Stalin, a product of Lenin! Lenin, a product of the Tsars!

I am reading a book titled "Young Stalin". It is by Simon Sebag Montefiore. I have found within the book's pages a totally different man from whom I thought Stalin was. On the one hand most biographies of Stalin are written by his enemies in exile, so can't be impartial. On the other hand, the only biographies with a positive attitude towards this dictator were written only in his lifetime in Russia and are wildly partial and off the mark. We should not forget that after his death Stalin was denounced by his own party so there were no biographies about him published later in Russia. Therefore it is hard to find an impartial book about him. Fortunately this book tries to be that, although it is more negative than positive. The author exhibits all the symptoms of a person who has not lived through similar times and is writing about a man and a time he can't FEEL anything about. I can, however, understand every word, since I have lived through similar times and can feel every moment of the young Stalin's life. I can understand why he did what he did, at least before he became the blood-thirsty dictator he was.

It is fascinating to think what would have happened to Stalin if he had lived in a different time. I try to imagine him in Canada in our time. At most, he would have been a Jack Layton, leader of the NDP. If the Bolshevik coup had been crushed and defeated, he would have been a martyr, or at least an old revolutionary émigré with lots of stories to tell about his adventurous life. He would never have become the Stalin we know now. His life would not have been much different than the life of all the Russian revolutionaries deported after October, or the life of Spanish Civil War heroes after the defeat of the Spanish government by Franco.

What made him STALIN, the worst dictator in history, was the October Revolution. Without Lenin, there could not be a Stalin. Stalin is the natural product of Lenninism. He is the legitimate son of Lenin's brutal Civil War and dictatorship. But we can't understand Lenin without understanding the suffocating dictatorship of the Romanovs and Tsarist Russia. Without that dictatorship, Lenin could not have succeeded in bringing about the October coup. The population would not be ready to tolerate so much brutality. Other parties have tried, after the October, to copy it in other countries, but where the situation was not ready, they were all defeated. German communists tried hard to have their own revolution in 1918 and 1919 but were defeated because German society was more advanced and less brutal at the time. Even British communists tried their hand at revolution in the 1920s, but it was a farce because people would just not accept a bloody revolution.

So, I believe, if we trace the roots of Stalinism, at the end of the day the blame rests with the Tsars and their stupid, backward regime. The same thing can be said about the Islamic Republic in Iran. Yes, they are brutal. But you can't blame it all on them only. Without the brutal, murderous dictatorship of the Shah, Khomeini could not have achieved success and come to power.

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I agree that Stalin could not do what he did without Lenin, but I also believe it was not necessary to be so brutal. There is no logical reason for the necessity of Stalin's extreme brutality. Russia would still become an industrial country, no matter what political system it had. Many other countries went through the same phase without any blood. IT WAS NOT NECESSARY. It was illogical and evil. It can only be explained by Stalin's personality. I believe if other members of the Bolshevik party had ruled Russia instead of Stalin there would not have been such blood bath. Even if Lenin had survived and ruled, he would not expose his fellow contrymen to such a brutality and at least not killed his own party members. Mao was a brutal communist, but he killed much less of his own party members than Stalin did, in a much larger and more populous country.

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HUGE MARKETS BEGET DICTATORSHIP AND CORRUPTION

In a country with a huge population, the market is huge. In such a country, the capitalist system can reach the height of its power because of the size of the market. The money and consequently power tends to concentrate in fewer and fewer hands and in the long-run the political system becomes a corrupt plutocracy and democracy dies. In Such a society the gap between rich and poor becomes wider and wider until the system collapses from within. A very good example of such a system is ancient Rome, or the successive empires in China built on the back of millions of peasants. Each empire ruled for a few hundred years and was thrown into anarchy and chaos and fell in a peasant revolution. A modern version is US, where the capitalist and corporation lobby has become so powerful that the legislature just can't pass any laws to narrow the gap and the poor become poorer everyday despite the huge wealth of the country.

If a country is small and has smaller population, the market in not large. As a result, the capitalists in that country can never gather enough money to be able to influence the political system at will. An example of such a country is Canada, or Scandinavian countries, or Switzerland. Democracy in such countries lasts longer and is more vibrant because there is not enough concentrated money to influence it. The lobby power of small capitalists can never compete against the will of the people. These countries tend to have a more just and socialist system and the gap between rich and poor is smaller.

Where is the "New Man"

If you are an avid reader of history, and if you are true to yourself, you know that all revolutions start with the promise of a new dawn. A totally new world, the birth of new man, and ...... a few decades later, they all end up with the same old humans. The genes are more powerful than the promises and hopes. The ape wins over the high expectations again and again.

All revolutions start with the fall of the old order, with starry eyed revolutionaries that promise themselves and others that this time, it is all different. That this time, we will really change the world, that time time, we will "build the new man"(as the communists in Russia used to promise). But at the end, greed and selfishness wins over, the chimpanzee in all of us wins over the promise of humanity. Christianity ends in the Byzantine empire and the Vatican, French Revolution ends in Napoleon, Russian revolution ends in Stalin and Brezhnev and the Russian mafia, English revolution ends in the restablishment of monarchy with crowds in the street cheering the return of the monarchy, Islam ends in the Omayed caliphs. Where is that mystical "New Man"? Does he exist only in our dreams? Can't we ever have him? Should we change our genes to achieve that dream? Can we ever subdue our inherent nature that tends towards greed and selfishness? Is it always going to be the "Animal Farm"? Are the pigs always going to win over at the end?

Wolves, prey and the human society

I was watching a beautiful National Geographic documentary about wolves. While watching how the wolves hunt their prey, it passed my mind how similar are we, the human society, to a pack of wolves and also their prey. All through the human history, a small pack of cruel Alpha males in the form of armed groups have done unimaginable cruelties to the huge masses of the people, and yet, like the prey, the masses never react. They just escape, are happy to be let to graze in peace from time to time, and when one of them is hunted down, they just watch from distance, breathing a sigh of relief that it was not them and promise themselves to be more submissive to escape the pack. While when you look at the herd, you see and know that this huge herd can easily get rid of the wolves if they unite and fight back instead of running away each for itself. But the sad fact is, the herd always escape instead of fighting back and getting rid of the wolves. Only in rare moments in history, during revolutions and mass uprisings, do the herd fight back, and each time, when they unite and fight, they win. It is just impossible not to win as long as you are united, as the herd is much larger and more powerful united than a small pack of "wolves".

CAPITALISM

Nothing is changed much since they made this poster early 20th century. Except that now instead of the mostly manual labourers you have to put white collar wage earners and service sector employees at the bottom of the food chain.

The day we won the Revolution

In the morning we were under the shah’s rule, in the evening it was a new age, a new totally democratic popular government, sort of the ideal of the anarchist philosophers, real power of the people in the hands of the people and for the people, no government institution left, everything run by soviets of people’s representatives, with no standing army but just local militias.

Early morning I wake up. I have an appointment to pick up Majid my best friend and go to a series of speeches and demonstrations by the Tudeh party in Elmosanat University. These days are so colorful and exciting. I know I will never live life like this in my whole life again. After all, These events, if you are very very lucky, just happens once in a lifetime and most people on this planet never have the opportunity to experience such a thing. They are doomed to normal boring lives, day after day. I am among the few lucky ones in the history that am going through a full fledged popular urban revolution like the English and French revolutions so let me cherish every moment of this ecstasy and every drop of this maddeningly strong red wine. It is like sitting in a movie theater 24/7 and watching the most exciting, the most interesting and absorbing action movie in the world. Every moment is different. River of time has changed pace and is running like a flood. Every day is new, every day something new happens, every day new cracks in the structure of power appears. The crushing strangling dictatorship of the Shah is falling apart, something nobody could even dare to imagine to witness in his lifetime. Shah has already escaped in disgrace with his family and a few moments after the radio announced that he has left the country nothing remained in the whole country that would testify that there was ever a shah ruling this country for the past 37 years. The smallest relics and statues were brought down and broke. Now we are in a new phase, where the core of the army who is still faithful to their ruler are facing the whole population. Every moment an explosion might take over the whole power structure. Everybody is scared of a copy of the 28^th of Mordad American. The American coup that brought back the Shah and a nightmare to my country for the next 25 years. Americans are still plotting behind the scenes to keep any possible remnant of his government, but the last pieces of the structure is falling apart now. Even the mighty empire can’t keep its crony on the throne anymore. The whole country, every class of the society is up against just one person, the Shah. The sense of unity is unique, something you never find in other revolutions. He is so hated in the society that there is no group left to support him. From the rich bazariz to the dirt poor peasants are all united in their opposition to one person, to Shah. Beautiful is this unity, which is so rare, but a glimpse of it is enough to make you drunk for a lifetime. For once, there are really two colors here and the choice is made so easy, you are either for the dark, the shah and the Americans, or you are for the light, the oppressed people of Iran. And after 37 years of bloody rule and torture and mayhem, nobody has any doubts about that choice.

I eat a quick breakfast and drive the car. Gasoline is nearly extinct in this second oil producing country in the world. A long-term debilitating strike by the oil workers and the whole industry has brought the country in to a near standstill in this cold winter. To fill up a tank you have to wait in long lines of cars for hours, and even for a few days. I am lucky I have gas in the tank today and I want to use it. The party has asked everybody to be present at the elmosanat university. And we are going. I drive true eerily empty streets in this early morning. If you have gas, driving in Tehran is an experience to cherish. There are no cars anywhere, and it is like driving on a movie set without any cars in the street. In a jiffy I am in North Tehran, pick up Majid and we are heading to Elmosanat, calm and cool in our ignorance of what is going on in the other part of the city, where last night a mere struggle over watching a TV program of the return of Khomeini, in an airforce base has now turned into an armed insurrection, with pro and anti khomeini forces in the army now facing each other in a battle over the fate of the revolution. This had to happen, sooner or later, since the day a big group of the airforce officers showed up in Khomeini’s residence and vowed allegiance to the revolution.

We reach the university. The gates are closed, nobody is here!? Strange, where are the throngs of people expected, the party supporters and cadre and sympathizers. There is nobody around. We get out, check the gates, there are not even guards anywhere, nobody in the university, the streets are too deserted, even for these days. There are even no signs about the cancellation of the program. We head back, we have come too early in the morning and there are nobody else to ask what has happened. It is strange, the party does not just call off its meetings without notice.

But on our way back we notice the columns of smoke, billowing from different parts of the city, something’s going on, something new. I notice some cars in the streets, agitated, driving fast, with lots of people inside each car, and for the first time, I notice something new in the cars. In a few of them, I see the tip of the guns jotting out of the windows. Some very few people in the cars are carrying guns. Well, this is new. This is the first time I see guns in the hands of the people not the army. OK, something is going on. The revolution up till now was strangely peaceful, with people carrying only their feasts against the guns, baring their chests in front of the guns and dying heroically without fighting back. But now, I see guns in people’s hands. Instantly we notice that we are entering a new phase. The battle has started, the one everybody was waiting for, and this time, people have guns in their hands.

Last night, pro Khomeini forces had opened the doors of the garrisons to people and started to distribute guns and ammunition to anybody who came in, indiscriminately. In parts of the city the battle is raging. The last remnants of the Shah’s special guard who are brainwashed to fight for him to death are battling the people and the other sections of the army that are on open mutiny now. Tanks are in the streets. Majid wants to go to his neighborhood. I drop him off at an intersection near his home and drive back home.

I am living in an anarchist’s dream now. It is pure anarchy. There is absolutely no central power, no government, no army, no police, it is pure anarchy, government of people for people. People say Khomeini has ordered everybody to break the martial law and stays in the streets tonight. There are talks about other units of the army invading Tehran under the command of the American officers. I stay in the streets. We walk down the main street of our neighborhood, past the police station. The hated police station, now a few of them are on the roof and one has a bull horn imploring people not to attack the station. He says the army central command has issued a command for the whole army not to take part in the battle pro or against Khomeini and remain neutral. People have brought huge thigh cables from the government Electrical posts and tied them between light poles as a barrier against the tanks. With these barriers, no cars can drive. We can only walk, ah, the pure air in the polluted Tehran, it is amazing. No cars, no heating, no oil, the air is pure as 200 years ago, when there was no Tehran here spreading on the foot of the mountains.

I join a group of neighbors near our house. Everybody is armed, with something, sticks and knives and I even see a sword. These days and nights have brought people together. Neighbors who had never met each other now know each other by first name. There is a huge bonfire in the middle of the street, it is cold, and people gather around it, I can count more than 100 of our neighbors here. Suddenly all of them break into singing “Ey Iran”, the national popular anthem of my country. After years and years of listening to the Shah’s imposed national anthem, which is nothing but praise of him and his father, it is so emotional. I start to cry and see lots of people crying.

There is no radio, and no TV. But at around 4:30 in the afternoon there is a rumor that the central TV station has been liberated by the revolutionary forces. The staff of the TV station who were on strike for months, are hastily back. I don’t see it, I am in the street, but the ones that see it say that they just gather in an indistinct room, in a rush and start talking to people. Apparently the Shah’s guard had tried to capture the TV station but people and other army forces had stopped them. The cameras show rows of tanks being stopped on their way to the TV station. This is so invigorating, for the first time in my life I am hearing the TV and radio, who were always praising his majesty, the sun of the Arians, now declaring his demise and the demise of the Pahlavi dynasty and the victory of the revolution. There are announcements by all the parties, mostly leftist parties, asking people to stay in the streets tonight and to fight against anti-revoluitionary forces. Am I dreaming? All my life, from the time I can remember, I had one big dream, and that was to see the end of the bloody rule of the Shah, and now it is happening in front of my eyes. Right here, in the streets of Tehran, and the world is watching us. We, people of Iran, are playing the greatest game of the last half century.

We hear shots fired from the direction of the garrison at the east side of the neighborhood. This is one of the greatest garrisons inside Tehran. We move towards the garrison. Near the garrison there are lines of people behind the walls, there are shots fired from inside the garrison, towards the people. I see soldiers escaping the garrison and running towards the people. I see one of them shot dead right there in the middle of the highway that separates us from the barbed wires and walls of the garrison. I see others escaping to this side and taking off their army uniforms, they don’t want to be mistaken as the Shah’s army and killed by people. Some people here have clothes ready for them, they change and melt among the people. Later we learn that the government officials that were arrested towards the end of the Shah’s rule, by his own command, to save his neck, were imprisoned in this garrison and managed to escape when the garrison fell into the hands of the people. Some of them were arrested later and brought to justice and some disappeared and later were appeared mostly in LA.

For the first time I see somebody with a M16. The American gun which is the standard army gun for the foot soldiers. The same gun that had killed so many Vietnamese when it was used in Vietnam. The guy shoots a few bullets into the air. I see one of the most famous Iranian wrestlers right there, with a radio in one hand and a gun in the other. People clap for him. He is so popular, wrestling is one of the most popular sports in Iran and this guy has got several gold medals in Olympics and is popular and now he is here, next to us, shooting at the garrison. The shots from the garrison die off gradually. Nobody is there anymore. People start to move towards the garrison and cross the highway. I follow, the barbed wires are cut off already in one place and the wall pulled down. People spread out inside the garrison through the hole in the wall. For so many years I used to pass around this huge garrison to go to school. I walked around it and always looked inside through the gates, mesmerized by the tanks and other army vehicles parked inside in huge numbers. And now I am inside. I follow the crowd. Now I come across a big building, one storey, people go in and come out with guns and ammunition. Loads of ammunition. Boxes of mortars and every conceivable explosives. I follow in, I want to have my own gun. Nobody tells me, or anybody else, that one spark might start a huge explosion that will blow all of us to pieces. In that confusion it can happen at any moment. This happens later that night in another huge garrison at the south west of Tehran and a for a long time that night we can hear huge explosions and the orange color of fire reflecting from the clouds.

But, this does not even pass through my mind. I want my gun. I go in. Inside is dark, pitch dark. It is night already and there are no lights. People roam inside and you keep bumping into them. You touch the shelves in search of a gun, and at last you come across rows of them and you grab one and you run out. Now, for the first time in my life, I am touching the cold metal of a gun, a heavy gun. Everybody is carrying guns, I get back through the hole in the wall and cross the highway. People are carrying big boxes of ammunition. And then I see a tank in the street, and it is run by ordinary people, it has been taken from the garrison and a few people are trying to drive the beast. There are many tanks and other army vehicles like this that night in Tehran, taken out of the garrisons, a few of them end up in the Tehran University and when tomorrow I go to the university I find them parked in the centre of the university with the leftist party’s insignia and flags on them.

It is getting late, there are bonfires everywhere. Electricity is back, the long strike of the electricity workers is apparently ended at last. As all the other strikes. In the next few weeks, everything will be back to normal, we will again have gas and electricity and public transport and everything. But tonight I am on cloud nine. I have my own gun, I have seen the birth pangs of a new order, of people’s power, pure and true democracy when there is no government, just people’s soviets. I bring the gun to home. My parents are there, and my uncles. All watching the new really national Iranian TV. There are news after news from different cities, following the lead of Tehran, all falling one after the other to the revolutionary forces. The army has just melted down and disappeared, the police also. There is absolutely no police force, and no army. Just armed people in the streets, protecting this dear newborn, this victorious revolution. No festive mood can be compared to this. Everybody is happy, everybody is laughing, people are crying with joy and hugging each other in the streets.

This morning, when I was leaving home, I was still an Iranian living under the oppressive dictatorship of the Shah and the Americans. Tonight, I am a proud citizen of a new democratic government, belonging to a brave people that after 50 years of resistance, and hundreds of thousands of executed and tortured, at last have managed to get rid of the yoke of the foreign powers.

And I have my own gun.

Starry Night

A story about revolution in Iran and its bloody aftermath

"They used to drag them out at night, under the stars, and then they shoot them. It wasn’t my fault. I did not do anything wrong. I was just watching them through the bars. They used to sing or shout for freedom when they were shot at."

Poormand and I looked back. We had arrived pretty late and had just managed to get the two seats at the back of the bus, the worst seats. The guy was behind us. He was sitting on something even worse than ours, the driver’s bed, or throne, a very uncomfortable box that was also used to store drinks. The driver had picked him up while on the road, just outside the city. He had flagged the bus and had begged to get in and now was sitting there talking to himself under his breath. A dark tall skinny guy in his 30s with old clothes clutching a small brown paper bag in his bony fingers. He had stubble on his face and it was evident he had not taken a shower for a long time. He was just sitting there and mumbling under his breath. Other passengers also looked back, but then turned back and “tried” to forget him. People did not like to listen to this sort of talk. It was 1985, just after the complete purge, when the crude and terrifying fist of the government forces had crushed the last remnants of opposition and there was a bloody murderous purge going on. Nobody dared to talk about it and nobody dared to listen to others talking about it. Especially outside the capital and in the small cities and towns people were really scared. They had to be scared. It was a matter of life or death, how could they know who was in the bus and who was listening to what one was saying to others. Especially with all those road blocks that were dotting the roads. Every half an hour, near each small town and village, there was a post established by the militia of the village or the town. The bus would stop and a young teenager with a Klashnikov would pop in and walk the length of the bus, looking at all the passengers. It was real difficult and scary. Everybody tried to avoid his gaze, some looked outside, some pretended to read something, some pretended to be asleep. From time to time one was picked out and ordered out and sometime they would not return and the bus was ordered to leave. So it was that our poor friend at the back was talking to himself and being ignored intentionally by everyone.

Poormand and I were on our way to one of those small dusty towns in the middle of nowhereland for the new master plan. I was newly employed by his office. There was a lot of work that had to be done in just a few days before we got back. I had the papers and plans and maps with me. I was trying to focus on them but could not help listening to the guy talking to himself. He was the tragedy of my sorrowful land that was talking and would not shut up. Poormand was also trying not to listen and busy himself with work. But I could not. I was still hot with revolutionary zeal and ideals. Still a student, though the universities were shut down in the so called “cultural revolution” to get rid of the troublemakers. Everyday was more horrible, darker and more painful than the day before. The long list of the executed was getting longer and longer. You felt helpless. It was like you have been caught in a madhouse, it was like there was no intelligence and pity left in this world. It was a civil war, but a silent civil war, without physical destruction and the clashes in the streets and the bombs and the bombers. It was a civil war, but a civil war without the loud explosions and without ruins in the streets. It was a civil war fought behind closed doors. Away from the eyes of the population, a civil war everybody was aware of but nobody would dare to mention. The only thing you knew was that everyday the list of the dead and disappeared would get longer and longer. The guy must be one of them, one of the casualties. Like many of my university friends. Like Kazem, Akram’s husband, with a one month old daughter, who was got killed in his own house in front of his wife and daughter. Kazem, who was the first one who introduced us to a guy called Khomeini preaching against the shah in Iraq, several years before the revolution, in the department’s cafeteria. Kazem, who the day after the massacre at the Jaleh square was in the university, the blood of the massacred still fresh on his shirt. Kazem, who at the same day, was in the car with us while we were driving around the city checking out the soldiers with their American gun and the tanks in the streets on the first day when the martial law was declared and more than three people in the street could not gather together. Later it became a joke when more than a million people were taking part in demonstrations and it was still under the martial law.

The bus stopped late afternoon at one of the cafes on the road. We got out to have the food we had brought with us and most passengers went in to order food. Poormand went into the long line in front of the washroom. There, while he was in the line, the guy had come to him, gave his crumpled bag and had asked him to keep while he was eating in the restaurant. When Poormand got in the bus he was still carrying the bag. Other passengers showed up little by little and the driver came in later and started the bus. We looked at each other. The guy was not in and the bag was left with Poormand. I told him to open the bag. Wow, there was lots of money, cash, in the bag. Thousands of toomans, before the inflation, at that time, it was lots of money. What should we do? We went to the front and told the driver about the bag and the guy. The driver was one nice guy, when he heard the story, he turned the bus and drove back to the café. Other passengers threw nasty looks at us, but who dares to challenge the driver who is going to drive the whole night and has our lives in his grip? When we arrived there, the guy was waiting outside. He got in, without even looking at us or the driver, without one word, not even a thanks, and went back and sat at his throne. Poormand gave him the bag. For the first time he looked up at us and thanked him. We sat down. It was dark and getting late. The monotonous movement of the bus had most of the passengers sleeping and dozing off already. But we could not sleep, he was still talking to himself. And then I heard him: “ It was not my fault comrades, it was not my fault. I swear to god, they pushed the gun into my hands and told me if I don’t shoot you, they will kill me, what could I do? Please forgive me comrades, please forgive me”. He was repeating the same line, and he was crying. I was shocked, motionless. When I looked back, I could see the tear lines on his unwashed face.

What could I say? How could I even try to calm him down? Is it at all possible to sooth this pain. I looked at poormand. He had also heard this, no denying it. He was also in a state of shock. We looked at each other, but uttered no word.

I could not sleep the whole length of the trip to that small dusty town. When we arrived, he disappeared into the dark cold night, a broken soul with one small paper bag in his hands, no suitcase, no backpack, nothing else. One broken soul spit out of a dark evil world that had crushed him senseless.

I can never forget that night and that trip. If anything can explain what we went through in those dark years, that is the closest. That trip through the dark night falling on my land.

Allende's last moments

The Last moments of Allende, before he was killed by the American-instigated coup in Chile. Some pictures are worth a million words.

It is astounding to witness the bravery and courage of this small man against the wrath of a whole army. He could have easily escaped, like our Mossadegh, but he stood to the end and chose to die for his people rather than to save his life. Now the story of his life and his heroic death is a light that leads his nation to democracy. He joined the mythological figures in this moment.

At last a new Socialist Revolution

Well, It was time to see one more. Chavez in Venezuela is nationalising the oil industry and some hydro and public services and already Americans are hollering about a new communist threat. Calm down guys. He is just nationalising services that are public in many other countries in the world, even in Europe and Canada, etc. If you don't have public health care and 40% of your people don't have any health insurance, that does not mean other countries should ape you and let the greedy insurance companies benefit.

Run Bita, Run

A surprise ricochet zinged through the room and struck the ceiling. Shocked students hit the floor by instinct. No one expected conflict today. There was no special event planned for today. It was just the normal small demonstrations here and there in the city that formed and deformed as the military showed up. For the big main demonstrations, you always had prior notice, people knew where and when to gather, but today, no, it was a normal day, just normal local ongoing demonstrations, fluid, like waves of ocean, hitting the rocky beaches of military and police here and there, disbanding and forming somewhere else. Nobody was supposed to die today, nobody.

I run along the wall, below the windows, a few more bullets ricochet. We run into the big staircase, we are on the second floor of this three floor Atelier of the Fine Arts School of Tehran University. I am a 3^rd year student, The Iranian revolution has started, with all its beauty, power, color, gravity, sadness and deadly attraction. We live right in the middle of it all, Tehran University, the beating heart of the revolution. It starts here and it ends here. It is the flowing stream, the mother of revolution, when you are here, you are at the heart of it all, and yes, I am a student right at the heart of it all.

I run downstairs, Bita follows me. A quick look through the ground floor windows, everything is quiet. From a distance, we hear the crashing roar of the crowd, and near us a few more pelting bullets. Danger, man! beware. Danger everywhere. There is an open ground Between us and the crowd, perhaps two blocks away, we are protected from the military only by some trees and bushes and the fences between the university and the street.

The street is dead, only the soldiers, with standard issue American M16s. helmets on, full combat gear, military trucks along the street. Dead silent. I wave to Bita, we have to run to the crowd, join them, something is going on. We have to be there. But two blocks? Two blocks of life or death. What if a stray bullet cuts through the blocks. What if one of the soldiers sees us? that will be the end, but somehow , these days, it does not matter, the end is everywhere, in the news, in the streets, in the university, the end is looking you in the eye every moment, the end fills up the cemeteries and graveyards, the end spreads its dark wings over the city, the end comes with the military trucks and American M16s. The end sits on each bullet.

Who cares, run Bita, Run. We crouch and snake from one column to the other, and now the open ground, the killing field, runs towards us. We duck, we bend, we run, through the parking lot, towards the trees at the other side. This is the most difficult part, you have to just run and focus on the trees that beacon to you to run faster and hold their arms open to protect you. In these few seconds, that last like an eternity, you just pray, and wait, wait for the soft sound of the bullet tearing through the flesh, and then hear the bang, but the end is kinder today. I am hiding among the ancient tree trunks now, and Bita, panting, is next to me. Her beautiful face sweating, her dark black eyes smiling, from here we can see the new bullet holes just under the Atelier’s windows. Bastards, now they shoot directly at the students.

We move carefully, slowly, among the Bush. During the Shah’s time, thick bushes were planted to wall off the grounds of the University to ensure that student demonstrations and strikes against the Shah were obscured from full view of traffic. Paradoxically, the same growth is now obscuring the direct fire of the military. Lucky for us. Didn’t think of this, did you?

The crowd is shouting, thundering, moving, breaking against the fences, anger, hatred, defiance. I see the bodies. High on hands, moving from hand to hand, wrapped in white clothes already, new martyrs. Later we know they are high school students. Joining their university brethren, they were shot at the gates. The soldiers don’t come inside the university, they never come in. they just shoot from the street, right into the crowd, inside the university. By now, all the trees and walls have bullets in them, everywhere you can see bullet holes. Run Bita, run, towards the huge snake of the crowd that bangs its head on the walls, and rolls over the central playground, rolling and rolling. Run Bita, Run, and do you see the end, one step behind you? Why couldn’t I see it? Why couldn’t I protect you?

We join the crowd, fists up in the air, chanting the slogans, the crowd is alive, it is like one, you feel like a cell in a huge body, like it has its own personality, over and above each one of us, like it knows what it wants and wants to do. I hold Bita’s hand firm, don’t want to lose her here. The dragon of the crowd changes course, decides to push towards the gates, directly towards the soldiers, towards the guns, towards the “END”.

The “end” is waiting, smiling, with its empty eye sockets, moistening its lips. The end knows who is the next, it has already drawn the cards for each of us. We are pushed towards the gates, there is no way back, there is no way fore, we are now just cells inside the body of the huge dragon. The soldiers are scared, they are small, they are tin soldiers. The fury and fire of the dragon gets closer. The officer lines them up, two rows, the first one sits down, the second is standing behind them, like they are posing for a group photo, M16s look forward. I see it coming, but what can I do, I hold Bita’s hand harder, a calm comes over me, over the crowd. Now we are facing the guns, looking into the barrels, we are chanting, we are alive, we want freedom, we want bread, we want our land, our oil, our natural resources, to belong to us, not to foreigners. The officer barks something, few moments later, you see the blue smoke, you hear the thunder, you hear the screams. It is like a dream, a bad bad dream, people start to fall all around you, like autumn leaves, is it the end? But why aren’t I scared? I am calm, I see it, I feel it, I am not scared. I hold Bita’s hand hard, harder. Run Bita, run, we have to get back. But why, why the hand is so heavy. I try to drag it, it does not move, it is not grabbing anymore. I grab at it, I don’t want to look back. I know, I know already. Bita, why don’t you run? Follow me girl, like all the other times, we always escape, we are always safe, Bita! She is not answering. She is already on the ground. There is a small red rose spreading on her chest. I sit down, I hold her, I am silent, all around me people are screaming, moaning, swearing, … but I am frozen, quiet, a stone. And at that moment, I feel him, face to face, cold as ice, dark and silent, moving slowly over Bita, over many many others there, happy with the new crop, there to reap the reward and gather the souls.

I am silent. I, Bita, and the “end”. The three of us.