Originally posted to fb; people seemed to like it. Saved here for posterity.
I am persian jewish. My family had lived in Iran for centuries, as far back as anyone remembered. Then both sets of my grandparents, independently, fled. One family fled in anticipation of the revolution. The other fled during it. In the last commercial flight to ever leave Tehran for Tel Aviv.
Being in Iran, my family saw and endured horrors. Friends dead in the streets. My family assaulted for being “dirty jews”.
Leaving Iran, my family had to endure horrors. I know I still don’t know the extent of it — even a few years ago I learned some shocking stories.
Years ago, in 2009, there was a huge protest wave in Iran. I remember being glued to twitter at the time, keeping up with videos and commentators and so on.
And, at one moment, I had such a vivid punch in the gut. I know myself. I know my personality. If I were there, I would have taken to the streets, and posted things excitedly but unwisely. I’d have been picked up by the secret police, tortured, and killed. It was really clear to me — if I was in Iran, if I had survived up till then, I would have gotten carried away by events and died that summer of 2009.
Right now, I’m thinking of the Iranian people, again, nonviolently marching for democracy, freedom, and all that. And, more than ever, they’re being brutally gunned down by the regime. Thousands and thousands of people shot in the head for calling for democracy and and end to the theocratic police state.
If I had survived up till that point, would I have marched too? Would I have posted something ill-advised? Would there be the torturers knock on my door? Or, if I had stayed alive til then, maybe I would by definition have learned to keep my mouth shut?
I’ve got nothing on the personal, physical bravery of the Iranian people. I have tremendous respect for them. And I am thinking of all my Iranian/Persian friends today, who likely have friends and family in the line of fire.
A few years ago, there was another abortive protest wave, also brutally crushed. I was at a fellowship retreat in New York, and a few persian fellows and I skipped out and marched in Manhattan. It was funny, seeing a protest march run by people who were not steeped in lefty protest/activist culture. A little uncanny valley. And really, really, wholesome.
One day, I dream of being able to visit the streets, cities, and homes of my ancestors without being shot in the head. I dream of a world where people learn the right lessons from the Iranian Islamic Revolution. And I dream that this new revolution succeeds.