The past weeks have been hard for me. This time I do not hear my daughter crying over the phone. I do not hear from my daughter at all. Millions of Iranians all over Iran, in cities large and small, in villages even, are out in the streets protesting and shouting slogans against the government. The government deems them terrorists and dominions of the United States and Israel, so they freely shoot at them with live ammunition and pellets. The dead and injured are in the thousands. Videos of the cruelty and merciless attacks on the population by government forces spread over social media and TV stations around the world. There is condemnation. So, what does a dictatorial theocracy do? It cuts off the Iranian nation from the world.
I have seen firsthand the viciousness of the forces the government send to the streets to attack protesters. Years back when people protested the win of Ahmadinejad, a conservative, over the reformist Mousavi, I was in the streets with the people, young and old, mainly because two of my daughters wanted to join the protests. My husband just had surgery and could not join us.
Once I had to run fast while chased by paramilitary with colts. Another time, we had to seek refuge in someone’s yard with many others to escape tear gas. I confronted forces guarding the gates of the University of Tehran preventing the students inside to come out to demonstrate.
I told them, “Is this what I came for? To live in your country far from my own family?” They just looked at me, not saying anything. Then a fire engine came barreling into the street spraying boiling water over the people.
People were shouting, “Run! Run! Run!” We had to avoid being crushed in the stampede, so we pressed our bodies against the university perimeter walls until it was safe to run farther away. But the next day we went back. Like my daughters, I was now very angry.
There were many Basijis (voluntary and paid fighters) and revolutionary guards on motorcycles ready to run the protesters over. People were making fires in the middle of the streets to the deter them, gathering around the fires. We were chanting slogans and marching with the people when we saw basijis beating an old man viciously.
We cried out, “Stop! Stop beating him! Have mercy!”
They turned their attention to us, shouting at us, “Who are you to tell us what to do?”
They started beating us in the legs with electrified batons. Then one punched me on the face, his heavy ring smack on my nose.
My daughter covered me, shouting at him, “Why did you hit my mother?”
So I told my daughters to retreat. With us was their cousin and my sister-in-law and my husband’s nephew. We started to run back into an alley, but they followed us with their batons hitting our backs and our legs. Suddenly a door opened and hands pulled us inside. Then they locked the door. We stayed there until it was quiet. The old couple who owned the house saw to my bruises. For over a month, my face was half-paralyzed.
Activism isn’t new to me. My older brothers were student activists; in fact, one of them was imprisoned for a year as a political activist during the Marcos regime in the Philippines. I was a student leader, too, and not a very compliant person growing up. However, when one becomes a mother, priorities change. And life takes you into different trajectories, different paths, different lifestyles, and different experiences. I’d like to share them in this blog and by sharing, I am able to release thoughts and emotions archived in the recesses of my heart and mind.