with Queen Farah (middle) in the city of Mamasani, province of Fars

Among his innovations, was Bahman Beigi’s change of the system to train teachers for the tribes, from the tribes contrary to previous practices (where new graduates from the city would come into the tribes to teach – a program which had had considerable failings given that these city dwellers had no knowledge of the tribal life and would not last for more than a few months).

Bahmanbeigi and his work have been the subject of two films. 2003’s White Tents, by Kamran Heidari and Iranian director Mohammad-Ali Talebi also announced plans to film a second Bahmanbeigi biopic.

I take personal interest in studying his proposed methods and curriculum: how much did it work to integrate the tribes into society? How much did help the central government pacify these communities? How beneficial was this to the tribes? etc.

Those are questions I’m slowly researching, but the one thing that has always been awe inspiring to me about Bahman Beigi is his love and adoration for his tribe – most beautifully accounted in his autobiography. He breathes it, relishes it, is in awe of its beauty and strength. He speaks bluntly and openly of the pain he feels when he is away from them, from the earth, the people, the rituals. For many of us who have been living far from our tribes, who are gripped with this awesome feeling of nostalgia and longing, those are meanings we know only too well.

Entrance to the school of engineering at the University of Tehran.

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You may all know of boobquake by now (which has 100,000 participants on facebook), but not many have heard of Fanni Pleasure Island.

ٍEarlier in the week, the students at the School of Engineering at the University of Tehran were confronted with a huge poster erected by the university’s security headquarters calling the students to shame for turning the university, which “used to be a place of chastity and scholarly pursuit”, into a “pleasure island [eshratkadeh] of corruption and sin.”

Nobody is really sure what they mean, but this could be a reference to a very limited number of girls in the school shedding their maghna-e (the veil required of women in government office buildings and universities. It’s supposed to be worn like the first photo but generally worn like the second or third – with the chin showing too as this cartoon is only making a joke) and wearing other forms of head covering like shawls and scarves.

The students have taken a cue from security forces and set up a facebook page called “Eshratkadehyeh Fanni” [Fanni Pleasure Island]. The group currently has 700 members and they’ve planned everything from a striptease in the school of Mechanical Engineering to sex parties in the school of Mining to …

This is the main picture for the group:

About this painting, they write: “What you see here, is our school, the School of Engineering at the University of Tehran. These are students as they run between their classes. They use this time to do some skinny dipping in the school’s pool and that basiji guy walking in the middle has no patience for sights like this, so he always walks around between us with a weapon. That hookah  you see there belongs to the kids from the school of mechanical engineering.”

Mousavi met with the heads of the Iranian Religious-Nationalist Front. Not only was this meeting welcoming (the Religious-Nationalist Front has been banned for nearly the entire duration of the past 31 years and is considered outside the traditional “Khodi” (accepted) ranks of Iranian politics even by many reformers). But I liked his talk as well, especially one part where he says:

“In creating a piece of art, modern artists generally have two approaches. One group brings to life on canvas what they have imagined or depicted fully prior to making the painting. Another group starts work without having any previous notions of what the painting will look like in the end. And gradually, slowly on the canvas they bring their art to life. The second approach is the one the Green Movement’s has taken.”

I love his metaphor not only because it seems to be such a vivid depiction of what is happening in Iran right now … but that that’s the way I’ve always thought of the human experience.

The more I think about modernity and our “development” as human beings, the more it seems to me that it’s not really an issue of “progress”, being able to “prove” that we are now better off than we were centuries ago – because with every achievement, I can name a defeat. Sure, in the age we live in today, a tooth ache isn’t an issue like it would have been 1000 years ago. But back then, things like toxic waste, nuclear war or green house gases weren’t either.

It seems to me that development, more than anything, means a story that moves forward, a narrative, a canvas we are all creating together as human beings … and on this canvas we have the suffering, the pain, the tears, the triumphs … everything comes together.

I’m glad that this time around, the man and woman at the helm are artists. Those are words that would have never been spoken by anyone else.

Mohammad Nourizad is a writer, producer and journalist. He began his work for IRIB with the late Morteza Avini’s Revayateh Fath [Tales of Resistance] – a documentary series on the Iran-Iraq war.

Prior to the election, he wrote for the hardline newspaper Keyhan, but what made him a household name was his support of the opposition after the election, and his letters to the supreme leader for which he is now serving time in prison.

He’s now written a fourth letter to the leader while in Evin prison, the translation which I have provided below.

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It’s been nearly four months now that I have been in prison for writing your eminence a letter. I have spent 68 days in solitary confinement. I have been insulted and beaten by my interrogators. In all of this, I have continued to speak of you as an intelligent, wise leader and I still believe that if change is to be brought to the country, this change will only be doable and sustainable if it comes from you. Personally, I have no hope in other bodies and individuals within the establishment. I know you closely. I know of your great soul. You in turn know me quite well.

While in prison, I have been unaware of what has been going on in the outside world. But in a brief encounter I had only once, with my family, I found out that in my absence, Mr. Mousavi, Mr. Khatami and Mr. Karoubi have gone to see my family. I don’t know why, but somehow I wished that you, with the greatness I know of you, would have made the effort to see my family, to comfort them, and tell them that: in those chaotic days when I, the leader, was under constant attack from all around me, this fellow, Nourizad, came to my defense with his writings, with his TV programs. Now, today, he is in prison for criticizing me! And he must learn manners in prison. His wife and children must be insulted by the rude, ignorant interrogators, and he must be crushed under brutal beatings, humiliation and threats. But this doesn’t mean that I, the leader, do not appreciate his previous efforts. It doesn’t mean that even if I don’t visit his family, I won’t send a representative to do so.

Dear leader, my family’s anticipation to see you or your representative went nowhere. I guess that in this world, people have an expiration date. And when this date arrives, they must be thrown to the curb, like dirty napkins. But me and those like me, we were not pulled towards you because of a particular gravitation towards Khamenei himself. In the elegance of your thoughts, we saw the lost dreams of our nation and that of the world. I remember that in recent times, when I was trying to meet with you, Hossein Mohammadi, your chief of staff, kept promising me a meeting for months. So I wrote him a letter and said: I seek refuge from Khamenei, in the arms of the God that Khamenei believes in. And I never came to you again. And you returned the gesture. Because I know that you do not see the people’s wishes, being blocked from you by the ignorant fools who surround you. These are the very things I wanted to tell you in those meetings, but it appears that those who surround  you, know of the words I wished to say to you, and know of my thoughts. After a meeting you had with the Pen Association, of which I am a member, this very Mr. Mohammadi told me: “Mr. Nourizad, swear to god, I am scared of you.” His fear came from that very constrained meeting in which without reservation, I spoke about the widespread drug addiction among our people and our youth, and the chaos that has ensued in our cities, big or small.

And now, why do I write you from prison? Because still, in bewilderment, I have hope  in you, yes, in you. My belief is that: only you can think of a way out of this chaos our people are in. Today, which people do you consider yourself a leader to? I do not see many people with you. Leadership over a small number of people is not something to be proud of. You nor I, we should not be tricked by seeing the leagues of people who come to greet a state official, or even you. If you allow other people to speak, you will see of the fire and frenzy with which those individuals too will be greeted. But those who come to greet a state official, those populations are not a point of reference, and have never been. Today, you lead a country whose people have broken ranks with the leadership. A country facing many questions. A country whose unity has been broken, by you, and those who surround you; today, a trivial, narrow worldview has taken over. I don’t know what you have named this year [Khamenei gives every year a name: this year he called "double diligence and double work" for which many jokes have ensued]. But I know that in your naming, you have referred to diligence and hard work. This naming convention shows that your advisors are not honest or efficient. We would have all applauded you if you had named this year the year of national reconciliation and had stepped forward for this hard and difficult task.

If hard work and diligence are important to you, you must use them towards national reconciliation.

Dear leader, I know that my troublesome words are bitter and chaotic. But I ask you to accept these honest, bitter words over the servile words of those who surround you. Our society sits amidst a great explosion. It is a pressure cooker on the verge of explosion, on the nozzle which we’ve stuck a burning match, for not wanting to hear it boil. I write of you with the same reassurance I wrote of you before. We are reaching the end days of this great test. Destiny, this heavenly tradition, will soon end our chance to grapple with this test. A test which we have only answered with chaos and devastation in the past thirty years. Me and you, we have lost our people. If you see them calm or silent, that is only because of fear of guns and terror. If you do not believe me, submit to an imaginary test: in two countries, Iran and another country, say Sweden or Canada or even Malaysia, we announce that for one day, only one day, there will be no police or militias or weapons. And they are free to do whatever they wish. In the end of this day, what do you imagine our country would look like? and how about the other country? In this comparison, I do not mean to lay praise to the West. But rather, I want to point to the deceptive silence prevalent in our own society.

Dear leader! many like me still hold respect for you and wish the best for our country. We have faith in your leadership. With your leadership, we wish to reach the highest peaks. But it seems as if you do not wish the same. It seems that your friends and advisers who surround you, are quite ignorant and only serve to deceive you by providing false information. And they speak untruthfully on your behalf. Friends like Mr. Shariatmadari from Keyhan. Come it a day when all have left you, and you and him are stranded alone on an island, he will come to your blind defense even if that means opposing you.

Even with the bitter tone of my letter, I sing loud and clear to the universe: we love you and hope to see your fate end well. Believe me, believe us. At the very least, in your mind, imagine that we are right. Imagining this will come at no cost for you. In your mind believe that your good friends, even though they have been labeled in the ranks of the enemy, worry for your fate, and hope to see you shine bright in these final days of the lord’s great test. With great courage, the courage I know you have, declare this year the year of national reconciliation and do not fear the reproach. God is enough for us. The god that will place the people’s hands in yours.

~Your son: Mohammad Nourizad – Evin ward 240 – cell 57

Yesterday, the Cultural Ministry’s cinematic division released their policy document for the new year, outlining their goals (every movie in Iran must obtain a permit from the ministry).

The top “subject priorities” for the new year are ( meaning these are topics which will get easier permits and funding):

• Koranic and religious meanings
• The prophet and his family
• The occultation (the coming of Mehdi)
• Family values
• Children and young adults
• Culture and civilization of Islamic Iran
• Islamic revolution
• Islamic history and modern history
• Soft warfare [to topple the IRI]
• Imperialism’s efforts to crush Iran and Iran’s resistance
• The Holy War (Iran-Iraq war)
• Political topics (national and international)
• Famous figures (scientists, artists, etc)
• Iran’s Scientific achievements

Have fun movie making!

From Hamshahri newspaper

“National Media”

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Even though this clip may be considered slapstick comedy, I was rather intrigued by it.

Especially because I had recently seen this:

[h/t Neo-Resitance]

The first clip is a piece on IRIB2 – about Iran’s “cyber army” and how, since some blogs and the internet have been used towards “soft warfare” to topple the IRI, a group of young dedicated IRI loyalists are stepping up and using the internet to fight back.

In the clip, there is constant juxtaposition between the days of the Iran-Iraq war where young, courageous Iranians took up arms to fight the enemy, and the need for this young generation to pick up their computers. As one young boy puts it: “our tanks and weapons today are our pens and paper.” Another declares: “our weapons today are our blogs.” There is a constant emphasis on the enemy’s effort to destroy the Islamic Republic – just like the days of the war, albeit by different means [perhaps fellas at IRIB haven't been following international news, as I think military attacks on Iran are still quite a real, dangerous threat]. In another scene, the reporter goes through a series of doctored images which she claims “anti revolutionary” websites have tried to portray as scenes of unrest in Tehran.

When I say that I think the arguementative style of the current Iranian rulers is quite deceptive and dangerous, this is what I mean. They mix truth (the fact that Iran IS in danger, that there are evildoers out there who wish us harm, that the Western mainstream media spins lies and deception of its own) with so much untruth:

• For one thing, the “dedicated cyber army” the clip raves about, unlike those in the opposition, is not a grassroots effort trying to do what it can with scarce resources and a world of danger looming ahead. It’s taken a lot of resources, in terms of space, money, organizing, etc to get this so called ‘army’ moving and working.
• who are these folks fighting exactly? who read their blogs? how much outreach do they have outside their own circle to be able to “fight” anyone anyways? (of course, that’s because the report does not talk about the real activities of the cyber army which include crackdown on dissidents in the virtual world which is much more dangerous than hacking twitter)
• Yes, there were many doctored images floating around. But there also, hundreds and hundreds of REAL images of REAL terror unleashed on civilians.
• These young “soldiers”, in many ways, are not fighting an external enemy but innocent kids of their own generation. The very comparison with the Iran-Iraq war, while very powerful, is absolutely, completely wrong.

The second clip is Iranian academic Ramin Jahanbegloo on TVO. Personally, I’m a bit uncomfortable with the sticker “twitter generation” since a lot of my friends who are ardent activists, don’t even know what twitter is. When, according to reports like this, less than 0.027% of Iranians know about Twitter and most tweets came from sympathizers outside of Iran. That name partly stems from the early mainstream media crusades that began right after the election.

In fact, it’s incredibly intriguing to go back and look at how people spread the word when, a lot of the time, we couldn’t even rely on the internet at all.

However, I think Jahanbegloo only uses that term as a naming convention and I agree with his main point: that this generation has decided to bring change to their country in a radically new way, especially if you juxtapose that with the methods their fathers chose, in fighting the Shah, realizing a revolution and then fighting a bloody war that followed it all. We haven’t been willing to dream so big, that all reality ends up blinding us in the process. In retrospect, we haven’t done anything extraordinary either, we’ve only remembered the meaning of being Iranian: wait a while, be patient. This too shall pass – put your efforts in living life, instead of losing it.