Pedestrian

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.

————————-

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