Yesterday, 11th of February 2014, was a day of usual apathy and indifference among Iranians. Thirty-five years ago it was a day of turmoil and chaos, the world media covered the events minute by minute. Yesterday, all were mute. At home, all were happy to have a day off; Iranians abroad went about their lives, unconcerned. Yesterday, Iran did not exist for the opponents to the Islamic republic. Rallies in Teheran chanted their usual hate slogans; Ali Djoun and Hassani approving.
Yesterday, I dreamed of hearing the public voices of those Iranians that privately curse the regime. I dreamed of public actions, liveliness. But then I am a gullible idealist, forgetful of realities: that Iranians expect an outside force to materialise and save them from this mess. As always, on the road to freewill and a better life, they expect someone else to do the dirty job for them while they all sit back, enjoy and/or criticise.
I received some hate mails from cyberspace Bassidjis. The soft ones called me bitch جنده . All hopes are not lost; at least, someone is reactive.
If we want to survive the Velâyat-e Faghih, we have to be practical, creative and inventive. None of which is a part to our education. It would take us decades before political movements are born, grown to maturity and run in orderly and sophisticated manners. Till then we will bury our children alive at home or raise them on foreign lands – as may be.