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I n t e r r u p t i o n s |
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Farzin Rouhani would remember the last day of spring 1981 as
the first time reality warped. He would recall that Just before Farzin
decided to leap over the open curbside gutter, a youthful swarm of men and
women, numbering in the thousands, came into his full view. They had sprung
up from nowhere, like mushrooms after warm summer rains. Holding placards and
banners, women chanted slogans while around them patrols of stone-faced
youths with armbands formed a human chain. Farzin shielded his eyes with his
hand in an army salutation, frozen in time. At the outer edges they held
hands, determined as organized workers at a May Day parade. It was a juvenile
crowd, restive and militant. The Counterrevolution? Backing off, Farzin waited
for a gap in the long procession, but there was no end to it. With every
fresh surge there was a man or a woman leading the chant, “Censorship,
oppression, freedom ….” Then, out of the blue, a mob of bearded
motorcyclists, dressed in black, appeared from the opposite end of the
street, their engines at full throttle. They bore green banners, a sure sign
of the Hezbollah, the uncompromising arm of the Revolutionary Forces, wailing
a chant over and over again,
“Only one party—of Allah; only one leader—Ruhollah.”
The bearded men were intent and purposeful as they moved, in unison, like a
black mass, swinging chains and clubs. No sooner had they arrived than the
harrowing screams began. As Farzin watched, the black mass dealt with the
unarmed demonstrators, now to the right, now to the left, like a giant
bulldozer, never looking back. An edge of terror in the
air made Farzin’s scalp crawl. Vanguards of the cyclists chased the
crowd, which at this point pushed toward the pavement, thrusting Farzin
backward until he felt the coarseness of the wall behind him. At the center
of the roaring mob was a middle-aged man, who sat on the back of a Yamaha
with one hand around the driver’s waist and one hand holding a powerful
megaphone. In the middle of gas fumes and the whacking of clubs against
softer heads he loudly and unapologetically urged the cyclists on, saying,
“Hypocrites are doomed; Islam is victorious.” His followers
repeated after him, “Hypocrites are doomed … Islam is victorious.” Avoiding the cyclists, Farzin
lingered on the perimeter of the swarm, attempting to wade through. He had
left home early to drown himself in Bijan’s understanding embrace. And
he was now only five blocks away—just five blocks, and if he could
bypass this drama, he could be there in no time at all. He felt the dampness
of his palms and rubbed them on the sides of his pants. The circle closed in. A
fully bearded cyclist in army fatigues dismounted. Though he was clad in army
green, his wispy bangs hinted this was no soldier. Farzin watched him lock up
his bike and stand with his feet apart, a hand in his pocket. Directly across
from him, a man was standing just as confidently on the other side of the
street. They could almost have been twins: same boots, same bangs, and the
same focused look in their eyes. Both appeared to be searching for someone. Farzin turned around,
debating the wisdom of even attempting to cross the street at this point.
Perhaps he could find a different way, or chart a different route, to
Bijan’s house. The trouble he had to go through. Of course Bijan was
worth it. This mess would give them something to discuss later. He looked
back but the man was no longer there, although his bike was. Farzin was
anxious and suspicious as he stepped into the street. At that same moment, he
felt hands touching his waist and upper torso from behind. It was the kind of
touching that people might do when passing each other in a crowd—only
more intimately. Rough but trained, the hands vanished just as quickly as
they had appeared. Farzin wondered if someone was checking him for
weapons—but why? The cyclists were still chanting, “Get
lost, bastard hypocrites. Enough …. Enough whoring for the West!”
They threatened, “Go home, or we’ll do to you what will make the
birds weep!” Momentarily, Farzin
caught sight of a cyclist who disembarked from his vehicle to pick up a brick
from the gutter. His intention was all too obvious. Within seconds the brick
was airborne. Soon, others followed. Flying bricks slowly twisted and turned
as though self propelled. Occasionally they were accompanied by rocks that
flew high and far into the march. Farzin pulled back, not knowing which way
to turn. But even at the perimeter, there was no safety. Fists and feet
danced in a hysterical flurry and, in response to them, clubs rose and
plunged with merciless whacks. The human chain finally broke. There was a
pattern to the Hezbollahi club-wielders’ attack like the dance of
bees—an unmediated, impulsive animal reaction to an irritant. The march
coiled upon itself like a cobra; the rhymed chants merged into a timorous
bellow, as the floating anxiety peaked; thumping footsteps joined the cries
and shouts. The motorcycles’
parade ended in a full-throttle fury of fumes. Abandoning their vehicles, bikers
gathered double file on the skin of the march, and cut across the crowd,
still shouting belligerent slogans. “When my leader commands,”
they roared, “blood I will shed.” Bijan still on his mind,
Farzin cursed his entanglement in this mess. Meanwhile, war clubs clattered
on the roofs and sides of parked cars and slammed against soft flesh. It was
beginning to seem impossible to cross through the mayhem. The bearded man in
army fatigues had managed to cut through to the other side, though. Farzin watched
him playing with a toothpick in his mouth, leaning sideways against a yellow
phone booth. How had he crossed the street? As the bedlam neared a
crescendo, Farzin found himself in the middle of the demonstration, at the
heart of the action. Air and the sky, all became one angry song. Now the
marchers began to form demands, broken and rhythmic, “Oppression,
tyranny … People, you must rise … Rise.” This was A single gunshot rang
out, then another, reverberating
against the buildings. The demonstrators held on steadfastly as a barrage of
shooting began in a wild cacophony. Farzin found himself being hustled along
by the throng as it swayed this way and that. It became impossible to
differentiate the Hezbollah members from the marchers, motorcycles from
knives and chains, smoke from dust, clubs from kicks, and blood from sweat. It was at this precise
moment when, for the first time, Farzin had the odd and inexplicable
sensation of the world turning syrupy and slow flowing. To be sure it was to
repeat itself twice more, but June 20 was the first time reality had warped
in no uncertain terms, time slowed to a crawl, and nothing happening made any
sense. As he looked about, people were still marching but took their steps
gingerly, their dancelike effort now an exercise in vanity. Even the
cyclists, their bloodshot eyes radiating hatred, raised their fists as if
under water. Silent fury oozed from them. Pamphlets blanketed the
asphalt. A swish of a shining blade slashed the heat. Farzin caught only a
glimpse of steel before it buried itself in a woman’s chest, slowly,
ever so slowly, slitting her body open right before his eyes. He looked at
himself to inspect his own reaction and noticed his body exhibiting the same
languor as its surroundings. He returned his attention to the young woman.
The vertical wound administered with the skill of a butcher was on display in
vivid detail, but caught as he was in the slowness, he could not escape the
imposing dynamics of the world around him. He followed the hand holding the
switchblade; it belonged to a boy with the silky beginnings of sideburns,
looking horrified and nearly as baffled as his victim. Blood soaked the
woman’s clothes and stained the pamphlets strewn about her. Farzin
stood less than eight feet away and could see beyond the fat of her bosom,
the red of muscles, and the white of her ribs. He was so close he could smell
the blood gushing to the beat of her pulse. Two steps and he could touch her.
Instead, he stared at her trembling figure, which seemed at first glance
resisting the temptation to fall. Marchers noticed but kept their distance,
carrying on the struggle. The young woman certainly understood that—she
would have done the same. Wavering, she raised her hands and held her fingers
outward to display her chest spewing, as if her lodged spirit were struggling
furiously to be set free. “Look at me! Be warned that only blood will
nourish the struggle.” And they understood. There was a sudden and
reverent silence in the street now. It was as if people were watching an
asteroid or a car crash—an incredible event over which they had no
control. The only reaction worthy of the incident seemed to be to clear away,
leaving her standing in the middle of a circle. She closed her eyes on her
stunned peers, as if to focus on an internal tug of war. An irrepressible
fright released itself into the noon swelter, percolating to the edges of the
march. Farzin’s eyes were fixed on the deep cut in her chest. She took
one step his way, half-stumbling, half-resisting, and he saw her chalk-white
face twitching with pain and her right hand, stained crimson, trembling as
she tried to cover her wound. Then, just as she slumped to the ground like a
bundle of newspapers, Farzin, quite inadvertently, reached out and grabbed
her sweat-drenched head, preventing it from crashing onto the bone-dry
asphalt. The young woman’s
fall marked the end of the dreamy sequence of events. The world sped up to
its normal velocity and the noises were heard again at the chaotic levels of
moments ago. Farzin noticed all the eyes staring at him, holding in his hands
the drenched head of the assaulted woman. He slowly laid it down and backed
away a step as he rose to his feet. He felt as though he had awakened from a
deep slumber. The woman’s body jerked once, but her eyes were closed.
The cyclists had started again behind the gathered crowd. Out of the ensuing
devastation a skinny youth with a long neck, a bulging Adam’s apple,
and an armband came forth and examined the young woman like a doctor. He
produced a checkered cloth from his backpack. Hastily he wrapped her in the
sheet, first the legs, then the chest and head. Her eyes moved under
half-closed lids. Gathering her in his arms, like a groom carrying his bride
on their nuptial evening, the skinny fellow disappeared as Farzin
watched—a fait accompli; she had played her part, now was offstage. In a fleeting second, as
he gained his full composure, strong grips tightened around Farzin’s
arms and wrists. He felt the poking of a hard object in his back and a
sinking in his heart. An imperious voice warned him against the very thought
of fighting back. Not that he would have, otherwise. |
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© 2008 MassudAlemi.com. All Rights Reserved |
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