A Fear that Has Been Nailed to Our Souls: A Generational Reflection on the 2022 Iran Protests

Students of Amir Kabir university protesting against the government of Iran. Photo by Darafsh. Students of Amir Kabir university protesting against the government of Iran. Photo by Darafsh.

A Fear that Has Been Nailed to Our Souls: A Generational Reflection on the 2022 Iran Protests

By : FG

[Introduction and Translation by Naghmeh Sohrabi.]

On 16 September 2022 protests broke out in multiple cities and towns across Iran in reaction to the death in custody of a 22-year-old Kurdish-Iranian woman named Mahsa Jina Amini. These protests have primarily been sustained by young Iranian women and men who have also borne the brunt of the Islamic Republic’s brutal response. Coverage of these protests, both inside and outside Iran, have emphasized the generational aspects of these protests and how the movement has been ignited and sustained by daheh-ye hashtadiha, Iran’s Gen-Z. But what of other generations, particularly that of the parents of these youth in revolt, daheh-ye panjahiya (born in 1970s)? That generation came into young adulthood in the first decade after the 1979 revolution and remembers not just the revolution itself but the violence of post-revolutionary state formation—the bloody power struggle of the early 1980s, and the bloodshed and deprivations of the eight-year war with Iraq. Their reactions to the current protests were formed not only through those events fundamental to the formation of the Islamic Republic, but also in the hope that was given by the reformist movement and taken away during the violent suppression of the Green Movement of 2009. While that generation’s voices are not as prominent in social media platforms that have been the primary medium through which Iran’s protests have been amplified to the world, they are also not silent. In the semi-private spaces of WhatsApp and Telegram, and in the privacy of their homes and circles of trust, they have been articulating their hopes, fears, anxieties, and even shame. In one WhatsApp group, a 50-year-old medical professional named FG who has lived in Iran her entire life, articulated her complex emotions arising from, on the one hand, the desire to support the youth in the streets, and on the other, a paralyzing fear she understands to be twinned to her generation. I asked her if she wanted to expand on this complexity for an audience outside of Iran. She sent the following open letter that I have translated with her permission. 

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It’s a good thing that you can’t easily understand the experience of living under the shadow of a religious dictatorship. I’m personally happy about this even if four decades of my life have unfolded within that experience.

At the time of the revolution, I was a 7-year-old girl who spent a carefree childish life in my simple family. Exactly on the night of 11 February 1979, all that had seemed simple became very complicated. All the concepts and values turned on their heads and life stopped as if someone pulled the emergency brakes of a train. The changes that came into the lives of us ordinary people came slowly but continuously and the first effects of it were, I think not just for me but for everyone, that we all fell down the hole of a strange politicized world. Political struggles, conspiracies, and machinations were so close and so constant that elementary school kids, during their recess, instead of doing what kids their age usually do throughout the world, were thinking of politics and arguing about politics. These endless arguments continued in taxis, in homes, in the streets, and everywhere else. It didn’t matter how old we were. Our world suddenly was focused on one thing: The government that wanted to be everything to us.  Our fathers, our mothers, our religion, our country. Everything. For many, this seemed comforting but there were also those who felt they didn’t want someone else to think for them in their hours of solitude.  Some people wanted to be themselves and by themselves when they were alone yet this slowly became impossible. That god of whom people would speak to within themselves and in the dark, and who was sometimes kind and sometimes indifferent had suddenly gathered an army for itself and was willing to take you prisoner for just a thought. Not immediately but possibly. As the years went by, the presence of that third person in the quiet and solitude of people became so strong that it was as if a twin made of fear had been nailed to our soul.

Despite this all, we lived much like you. We fell in love, we got married, we gave birth to children, we went to work, we argued, and of course everywhere we went, we carried with us our terrifying twin. For people looking at us from the outside, things seemed normal. Many ask themselves: How do these people seem content? How do these people seem happy? But no one can easily see the shadow we carry with us. No one understands the red lines that maniacally move around. These agitated lines can in a short time turn each of us into a criminal without us having to even take a step. Maybe it’s hard to believe that the field of written and unwritten laws could be so vast and so open to interpretation that it can be used to prove all Iranian are criminals and maybe it’s hard to believe we are the kinds of people who even as the possibility of becoming criminals any moment hangs over our heads, we can happily go and eat ice cream on the streets.

For me who has lived for half a century, and more than 4 decades under these circumstances, life sometimes becomes very complicated. In these years, many times I went along with every reformist wave in the hopes that I could change something or at the very least open a window. I looked at my two daughters and thought, I need to try for them. At home, with my motherly whispers, I raised them to be free. I even told my children about those political arguments we had as children, those never-ending arguments. I created freedoms for them that I had never had and opened pathways for them that I hadn’t even known to exist when I had been their age. Even as these memories seeped into the dark corners of my mind, I tried to turn my children away from seeing this darkness. Instead, I showed them every door that would let in the light of the future. I separated the meaning of vatan from the Islamic Republic and told them over and over again that I’m in love with every hill and stream in this country. In return what I got were the inquisitive eyes of my now twenty- and fourteen-year-old daughters who would ask: you still have hope for this country?

Times like that is also when they teach me about thousands of other worlds through their illuminated cellphone screens, connected as they are to the world online and they show me what worlds there are unknown to us. The three of us put our heads together to see things on this tiny screen, or in a small room, the three of us chat together and I learn from them. I learn to not be homophobic, I learn to not be racist, I learn what democracy can be, and I even learn that all these years, I haven’t been applying makeup correctly. The three of us are growing up together.

This new generation whose awareness far outpaces their parents and has always had this ever-bright and active window called the internet onto the world, is very different than me and us. With all their surface confusion and carelessness, they believe in the righteousness of their demands. Each of them carries their own respectful god within them and knows the power of the collective. They’ve been doing democratic drills on social networks and understand what a verbal back and forth looks like and are not scared to pay the price for it. Unlike my generation who thought the world must be made from rainbow-colored candy and believed that there is an ideal human, an ideal government, and even an ideal god, this generation knows none of that exists. What does exist is a path toward the future that leaves behind everything and everyone.

And now, I’m left with the fears that have been nailed to my soul and a generation that I cannot stop, and all that has happened in Iran after the death of Mahsa. I and others in my generation are the fearful ones living with a deep hatred and an ancient fury. For years we’d been humiliated and with every move we made, we sunk deeper into our humiliation. When we look at these kids, this youth, we’re ready to jump on the train of this social movement but we’re not ready to share in its defeat or its despair. Our bitter experiences have made us more cautious.

On the streets, I look at these young women with disbelief, at their beautiful hair, their luminous faces, and at their extraordinary courage and I want to break out of this skin of fear and go amongst them and cry out. I go along with them for a short while. I can be at the forefront for a bit. I can be like a mother and take them in my arms. But I remain hesitant, I remain scared, and I remain in disbelief. Every day I think what if a revolution happens and we, this generation that has buried a galaxy of hatred within us, miss the chance to cry out? Maybe we need another push so that my generation, the middle-aged passive generation, steps foot onto the streets and liberates our besieged souls instead of making jokes about our misery and exchanging the same old arguments in virtual spaces.

My kids ask me: Mom, was this what the revolution was like? I think of my memories when I was seven, and the sound of tanks, and the sound of bullets, and the chaos of the city, and official papers flying in the wind, and I say no, it’s still not like that. The walls of the streets are not yet filled with slogans and people when they look at each other, still don’t smile but every night, at exactly 9 pm, my kids turn off the lights and say to me: Go, go say it! I slowly walk to our balcony, and I sit on a small stool in a corner with all my might and for all my pent-up suffering, painful trauma, and unshed tears I shout "Death to the dictator." And of course, I don’t let my kids go out into the streets because if there’s a bullet coming, it should come for me, not for the generation of the future.

Occupy Gezi as Politics of the Body

Since the Gezi resistance started with bloodshed on 31 May, it has had an “anti-depressant” effect, as a friend of mine puts it, as much as it has been nerve-racking. During this period where each day has been prone to new crises and normalcy was completely disrupted, we simultaneously experienced the peaks of ecstasy and the depths of sorrow.

Analyzing such an intense event naturally requires taking some distance. Pending systematization, however, the vivid memory of each day impels one to put on paper multifarious ideas that resonate well with the resistance. Each morning, many bodies with sleep deprived eyes wake up in Istanbul, Ankara, Antakya, Urfa, and Denizli to take to the streets once again, after having quickly checked the latest news in the social media. They are astonished and impressed that they can still walk, run, stand up, and carry provisions for those in the parks. Exhausted bodies rejuvenate with every new threat that the government utters, and with thousands, tens of thousands of others they begin flowing to Taksim, Kızılay, Kuğulu Park, Gündoğdu, Abbasoğlu, and Yeniköy Park carrying home-made gas masks, swimmer goggles, anti-acid solutions, and whistles.

No one does or can govern these bodies. The masses that gather in public spaces are not formed by virtue of transferring tax money into the wallets of partisans. No one provides shuttle buses for them; no one gives them flags, or feeds them with sandwiches. No one assigns them the slogans they shout out during the demonstrations. Bodies that take heart from knowing that they are not alone do not count, or count on, numbers to meet with others in communal or virtual spaces. One standing man suffices for thousands of others to take to the streets. After all, “one” is also a number…

The government, whose tactlessness prompts these resisting and standing bodies to convene again and again every single day, could not have missed the significance of this body politics. These bodies naturally do have a language, even a few languages that are at times congruent and at others incongruent; however, as a whole, they constitute a politics of the body. The rage and dreams that have been embodied in tweets and graffiti since 31 May turn into material realities through the physical existence, visibility, and endurance of the bodies. If history is being rewritten, then its subject is the body.

Four of these bodies lost their lives during this war that the government has waged on society. Thousands of bodies have been beaten up: some lost their eyes, some received irretrievable injuries. Skins were burnt under the water from the cannons, “laced” with chemicals for maximum harm; lungs were choked with tear gas. Pounded arms, legs, and heads got crushed and broken. The long-term effects of the tons of chemicals dumped on bodies are still unknown. What is known, however, is that these chemicals killed hundreds of cats, dogs, and birds, and that they did harm to countless insects, butterflies, and other smaller organisms.

The apparatuses of the state, and the vehicles of death that responded to Gezi’s politics of the body, attempted to imitate the life force that they failed to extort. In response to the huge numbers that filled the parks and squares and astonished everyone without exception, they hoped to gather partisans together in scripted rallies. They began comparing head counts; they calculated representative percentages. When the calculations did not match, they increased the number of police in body armor and helmets and moved them from protest to protest. They built walls of flesh and steel against the wave of resisting flesh. When that did not work, they offered these bodies—which have been in contact with each other physically and virtually through meetings, banners, and tweets—a mise en scène of dialogue, the conditions of which were more or less already determined. They could not even wait for this attempt to yield fruit; two warnings and a command were enough to launch an assault to remove the bodies that produced an alternative sociability from the park, from the space in which physical resistance could be transformed into a life style. They freed the public space of the public. They collected all the banners, pictures, and colors one by one to erase them from social memory. They stripped all the trees, each dedicated to victims of state violence; they appropriated the barricades that were named after tens of people who had undergone physical and psychological torture, and they tore them to tatters. They destroyed the efforts to keep alive the memories of Fikret Encü, who was a victim of Roboski; Metin Göktepe, who was tortured and killed in detention; Dicle Koğacoğlu, who could not take all the sorrow inherent in this society any more; and the Surp Hagop Armenian Cemetery, which was destroyed by Turkish racism.

The only thing that remains is a politics of the body—but the bodies that produce this politics differ from what Giorgio Agamben calls “bare life.” They are not “mere” bodies that the arbitrary will of a sovereign can isolate from society, oppress unceremoniously, or push to the margins of the symbolic world. Rather, they evoke what Ernst Bloch calls “the upright man,” the collective Prometheus. Bloch writes:

Nothing is more fortifying than the call to begin from the beginning. It is youthful as long as it is; to it there belongs a young and aspiring class. It is innocent of the bad things that have happened, for it has never had a real opportunity to be guilty. When this happens, justice has the effect of a morning; it opposes itself to that eternal sickness which was handed down before it. Beginning anew is freshness through and through; it is a first if it appears completely ahistorical, and if it seems to lead back to the beginning of history….It carries the image of the pastoral mood, of the shepherd, of the simple and upright man; one can play with it even in the dark.[1]

Gezi is the struggle of disorderly bodies, those who do not have any dispositif other than their own bodies, against the death machines. If the machines are regulatory instances that follow commands and extort public spaces of mobility with force and violence, then the force they face is the resistance of life itself. Life flourishes at the most unexpected moments and places, just like weeds that crack the concrete and spring out of it. No apparatus of the state can succeed in dominating life absolutely.

The state seeks order; it can control only those whom it orders. It cannot cope with the demand of "freedom"; it has to ask questions such as “freedom for whom,” “freedom for what,” or “freedom under what circumstances” in order to tuck freedom into neat boxes. Order draws borders, fixes identities, and defines. It attempts to establish a hierarchy. By telling parents to take their daughters and sons home from the park, it both brands the resisting bodies as "children" and tries to trigger into action the nucleus of society: family. Through its rhetoric of security, it attributes the risks of its own making to the resisting bodies. It hangs its own flag or banner on the bodies that it prefers knocking down rather than protecting. It punishes those who do not obey; it uses punishment as retaliation. It operates through censorship, threats, and propaganda.

Life, on the other hand, is a constant flux. It challenges borders and moves beyond them. It opens up to circulation those spaces that are closed off due to construction; it paints such destructive vehicles as bulldozers pink; it transforms steps into tribunes, pieces of iron into wish trees, and trees destined to be cut down into monuments. It walks on highways and bridges that are closed to pedestrians. It does not like the empty and the sterile; it covers them up with banners, slogans, tents. It leaves its mark on every surface. It disrupts silence at times with pots and pans, and at other times with a tune from a piano. It plays with identities and definitions; it makes them fluid; it renders them indistinguishable. It can make fun of both itself and the established order thanks to its humor. By changing one single letter in a word, it can ridicule the heaviest of symbolisms. When the state apparatus sends a riot-intervention vehicle to pour tear gas on it, life stops to catch its breath for a while and goes right back to resisting. When a body grows tired, it gets replaced by a reinvigorated one. Life turns into thousands of fingers that tweet and take photographs when the state apparatus sends down vehicles of propaganda. It stops its wheelchair to grab the flag that fell on the ground while escaping from tear gas. It apologizes when it steps on someone`s foot while running; it calms down those who panic.

It is obvious that these bodies that fascism wants to militarize will not assume any ideological identity. When they do not drink alcohol, they ridicule conservatism; when they lie under a TOMA, they make fun of liberalism, which claims that life is the most valuable good. Orthodox Marxism cannot decide under which class struggle these "çapulcu" bodies are to be subsumed. As long as they stay in physical contact, as long as they remain as collective Prometheuses, as long as they—have to—continue the resistance, they grow accustomed to each other`s colors, languages, and genders. They disrupt the behavioral rules that ideologies and institutions expect from them. The natural or moral instinct of protection that has been attributed to mothers loses ground when female bodies participate in the resistance alongside their children. The nationalist and the Kurd exchange anti-acid solutions in gas-filled hotel lobbies. The upper-class college kid drinks the water handed over by the kid with an Anonymous mask without needing to ask what neighborhood he’s from. Soccer fans save their curses for the police rather than for their rivals.

What comes out of all this is trust, not chaos. That`s why the bodies multiply with every gush of tear gas, spaces expand with every police attack, and the quality of contact among the bodies increases with every propaganda speech. The life woven together by bodies born in Gezi is so tenacious that the government is right in fearing it. The power of these bodies stems from their capacity to mutualize endurance, rather than vulnerability (as Judith Butler envisioned they would). One would need to look into the extensive interstices of this politics of the body, rather than into macro-level discourses, to begin deciphering it.

NOTES

[1] Ernst Bloch, Natural Right and Human Dignity (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1987), 61.

[An earlier version of this article was published on 26 June 2013 on BIA ("Independent Communication Network"). The link to that version can be found here. This article was translated from Turkish by Gülfer Göze.]