An ode for Neda and others stuggling for liberty in Iran
This was written around the time of the Green Movement. I have decided to post it a it was, rather than update it. It is dedicated to struggles of the present as well as those of the past, and to the victims and martyrs murdered by those sworn to protect the people.
Two Minutes
Two minutes.
Two minutes that separate life from death, breath from blood, conversation from screams.
Two minutes.
Neda, don’t be afraid.
A summer day, people in the streets, some marching, others watching. A student and her music teacher watching, watching the marchers, listening to the voices of green echoing.
Neda don’t be afraid.
Stuck in traffic, the car too hot, they get out.
They watch the chanting crowds marching by, share a word and turn and walk up the sidewalk.
Moments later we see her lowered to the ground.
Don’t be afraid
The voice calm and comforting.
Put pressure
another voice, a doctor. It is only a bit of metal, nothing to fear. Put pressure, and they can slow the bleeding, get her to the hospital where there is blood to replace that she has lost, and surgeons with knives and needles who stitch shut what the bit of metal has done, who can save her.
Don’t be afraid.
The voices crack, the onlookers wail in concern, there will be no happy ending.
The little bit of metal has torn arteries open,
the blood that kept her alive floods into her lungs,
pours out her mouth and nose like water from an overflowing sink.
NEDA STAY WITH ME
The voice is no longer calm and comforting, now wracked with anguish.
STAY WITH ME.
A summer’s day, a teacher sees his student murdered, his hand holding hers as her lifeblood flows across her face.
A daughter murdered, her parent’s lifetime of protection and care in vain, her hopes stillborn, her dreams lies, her marriage canceled, her children and grandchildren erased, all she had, all she could have been destroyed, leaving only a void in the hearts of those who care.
A daughter is murdered, Neda dies before our eyes.
Two minutes, and a little hunk of metal,
a hunk of metal fired from a gun.
What hands lifted that gun, what eyes took aim, whose finger squeezed the life from Neda’s veins with a little shard of metal?
Was he nearby, this Basij? Did he choose her? Was he far away, shooting over the crowd, not meaning to kill?
Was he young, like she, or the age of her parents?
Will he spend years and decades wailing himself to sleep over an act he can never take back, her image burning into his dreams, or will he laugh at the memory?
We see Neda murdered, and our hearts fill with anger.
Where is her killer? Where is the murderer?
Will he will be found, and paraded in front of the cameras? Will they say See! we have the killer! He is responsible, not us. We will avenge Neda, we will hang from a crane like we have so many others, we have the one responsible, we have the murderer.
Have the murderer.
The Basij? Her killer? He carried the bullet — he loaded the gun — he pulled the trigger. He is certainly her killer, but her murderer?
Did he buy the bullet? No — it was given to him.
Did he buy the gun? No — it was bought for him.
Did he order himself into the street? No, he was instructed.
Did he join the Basiji to kill women in the street? Or was it for some nobler purpose, out of a sense of responsibility and a desire to defend the revolution and Iran?
What is Iran? What is he defending?
The mountains?
The dirt?
The buildings?
The oil?
The leaders?
Or is it the people?
If he joined to defend Iran -
surely it means he joined to defend the people?
And if his purpose as a basij is to protect the people, why was he given arms and sent out against the people? How has his mission been so corrupted?
Neda died, two minutes on Salehi street, an ordinary woman, with an ordinary name.
Her killer, the Basij, may have pulled the trigger -
but it is men whose names are not ordinary, whose names are preceded by titles -
titles like supreme leader -
titles like president -
who gave her killer the bullet -
who bought her killer his gun -
who told her killer his instructions -
who corrupted his purpose,
who set him on his compatriots,
who sent him against his friends and neighbors-
who did not teach him discipline -
who did not think what would happen when untrained rabble are armed and let loose on peaceful crowds -
who are so concerned with their own selfishness that they seem to have no concern left for others -
are they not the real murderers? Do they not know what they are?
Why else would they bury bodies without informing families?
Why else cannot Neda be mourned?
Why else try to hide the blood on their hands?
President Ahmadinejad did not lift the gun, Supreme Leader Khameni did not squeeze the trigger, they didn’t have to.
Their instrument was the Basij. He is only the killer.
They murdered Neda.
They murdered Neda Agha-Soltani on Salehi street, and would not let her family mourn.
They murdered Mohsen Imani,
and Fatemeh Barati, and Monina Ehterami, and Kasra Shorati, and Kambiz Shoaee at Tehran University, and buried them without telling their parents.
They murdered Mostafa Ghanian in Tehran,
Famil Tahmasebi in Kermanshah,
others whose names we don’t yet know,
in Tehran and Shiraz,
Isfahan and Qum,
Ahvaz and Tabriz,
Sanandaj and Hamadan,
Kermansha and Rasht.
How many yet to come?
How many other cities, towns and villages?
These are the leaders of the nation? Who are murdering the nation, leading it into ruin?
These are the defenders of the revolution? Who are murdering the revolution, betraying it for their own enrichmen, stealing votes to keep sucking at an oily teat?
These are the protectors of the people? Who are murdering those who have stood up to their lies and perfidy, who are filling the earth of Iran with its people.?
They are not deserving of their titles, they are nothing but murderers,
and in their committing murder,
They are committing suicide.
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Postscript
1. If you would like to translate this into Farsi, be my guest. You don’t need to ask three times.
Although, just to be on the safe side: (2) no, please, I insist. (3) Of course you can translate how you think best, please, do so.
Share this or your translation how and where you like. Think of it as a gift.
2. To be technical, I assert no copyright over any and all translations. Go for it.
3. Finally, this is dedicated to Neda, Mahsa Amini, Nika Shakarami, Hadis Najafi, Sarina Esmailzadeh, and all the others who have part of the struggle over the last 13 years.
