Iran
In this photo taken Monday, Nov. 18, 2019, people walk past buildings which burned during protests in the Iranian city of Karaj. Photo: Masoume Aliakbar/ISNA via AP
By Pouryah Abidini
KERMANSHAH, Iran- Nothing has helped my peers and I understand the nature of the Islamic Republic more than the merciless repression of the recent protests.
When the previous generation would recount mass killings and arrests, I approached these stories with doubt. However, the dissatisfaction and uprising of the people against fuel price hikes, especially on Saturday and Sunday, were met with a siege, internet blackout, and brutal force against civilians.
I never believed that humans can stoop so low and act so violently against people protesting for their basic rights.
Once the decision to raise fuel prices was made on Friday November 16, people started expressing anger on social media.
Strikes began the next day.
At 10:00 am on Saturday, I set out to the city of Kermanshah, which has the worst record of poverty and unemployment in Iran.
The minute I hop into the taxi, the driver and one of the passengers speak angrily about the current situation. “They did whatever they wanted with us, and we remained silent. Frankly, death is better than this life. I am retired, but I have no other option but to work as a night guard,” one of the passengers says.
Along the road, a woman in a chador, often worn by government workers, hops in the taxi. The criticism against the government becomes harsher, and passengers start blaming collaborators who help the government in repressing the people.
The main city roads are filled with cars whose owners are on strike. This time, it appears that both the middle and working classes are united.
In an adjacent street, the situation escalates. Anti-government chants start, and not much later, clashes begin. Youth throw rocks at security forces, and security forces respond with bullets and tear gas.
This continues until Saturday afternoon, when the protests reach the shanty towns of the city. In most of these shanty towns, nothing can be seen or heard but smoke and gunshots.
I go to the top of a mall to see the events from high ground. Most of the attacks are on banks and shops associated the Revolutionary Guards (IRGC), which are subsidized by the Iranian government for IRGC members.
In a street next to the mall, three youth, who appear to have been shot, fall to the ground. Security forces hit them with the butts of their rifles before hauling them away.
The city is now a war zone. The smoke of burnt tyres mixes with tear gas.
The news is heartbreaking. Besides Kermanshah, a large number of Kurds have been killed in the cities of Javanrud, Mariwan, and Sanandaj.
Suddenly, there is an internet blackout, and we are disconnected from the world.
Our only source of information is satellite channels based abroad. Due to the internet blackout, they don’t have much information on what is going on inside Iran.
It appears as though the Islamic Republic has decided to cut off all connections to the outside world.
I am reminded of something the taxi passenger said earlier. “They will cut off water, electricity and even gas from us, and it doesn’t matter how many people die, so as to remain in power. The only thing that matters to them is their survival,” they said, referring to the rulers of the Islamic Republic.
On Sunday, following the internet blackout, Iran and Rojhelat (Iranian Kurdistan) witness the most violence. The protests start earlier than usual. I am carefully trying to make my way through the streets.
I reach an intersection, where there is an IRGC-associated shop called Ufuq Kuroush. Women, the elderly and even children are looting the store, carrying frozen meat, rice, cooking oil, and dairy products as they flee.
Suddenly, security forces arrive at the scene. They start beating the remaining people in the shop with batons, shooting tear gas into the shop. I see an elderly woman drop to the floor. Even on the floor, she is unwilling to let go of the rice and cooking oil in her hands.
My heart tells me to go and help, but I am afraid of being shot.
A friend of mine comes to me and urges me to go to his nearby house before anything happens.
When we arrive at my friend’s house, his parents are preparing to go to Javanrud city. One of their relatives has been killed. He was 25 years old, and had been married for two years. His son was born just three months ago.
I remain at my friend’s until the afternoon. Later, at my insistence, we drive around the shanty towns of the city with my friend’s car. We see burnt-out fuel stations. A 15 year old child was killed here.
A large number of Basji forces are standing outside. According to my friend, securing the shanty towns has been delegated to the IRGC and Basij, and the city centers have been handed to the riot police.
We are allowed to only go a certain distance. We reach the restricted area and pass before masked forces whose fingers linger on the triggers of their rifles.
It is a terrifying afternoon, and I sense the heavy gaze of the security forces on me. I try to appear calm, but my face, which has turned red, tell them something else.
We reach the city center, and the glass windows and doors of most of the banks are broken.
The number of security forces vastly outnumbers civilians, who are either walking alone or with someone else. More than two people are not allowed to be together.
Security forces are on high alert, and I hurry home.
I sleep later in the night with the sights of the day still in my head. I don’t know how long I have slept when I am awoken by loud voices in the street. I remember my mother’s advice to not turn on my light and opened the curtain slightly to glance outside.
I see a large number of security forces sweeping the house of a neighbor, looking for their son. His parents appear to say they don’t know where he is. In the morning I found out that the father has been taken instead. The terrifying days fare on, and the mass arrests continue.
Most of the people go out only if necessary, and they don’t dare get too close to the security forces.
We want the internet to return. Our disconnection to the free world reminds of the saying, “Deprive me of air, bread and water, but not from freedom”.
None of these experiences leave me. They lie dormant before rising to the surface. Thanks to them, I and most people here now fully understand the meaning of a merciless, repressive government.
The author’s name has been changed to protect their identity.
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