Iran's Day of Destiny
Robert Fisk
Fisk witnesses the courage of one million
protesters who ignored threats, guns and bloodshed
to demand freedom in Iran
Tuesday, 16 June 2009
http://www.independent.co.uk/opinion/co ... 06010.html
A demonstrator who was shot during a protest demonstration in the streets of the capital Tehran today
It was Iran's day of destiny and day of courage. A
million of its people marched from Engelob Square to
Azadi Square - from the Square of Revolution to the
Square of Freedom - beneath the eyes of Tehran's brutal
riot police. The crowds were singing and shouting and
laughing and abusing their "President" as "dust".
Mirhossein Mousavi was among them, riding atop a car
amid the exhaust smoke and heat, unsmiling, stunned,
unaware that so epic a demonstration could blossom amid
the hopelessness of Iran's post-election bloodshed. He
may have officially lost last Friday's election, but
yesterday was his electoral victory parade through the
streets of his capital. It ended, inevitably, in
gunfire and blood.
Not since the 1979 Iranian Revolution have massed
protesters gathered in such numbers, or with such
overwhelming popularity, through the boulevards of this
torrid, despairing city. They jostled and pushed and
crowded through narrow lanes to reach the main highway
and then found riot police in steel helmets and batons
lined on each side. The people ignored them all. And
the cops, horribly outnumbered by these tens of
thousands, smiled sheepishly and - to our astonishment
- nodded their heads towards the men and women
demanding freedom. Who would have believed the
government had banned this march?
The protesters' bravery was all the more staggering
because many had already learned of the savage killing
of five Iranians on the campus of Tehran University,
done to death - according to students - by pistol-
firing Basiji militiamen. When I reached the gates of
the college yesterday morning, many students were
weeping behind the iron fence of the campus, shouting
"massacre" and throwing a black cloth across the mesh.
That was when the riot police returned and charged into
the university grounds once more.
At times, Mousavi's victory march threatened to crush
us amid walls of chanting men and women. They fell into
the storm drains and stumbled over broken trees and
tried to keep pace with his vehicle, vast streamers of
green linen strung out in front of their political
leader's car. They sang in unison, over and over, the
same words: "Tanks, guns, Basiji, you have no effect
now." As the government's helicopters roared overhead,
these thousands looked upwards and bayed above the
clatter of rotor blades: "Where is my vote?" Clichés
come easily during such titanic days, but this was
truly a historic moment.
Would it change the arrogance of power which Mahmoud
Ahmadinejad demonstrated so rashly just a day earlier,
when he loftily invited the opposition - there were
reported to be huge crowds protesting on the streets of
other Iranian cities yesterday - to be his "friends",
while talking ominously of the "red light" through
which Mousavi had driven. Ahmadinejad claimed a 66 per
cent victory at the polls, giving Mousavi scarcely 33
per cent. No wonder the crowds yesterday were also
singing - and I mean actually singing in chorus - "They
have stolen our vote and now they are using it against
us."
A heavy and benevolent dust fell over us all as we
trekked the great highway towards the fearful pyramid
of concrete which the Shah once built to honour his
father and which the 1979 revolutionaries re-named
Freedom Square. Behind us, among the stragglers, stones
began to burst on to the road as Basijis besieged the
Sharif University (they seem to have something against
colleges of further education these days) and one man
collapsed on the road, his face covered in blood. But
on the great mass of people moved, waving their green
flags and shouting in joy at the thousands of Iranians
who stood along the rooftops.
On the right, they all saw an old people's home and out
on to the balcony came the aged and the crippled who
must have remembered the reign of the loathed Shah,
perhaps even his creepy father, Reza Khan. A woman who
must have been 90 waved a green handkerchief and an
even older man emerged on the narrow balcony and waved
his crutch in the air. The thousands below them
shrieked back their joy at this ancient man.
Walking beside this vast flood of humanity, a strange
fearlessness possessed us all. Who would dare attack
them now? What government could deny a people of this
size and determination? Dangerous questions.
By dusk, the Basiji were being chased by hundreds of
protesters in the west of the city but shooting was
crackling around the suburbs after dark. Those who were
fatally too late in leaving Azadi, were fired on by the
Basiji. One dead, thousands in panic, we heard behind
us.
After every day of sunlight, there usually comes a
perilous darkness and perhaps it was prefigured by the
strange grey cloud that approached us all as we drew
closer to Azadi Square yesterday afternoon. Many of the
thousands of people around me noticed it and, burned by
the afternoon sun, seemed to walk faster to embrace its
shade. Then it rained, it poured, it soaked us. There
is a faint rainy season in mid-summer Tehran but it had
arrived early, sunlight arcing through the clouds like
the horizon in a Biblical painting.
Moin, a student of chemical engineering at Tehran
University - the same campus where blood had been shed
just a few hours before - was walking beside me and
singing in Persian as the rain pelted down. I asked him
to translate.
"It's a poem by Sohrab Sepehri, one of our modern
poets," he said. Could this be real, I asked myself? Do
they really sing poems in Tehran when they are trying
to change history? Here is what he was singing:
"We should go under the rain.
We should wash our eyes,
And we should see the world in a different way."
He grinned at me and at his two student friends. "The
next line is about making love to a woman in the rain,
but that doesn't seem very suitable here." We all
agreed. Our feet hurt. We were still tripping over
manhole covers and kerbstones hidden beneath men's feet
and women's chadors. For this was not just the trendy,
young, sunglassed ladies of north Tehran. The poor were
here, too, the street workers and middle-aged ladies in
full chador. A very few held babies on their shoulders
or children by the arm, talking to them from time to
time, trying to explain the significance of this day to
a mind that would not remember it in the years to come
that they were here on this day of days.
The vast Azadi monument appeared through the grey light
like a spaceship - we had been walking for four miles -
and Moin and his friends spent an hour squeezing
through a body of humanity so dense that my chest was
about to be crushed. Around the monument, the Shah had
long ago built a grassed rampart. We struggled to its
height and there, suddenly, was the breathtaking nature
of it all. Readers who have seen the film Atonement
will remember the scene where the British hero-soldier
climbs a sand-dune and suddenly beholds those thousands
on the beaches of Dunkirk. This was no less awesome.
Amid the great basin of grass and concrete that
surrounds the monument were a thousand souls, moving
and swaying and singing in the new post-rain sunlight.
There must have been at least a million, and - here one
struggles for a metaphor - it was like a vast animal, a
great heaving beast that breathed and roared and moved
sluggishly beneath that monstrous arrow of concrete.
Moin and his friends lay on the grass, smoking
cigarettes. They asked each other if the Supreme Leader
would understand what this meant for Iran. "He's got to
hold the elections again," one of Moin's friends told
him. They looked at me. Don't ask a foreigner, I said.
Because I'm not so sure that the fathers of the 1979
revolution will look so kindly upon this self-evident
demand for freedom.
True, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, the Supreme Leader - how
antiquated that title sounded yesterday - had agreed to
enquire into the election results, perhaps to look over
a polling statistic or two. But Ahmadinejad, despite
his obtuseness and his unending smile, is a tough guy
in a tough clerical environment. His glorious
predecessor, Hojatolislam Mohamed Khatami, was
somewhere down there amid the crowds, along with
Mousavi and Mousavi's wife Zahra Rahnavard, but they
could not protect these people.
Government is not about good guys and bad guys. It is
about power, state and political power - they are not
the same - and unless those wanly smiling riot police
move across to the opposition, the weapons of the
Islamic Republic remain in the hands of Ahmadinejad's
administration and his spiritual protectors. As, no
doubt, we shall soon see.