Ghazal Abdollahi invites us into her raw recollections of the streets of Tehran in the Fall of 2022. She personally chronicles one experience amidst the uprisings in Iran which mobilized thousands of protestors.
Hi for now. Here I sit in a safe space, gazing through the window at the beautiful sky and trees outside, birds flying through the warm standing air, my eyes shut, thinking I am thousands of kilometers away from my homeland. The pain hits. It’s been many months. I miss the feeling of getting hugged by a familiar soul, miss the steps I could have taken in the streets of my city, walking toward my friends, smiling, hugging them, lighting a cigarette, starting a simple conversation, getting a coffee, waiting for others to join, walking and walking through the city. I miss breathing the polluted air. That is when the pain hits harder.
Suddenly, I am thrown to a time that now lies manymonths back. I am parking my car, waiting for friends to join me in Tajrish Square. I am hiding my phone in the car. I have a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, a little cash in my pocket. I exit the car and lock the door, wearing my combat suit. We are going to war in our beloved city. I light a cigarette looking into the eyes of the police men and the guards in the square talking to each other, laughing. They are holding guns waiting for an order from above to attack people who are walking peacefully and asking for their true rights. I hold back tears. It has been weeks and months and years. I hold back tears. My friends and I join the others walking through Valiasr Street. You know, from the start I knew that we had no chance of winning tonight. We shout and scream through the dark night. Holding hands, and having each others backs, the guards got the order. Their lasers stir on my face. I shout “Run, run! They’re coming!” The sounds of their motorcycles ring in my ears. My friend holds my hand, we are running between the cars in a street. I tell him we can run faster alone. I remember letting go of his hand. I run to another direction, I don’t see him anymore. I don’t look behind. “They’re after me,” I think. I get shot in the neck. My hand moves to the wound and I think I am dying. “What did they shoot me with?” I keep running, touching my neck to see if there is any blood. I run faster. I get hit on my side. I am on the ground, I think they got me. I stand again. Adrenaline, thank you, thank you.
I don’t know how I am still free. An old man behind a wheel screams, “Get in the car!” I am considering that he might be from the government – what if? I get into his car, closing the door. He locks it, opens his window a bit. Uniformed guards and government personnel surround us. I fear the driver will give me up. Shots fire at the car, one glass away from me. The driver hits the gas and goes. I feel a bit better. He asks me where I want to be taken. I say, “Here, a bit down the street is fine.” I get out and walk right back in the direction I was running from. Everything is quiet now. The pain hits. I look down. My clothes are torn, my stomach is bloody. I’m scarrfded with a piece of the street inside me. I can’t walk straight. I see my clothes are painted by the shots of paintball guns. I’m trying to reach my car. I think the officers I’m passing are the ones who shot at us. I’m sure they know who I am and will arrest me. Nothing happens.
I sit in my car, shaking. I call the friend I got separated from. It rings, he answers. I’m careful about what I say. I ask: “Where are you?” He says, “I came back for you.” He shouts. I could die of worry, I think something is happening to him. He shouts again. I lose the connection. I call again, he answers. “Where are you?” he asks. I reply: “Near the gas station.” I hear another voice. He asks, “Where are you Ghazal?” I carefully say, “By the car, you know where.” I ask him to come. He says nothing. I hear the other voice again. I think he’s been arrested. I think the police are torturing him. What to say? He says again, “I’m here, come here.” I reply, “I know they are telling you what to say, don’t worry.” They hang up .. I now know for sure he is arrested ..
My phone rings, it’s from Evin Prison. My mom. She’s been three years now in prison. She doesn’t know that I’m out on the street. I try to answer calmly, and look down at my stomach. It’s bleeding really bad now. The pain gets clearer as the adrenaline fades. I put a tissue on it. My mom asks, “Are you ok? Where are you?” My father is also on the line and I know the prison is listening. I tell them, “I’m out. I’m good, safe, ok. I think my friends got arrested, I don’t know what happened yet. Now my mother worries too. She begs me to be careful.
I hang up and close my eyes. What the hell am I supposed to do now? My phone rings from an unknown caller. “Hi Ghazal.” It’s my other friend who was there. I ask what happened, where he is. He tells me he’s in the other street. “What happened? How did he get arrested?” I ask. He answers, “We were a little further than him. He came back to find you when they started shooting him. It was just me and someone else. We ran, they got him, we couldn’t do anything.” He asks again, “Where are you, Ghazal?” “It doesn’t matter.” He insists. Again, I say, “I’m not telling you where I am.” I plead him to call his mother and tell her he’s been arrested. My phone won’t stop ringing. I call one of my most trusted friends to tell her what happened. She says, “Just come to my home now, it’s not safe for you to stay home.” I reply: “I wanna go home, put the car in parking, and then I’ll find you.” The phone beeps and the call gets disconnected. They’re listening to my calls. I stop answering my phone. I go home and park the car. My father has found out what happened. His friend is already at our house. I tell her to bring me some clothes. She comes, I sit in her car, my father is packing a bag for me. She starts pulling away from the house. We don’t know if they will come after me or not. I try to smile through the pain and shock. She weeps as I try to calm her down. My father comes. I tell him I have my friend’s location, I know he is arrested, but we can go around to see what is happening. We are now on our way .. He asks me what happened. I show him my wound, tears come to his eyes. we are there watching around from the car no one is there no sign of him.
I had turned my phone off. My father tries to call my friend to tell me to stay away from home for now. I wait with my backpack in a dark street for my friend, thinking, “What’s going on in my mother’s head? She must be worried sick now. What’s happening to my friend? Oh, my father. It feels like we’re helpless. It feels wrong. We don’t deserve this. My friend arrives and gets out of the car, crying. Oh why is everyone crying, why?
My father tells me to find a safe hospital. “Don’t give them information, just take care of yourself.” I get in the car with my friend. She drives through the night like there will be a sun in the morning.
Ghazal Abdollahi is an Iranian artist, activist who studied theater and graphic design in Teheran. She currently lives in exile in Germany.