Have you ever felt at a loss for words? Not sure whether to cry in sorrow or laugh with joy? I decided to translate this piece because it invoked those exact emotions in me. I am deeply saddened by the hardship my brothers and sisters have endured in Iran, particularly over this past year, and yet reading this piece I am joyous because of their strength and perseverance; because they refuse to give up no matter what the odds....My gratitude to Mani Irani for the original Farsi text.
Of course we had no expectations. We were fully aware that they were not going to support us. We were certain that in those blows filled with the rage of "Death to America" no one was paying much attention to our martyrs. All the baton lashings, the heads bowed with content, the heavy gaze of Basijis threatening with batons... No one worries about "the vote of our nation". They worry instead about the anger that burns the trash pails and shatters the windows. No one worries about the frightful silence that claims "silence is my roar"; in the cries of "oh freedom loving leader". No one feels sympathy for the events that occurred at the university dormitories. No one is concerned for the fate of those behind bars.This year was like all those years that passed before it, filled with Allah O Akbar, with bending down and getting up again during prayer, with thoughtlessness, without remorse, without any sign of a conscience. It was filled with sermons that never included us and if they did, only mentioned us as enemies, those who had been deceived, henchmen. Do you know what? The university deserved better. We deserve better.
We had no expectations yet that Friday afternoon we were engulfed with fear. We felt as though our cries had been in vain. The journey we had begun was going to be long. This past week, we felt as though we had walked for hours, filled with hope, only to have those hopes and aspirations battered in front of our eyes. It felt as though we had paid with our blood and yet received nothing in return.
We will not give up, not after paying with our own blood. To the deceitful gentlemen we say, whether you like it or not, whether you want it or not, with or without Mousavi who established the Green movement in our land, even if it is not possible today, we are certain that someday our efforts will finally bear fruit. Mark our words, the tide will turn some day...
I have no doubt that our day will arrive. The day that belongs to those who have been imprisoned and can no longer accompany us on the streets, those who are afraid, those who are pessimistic about the events of the past and the road that awaits us, those who are pessimistic of all things Green. I am certain that the day will come that we will all come to the streets once again. You will stand in astonishment at how countless we are in numbers; just like you did on the 25th of Khordad. The day will come when we come out in even larger numbers than the 25th of Khordad.
I am also certain that on that day, no one will dare stand in the way of our revolution and our quest for freedom; on that day there will be no bullets fired from any guns...
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24th Khordad 1388
Now I finally understand the meaning of the word coup d'état. It means motorcycle riding agents with batons in their hands; bullies who ride up and down the sidewalks of Vanak, forcing people to press themselves against the walls as they hear them pass by, their eyes filled with dread, hopeless against such unjust power. A coup d'état is plain clothes agents whose pockets are bulging with weapons, their arms swaying close to their pockets, every so often, only to create fear and to terrorize. It means, hearing comments such as "Do you think you're at the movies? Keep moving! Get Lost!" Just like that without any remorse. It's the humiliating command that says "Do you want to more lashings by batons?" said with such insolence. It means humiliation, insults, being torn apart...
A coup d'état is creating fear through unfounded rumors that a number of people have been arrested, while sending a number of others back home. It is the joy one feels at the rumor that one has created anger amongst those who wear turbans [the reference here is to Mullahs]. It's asking yourself "Were we able to finally bring their blood to a boil? Can we remain hopeful? Is it possible? Is it not possible? Can we accomplish something? Will it happen? Will it not?" and so many other unanswered questions.
A coup d'état is the slow and painful taste of feces rotting in your mouth....
It is the utter discontent and disregard for twenty four million votes, yes twenty four million....
Vanak square is entirely surrounded with security forces. It is filled with motorcycle agents dressed in plain clothes. "Are they IRCG agents," we ask? It is filled with agents on foot dressed in plain clothes. It is filled with vans whose drivers are wearing plain clothes. A silent crowd is walking; a crowd that is not permitted to stall or stand still, not even for one moment; a crowd that hides the Green bracelets they are wearing in their pockets; a crowd that walks and nervously peers at this show of authority from under their eyes; a crowd that turns into the side streets and returns back into the main street via other routes; a crowd that keeps coming and going, waiting for a spark, waiting for a cry; waiting for someone to shout out "Who dares to look into their eyes?" Who dares to look into the eyes of those who hold their head up high after being congratulated by the Supreme Leader? Those who hold their head up high after the speech by the president who supposedly received twenty four million votes?
Honking horns costs nothing, doesn't it? Where were we all these years? Why did we abandon the students at Polytechnic University? Why did we abandon our prisoners of conscience? What did we do when they displayed those tired and tense faces on our television sets? Why were we so callous and cruel at the time of the executions? Why did we not say anything?
Honk your horn! Honk your horn! It must start now....
May God bless the soul of the person who came up with the rule "entrance by security forces on university premises not allowed!" The students at Khaje Nasir University start chanting from behind the rails of the university gates. The street begins to fill with roars of slogans, honking horns, colored bullets fired by paint balls. We laugh as we ask "Sir, does that hurt?" and he replies "Yes it burns, but it's not that important." The bullets fired from the paint balls are unimportant. The lashings by batons are unimportant. The heads bent in humiliation at insolence comments like "such is life, the hell with the people's vote" that too is unimportant. We laugh at their flagrant gaze. We stand defiant against all odds. After two days, we finally laugh and to the deceitful and dishonest gentlemen we say "despite all our sorrow and anger, we are still capable of laughing...".
We will remain Green.
آقايان متقلب !! روزگار هميشه اینطور نمیماند
معلوم است كه انتظاري نداشتيم . مي دانستيم قرار نيست از ما حمايت شود . مي دانستيم توي آن مشت هاي هميشه از خشم گره كردهء « مرگ بر امريكا » هيچ كس نگران آن همه شهيد ، آن همه باتوم ، آن سرهاي فروافتاده از تحقير ، زير نگاه هاي سنگين بسيجي هاي چوب به دست ِ كلت به جيب نيست . هيچ كس نگران « ميزان راي ملت است ! » ، نگران آتش خشمي كه مي سوزاند زباله ها را ، مي شكند شيشه ها را ، هيچ كس نگران اين سكوت سنگين ترسناك ِ « سكوت ، فرياد من است » نيست . توي غريو « اي رهبر آزاده ... » كسي دلش براي كوي دانشگاه نمي سوزد ، كسي دل نگران زندانيان در بند نيست .مثل تمام سال هايي كه گذشت ، به الله اكبر و قدقامت الصلاه و هي خم و راست بيخود شدن ، بي فكر ، بي عذاب وجدان . مثل تمام خطبه هايي كه ما توش نبوديم و اگر بوديم دشمن بوديم و فريب خورده بوديم و مزدور بوديم . اصلا حيف آن دانشگاه . حيف ما .
انتظاري نداشتيم ، با اين همه ، تمام بعد از ظهر جمعه و به دنبالش غروب ، توي بهت و نگراني گذشت . « پس شمشير را از رو بسته اند ! » انگار صداي مان به هيچ جا نرسيده بود . « پس اين قصه كه ما شروع كرده ايم ، سر دراز دارد ! » انگار تمام هفتهء پيش ، با بيم و اميد ، تنها راه رفتيم و خود را و آرزوهامان را فرسوديم . انگار خون داديم و هيچ نگرفتيم .
ما كوتاه نمي آييم ! نه حالا كه خون داديم !
آقايان متقلب دروغگو ! چه خوش تان بيايد يا نه ، دلتان بخواهد يا نه ، نه موسوي كه سبز ، ريشه دوانده در اين سرزمين ، امروز هم نشود ، يك روز بارور خواهد شد . روزگار هميشه به كام دلتان نمي چرخد . اين خط ، اين نشان ...من شک ندارم یک روز ما ، همهء ما ، حتی آن ها که زندان رفته اند ، پرونده دارند و نمی توانند دیگر بیایند توی خیابان ها ، حتی آن ها که می ترسند ، حتی آن ها که بدبینند به تمام این روزها که گذشت و روزهای در راه ، به سبز ... می آیند توی خیابان ها . بهت زده . مبهوت این همه ، که زیادیم . مثل بیست و پنج خرداد . بسیار بزرگتر از بیست و پنج خرداد .
آن روز هیچ کس جرات نمی کند راه انقلاب را و آزادی را ببندد به روی آدم ها . آن روز هیچ گلوله ای از تفنگ هیچ کس شلیک نمی شود .. .
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"بیست و چهار خرداد ماه ۸۸ "
حالا فهميده ام كودتا يعني موتورسوارهاي باتوم بدست ِ غول پيكري كه هي پياده روهاي ونك را بالا و پايين مي روند و مردم با شنيدن صداي شان مي چسبند به ديوارها و با چشم هاي هراسان ، تنها شاهد قدرت نمايي شان هستند . يعني لباس شخصي هايي كه جيب شان باد كرده از اسلحه و دست شان گاه و بيگاه مي رود سمتش تا رعب و وحشت ايجاد كنند . يعني « مگه سينماست ، بريد گمشيد » ، به همين بي شرفي . يعني « دلتون باتوم مي خواد » ، به همين وقاحت . يعني تحقير ، توهين ، دريدگي .
كودتا يعني شايعه هاي ضد و نقيض ِ نگران كنندهء چند نفر را دستگير كردند و چند نفر را خانه نشين كردند ، يعني شايعه هاي شيرين خوشحال كنندهء اعتراض آقايان ، عصبانيت عمامه به سرها . « پس رگ غيرت اين هام به جوش آمد آخر ؟ » . يعني « پس مي شود اميدوار بود ! مي شود ؟ نمي شود ؟ » ، « شايد بشود كاري كرد . بشود ؟ نشود ؟ ! »كودتا يعني بايد مزه مزه كرد . گه را ، گه را ، گه را ...
كودتا يعني بی اعتنایی به بيست و چهار مليون راي ، بيست و چهار مليون ..تمام ميدان ونك در محاصرهء نيروهاي گارد است . موتورسوارهايي كه لباس خاكي به تن دارند . « اين ها سپاهي اند ؟ » پياده هايي كه لباس خاكي به تن دارند . وانت سوارهايي كه لباس خاكي به تن دارند . و جمعيت خاموشي كه راه مي رود . كه نمي تواند بايستد . كه پنهان مي كند دست ِ دستبند به دستش را توي جيب . كه راه مي رود و زير چشمي نگاه مي كند اين نمايش اقتدار را . كه مي پيچد توي كوچه ها ، كه از خيابان بالايي بر مي گردد پايين . هي مي رود و مي آيد و منتظر يك جرقه است ، يك فرياد . « كي تخم دارد توي چشم اين ها داد بزند ؟ » اين ها كه سر ها برافراشته اند بعد از تبريك رهبري . بعد از سخنراني رئيس جمهور بيست و چهار مليوني .
بوق زدن كه خرج ندارد . دارد ؟ ما كجا بوديم اين همه سال ؟ چه تنها گذاشتيم دانشجو هاي پلي تكنيك را ، زندانيان سياسي را ! چه بد بوديم وقتي افشاري را نشان دادند توي تلوزيون ، آن همه درهم و خسته ! چه بي رحم بوديم وقت اعدام ها ! چرا هيچ نگفتيم ؟
« بوق بزنيد ! بوق بزنيد ! » ... و شروع مي شود ...خدا بيامرزد پدر كسي كه قانون « ورود نيروي نظامي و انتظامي به دانشگاه ها ممنوع است ! » را اختراع كرد . دانشجوهاي دانشگاه خواجه نصير شروع مي كنند . از پشت ميله ها ... آن وقت تمام خيابان پر مي شود از شعار و از بوق و گلوله هاي رنگي پينت بال ... ما مي خنديم ؛ « _ درد داره آقا ؟ _ آره ، مي سوزه ! نه خيلي . مهم نيست ! » به اين گلوله هاي پينت بال كه مهم نيست ، به ضربه هاي باتوم كه مهم نيست ، به سرهاي برافراشتهء تحقير آميز ِ همين است كه هست ِ گور پدر راي ملت كه مهم نيست ، به اين نگاه هاي وقيح ِ چشم تان كور ، دندتان نرم ، مي خنديم . بعد از دو روز سرانجام مي خنديم . آقايايان محترم متقلب ! ما ، با تمام غم و عصبانيت مان مي خنديم
سبز می مانیم
Posted via web from lissping
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