Her Song. Soul of Iran's People Power Revolution
Frank A. Hilario
June 23, 2009
SHE SMILES. SHE IS ALIVE, I know. She is alive in the hearts of her people who love their country. Hers is the face that has launched a thousand Ifs. If you know what I mean.
Her name is Neda Salehi Agha Soltani. Neda is a Persian word for 'voice' or 'calling' and, appropriately, she has been called the 'the Voice of Iran' (Steve Schippert, 20 June 2009, threatswatch.org), 'the Face of Iran's Struggle' and by a songwriter 'Sweet Lady of Iran' (Robert Tait & Matthew Weaver, 22 June 2009, guardian.co.uk). Listen to the voice of faith and reason - hers first. Listen to the song she was singing in her heart.
Her boyfriend, Caspian Makan, had warned her 'not to go out for fear she would be arrested or shot.' If only she had not insisted. 'She only ever said that she wanted one thing, she wanted democracy and freedom for the people of Iran.' She had faith. He said she said, 'Our attendance would be worthwhile even if a bullet hits my heart,' and it did (ANN, quoted in nzherald.co.nz). She had reason. If only the bullet did not. She was shot while walking down a street about 1 km away from the protest action while talking on her phone. She died in her father's arms. This is the time to cry.
She was 26, a philosophy student, young and idealistic. She died dreaming. I saw the photograph of her with blood oozing from the nose and mouth; I didn't have the stomach to watch the video. Tait & Weaver (as cited) report on what is captured in that video:
The footage is disturbing. Her eyes open, Soltani seems to radiate a calmness at odds with the panic surrounding her as she lies on the road after being struck by a bullet. ¶ For the authorities, it was clearly unsettling. They quickly moved to ban the victim's family from holding an Islamic funeral, apparently for fear of creating a figure that could unite and revive the battered opposition.
They have just created one. Damien McElroy reports that Neda Soltani (or Soltan) has been called 'Angel of Freedom' (22 June 2009, telegraph.co.uk). Roman Catholic or not, the freedom-loving Iranians now have a guardian angel.
Neda's sister has been captured on video by Crystalopfer on YouTube (cited 22 June 2009 on casttv.com) and in another website (freerepublic.com) as saying (I have combined the entries in the two websites and edited a little):
Yesterday I wrote a note, with the subject line 'Tomorrow is a great day. Perhaps tomorrow I'll be killed.' I'm here to let you know I'm alive but my sister was killed.
I am here in order to tell you that she died in her father's arms. I am here in order to tell you that my sister had big dreams. I am here in order to tell you that my sister who died was a decent person ... and just like me – yearned for one day her hair being swept by the wind, and just like me she loved poems by Forough Farrokhzad, a Persian poet, and she yearned for freedom and equality. She yearned for one day being able to say, 'I'm Iranian' with her head held up high. She yearned for one day being able to fall in love with a man with a shaggy hair, to give birth to a daughter, sing lullabies at her cradle, or plait her child's long hair.
My sister died because she was not allowed to live like a human being; my sister died because injustice would not end; my sister died because she loved life so much, and my sister died because she lovingly cared for people.
My loving sister, I wish you had closed your eyes when your time had come. The very end of your last glance burns my soul. Sister, have a short sleep. Your last dream be sweet.
All our brothers and sisters in Iran: You are not alone!
In the Iran protest, they might as well be alone if the United States of America will not support it, and clearly, and unequivocally, if only in the presidential mouth of Barack Obama. US President Ronald Reagan supported the very first People Power Revolution of 1986 in the Philippines against President Ferdinand E Marcos. And President Bill Clinton supported another People Power Revolution in our country in 2001, against President Joseph 'Erap' Estrada. All Barack Obama has to do is speak louder.
Still and all, let the Iranians not wait for Barack Obama or some such soul elsewhere to speak out. The Iranian protest movement now has a martyr. Her voice has not been stilled; in fact, it is louder now, if you're listening. If you're listening to your soul. The proper cry is not so much for equality as to freedom, because with freedom you can work out the equality, the democracy. If only the movement will now grow on.
Quietly now. Listen. 'I am Neda,' the voice crying in the wilderness, is now the rallying call. From there, the protest movement must graduate into a people movement and must search within itself a unifying voice, a charismatic leader (see also my 'People Power Advice #1: Charismatic Leader,' up to Advice #7, my prescription for a revolution, americanchronicle.com). More than that. My Advice #1.1 is on Vision. Is Mir-Hossein Mousavi charismatic enough, and visionary? Those who search can be rest assured that the journey is already a reward.
Neda Soltani is now Iran's Angel of Freedom. Careful about freedom. Let me define freedom simply using my favorite quote on it, by Law Dean Ricardo Pascual of the University of the Philippines speaking in the 1960s: 'Freedom is like this: You are free to swing your arm short of my nose.' That is, freedom is relative, not absolute. Freedom is restraint, not license. I suggest therefore, another word for freedom is accommodation. I like one of the meanings of accommodation given by the American Heritage Dictionary: reconciliation or settlement of opposing views.
Embodied in the essay you are reading, this is my Advice #8: Inspiration. Whatever Barack Obama will say, whatever I say, in the meantime, while they search for a new leader, the Iranians will have to support their own people's struggle for a higher quality of life. Tait & Weaver (as cited) refer to 'the battered opposition.' Wrong on 2 counts: one, they are not against anyone; they are for freedom; two, they cannot be battered. If only they can be more inspired.
And I say they can draw inspiration from within Iran itself, from someone Neda admired and her sister mentioned in high regard: Forough Farrokhzad (1935-1967), an Iranian poet and film director, an iconoclast, 'arguably Iran's most significant female poet of the twentieth century' (Wikipedia). Forough died in trying to avoid hitting a school bus with her Jeep, which hit a stonewall. She left much legacy of her thoughts in poetry. Her poem 'Let Us Believe in the Beginning of the Cold Season' was published posthumously, in 1975, and is considered 'the best-structured modern poem in Persian.' I think it is Iran's best, period. I think it is Iran's best in this her period. I think Forough Farrokhzad is Iran's most significant poet of the 20th century. The Persian poet who has a soul. I believe this is the song Neda Soltani was ever singing in her young heart. She made Forough Farrokhzad's song her own. Twin souls.
This is the first time I have ever encountered Forough Farrokhzad, and I love her already! She intrigues, surprises me. She is alive, full of life. Here's an excerpt from one poem (from foroughfarrokhzad.tripod.com):
Life!
O Life, Life!
o naught, o all, the intoxicating nil
I am filled with thy thrill still.
I am not able to betray thee
If thou estrange me, I won't estrange thee.
O life, life!
I hunted thou in thee, in all, in thee
ever looking to capture thee, o life,
capture thee in me
running off my haunted tower of dream
my shimmery palace of fantasies.
Forough's poem I like best is her invitation to belief, Let Us Believe in the Beginning of the Cold Season. As in 'Life!' structure is not the strength of that poem; substance is its power, the sense as well as the style. Thinking of Neda Soltani, I have discovered that that poem is more than a personal love song. I believe ' Let Us Believe in the Beginning of the Cold Season ' is the poem that Iranians who love their country from now on should read and recite to themselves, among themselves, and discuss and discuss and discuss anytime and all the time. Why not?
'Let Us Believe' is a poem of these times, of:
the land of sinking time,
a lonely woman,
soiled soul of the earth,
despair of the sky,
the clock,
frozen hands,
drops of blood,
seasons,
flowers,
forbidden fruit,
this ailing, drained instance,
prophets,
stars,
revolution of oceans,
explosion of mountains,
gathering of shines,
innocent darkness,
redemption,
wind blowing,
expanding vastness of sense,
lifeless snakes,
the tomb,
being taken away,
a condolence letter,
crows of isolation,
lying,
welcoming soil,
happy waters,
salvation,
blossoms on frail, pale stems,
millenary mummies,
dance,
voice,
making love,
stabbed words,
buried words,
speculating disasters,
truth,
mourning of mirrors,
purpled flames,
beginning of ruin,
preyed-on prophets,
decadence of our bodies,
fading remembrance,
garden of dreams,
virginity of dreams.
It is, above all,
and all in all,
a song of believing.
If only the Iranians will read it, and again and again, with feeling. In the language of their choice. It is soul-stirring; it is heart-warming. There is no law against a passionate reading of a love poem, is there? And a dispassionate discussion afterwards? If only someone will be inspired to compose a song out of it even, and let it be sung anywhere, everywhere! And let the world know, on video.
Below is that freedom poem I see (from foroughfarrokhzad.tripod.com, translation by Maryam Dilmaghani) in its entirety, with a little editing by me; I feel that this is the poem that will help keep the flame of Modern Iran's People Power Revolution. In one part, it says, 'They took the whole innocence of a heart.' It is as if this was written after her death, not before!
'And I know from all illusions of a tulip, / just a few drops of blood will last.' She knew, didn't she? 'My beloved, my sole beloved, / all those dark clouds are sentinels for the gathering of shines.' She knew. 'How could I tell him that he is not alive, / that he was never alive.' He didn't know.
You are alive; read and discover your line. Is it this? 'I know the secrets of seasons.' Or this? 'I am cold, / I am cold, / and it is like I will never warm up.' Or this? 'Wind is blowing outside, / it is the beginning of ruin.' Or this? 'I greet you, innocent darkness, / I greet you, night. / You altered eyes of desert wolves / to tears of faith and trust.' Or this? 'This land is full of friends / who hold your hands / and hang you in their heads.'
'Oh, those people... / They are speculating disasters / around the worried concern of crossroads.' We are in the crossroads of history. In the end, it is the history of the I. What did I say? What did I do? And the history of the Ifs. If only I said it. If only I did it.
'I am nude, nude, nude. / I am bare like a silent pause between tender words, / and all of my wounds are from love, / love, from love.' It is a declaration of love. Certainly, I feel that the 'I' in the poem is no longer Forough Farrokhzad the author but Neda Soltani the martyr – it is a song her soul speaks to you, whoever you are. She is a prophet. 'Do you know? / Burst was the talisman of that integrated corpse / whose pieces gave birth to countless shines.' If you read, you will be richly rewarded! 'It always happens when you don't expect, / we should send a condolence letter to the paper.' Read, if by candlelight. 'Only the last blast of flame knows / the bright secret of a candle's life.' Read again and cry.
Let Us Believe in the Beginning of the Cold Season
Forough Farrokhzad (published posthumously, 1975)
It is I,
a lonely woman
at the doors of a cold season,
and discovery of soiled soul of the earth,
sad despair of the sky,
and inability in my frozen hands.
Time passed,
time passed and the clock struck four times.
Today is the 21st of December.
I know the secrets of seasons
and I understand words of instants.
The redeemer is buried,
and the soil, this welcoming soil
is pointing to salvation.
Time passed,
and the clock struck four times.
Wind is blowing outside,
wind is blowing outside,
and I am thinking about flowers mating;
and about their blossoms on frail, pale stems,
and about this ailing, drained instance.
A man is passing by the soaked trees,
and his blue veins' strings,
raise over his gorge,
like lifeless snakes.
And those stabbed words
are circulating in his ravaged mind:
'I greet you.'
And I am just thinking about flowers mating...
At the doors of a cold season,
in the mourning of mirrors,
with the entirety of my fading remembrance,
and in this loaded dusk by the consciousness of silence,
how could I ask him to stop?
Ask this man who goes
so patient,
so heavy,
so thrown,
how could I tell him that he is not alive,
that he was never alive.
Wind is blowing outside
and all lonely crows of isolation
are flowing in the aged garden of bore.
Oh, the ladder has such a short height.
They took the whole innocence of a heart,
to the castle of captive mermaid
and now,
and now how would someone dance?
And pour her childhood locks in happy waters?
And now,
Nobody will walk on the forbidden fruit.
My beloved, my sole beloved,
all those dark clouds are sentinels for the gathering of shines.
It seems that it was along the vision of flight
that one day the bird emerged.
It seems that those breathless leaves in desire of breeze,
were made from green lines of dream.
It seems that those purpled flames
blazing in the chaste mind of glass
were just an illusion of light.
Wind is blowing outside,
it is the beginning of ruin.
Do you remember?
The day your hands perished
it was also windy in the yard.
Dear stars,
dear bare stars,
when lie is flying in the air,
how can you rely
on words of preyed-on prophets?
'We will resurge like millenary mummies
and sun will judge over decadence of our bodies.'
I am cold,
I am cold,
and it is like I will never warm up.
My beloved, my sole beloved,
how old was that wine?
Do you know?
We are in the land of sinking time,
and sharks are biting into my arms.
Why do you still keep me,
underneath the sea?
I am cold.
And I hate pearl earrings.
I am cold,
and I know that from all illusions of a tulip,
just a few drops of blood will last.
I will abandon lines,
I will also abandon charts,
and from bounded geometrical shapes,
I will shelter in the expanding vastness of sense.
I am nude, nude, nude.
I am bare like a silent pause between tender words,
and all of my wounds are from love,
love, from love.
I saved this forsaken islet
from revolution of oceans
and explosion of mountains.
Do you know?
Burst was the talisman of that integrated corpse
whose pieces gave birth to countless shines.
I greet you, innocent darkness,
I greet you, night.
You altered eyes of desert wolves
to tears of faith and trust.
And near-by your lakes
spirits of old trees
are making love to souls of blades.
I am coming from the land of frozen minds, words, sounds
and this land is like a hole of snakes.
This land is full of friends
who hold your hands
and hang you in their heads.
I greet you innocent night,
you know, between glass and sight
there is always an empty room.
Why didn´t I notice?
Like when the man was passing by soaked trees…
Why didn´t I notice?
It seemed that my mother cried that night,
the night I came upon the pain
and the sticky depth of the dawn.
That night, I became the bride of Acacias.
That night the town
was crammed with echoes of colorful windows,
and my match had arrived inside my wits.
I was seeing him in the mirror,
and he was as pure as the reflection of lights.
Then suddenly he called my name
and I became the bride of Acacias.
It seemed like my mother cried that night.
Oh, a futile brightness exploded in the hole...
Why didn´t I notice?
All instants of delight knew
that your hands would decay,
but I didn´t notice
until that clock struck four times.
Then I met that little woman,
her eyes were like deserted nests of owls
and she was taken away in the blinking of her legs.
It seemed that she was carrying the virginity of my dreams
to the core of night.
Will I flow my hair again,
in crude winds?
Will I grow again
bushes of roses, in the courtyard?
Will I place them again behind the blind?
Will I dance again mad, drunk, all around?
Can the buzzer again
take me to the expectation of the sound?
I told my mom: 'It is over now'.
I told her: 'It always happens when you don´t expect,
we should send a condolence letter to the paper.'
The empty man,
the empty, full of confidence man,
look!
His teeth are reciting at the lunch
and his eyes are devouring the sights,
and how he is passing by soaked trees:
patient,
thrown,
confused.
At four o´clock,
dead snakes of his bloated veins
raise over his gorge,
and this ever-repeating phrase
possesses his mind:
'I greet you,
I greet you.'
Did you ever smell those four marine tulips?
Time passed,
time passed and night fell on the naked branches of the trees,
night is sliding over the windows´ glass,
and its cold tongue is licking the entirety of the day´s remains.
Where do I come from?
Where do I come from that I am so damped,
by the smell of the shade.
And it is still fresh, the tomb,
the tomb of those young hands…
How kind you were, my beloved,
my sole beloved.
How gentle it was when you lied.
And you masked mirrors´ eyes
so tenderly.
And you were so caring,
when you picked all lights
from tall, thin, dark poles.
In those wicked nights
you were taking me to the abattoir of love,
until fainting of confused steam of blazed thirst.
And those bare stars
were turning around obscure infinity.
They, alas, called noise, voice.
And they stared at the blinding light for so long.
And why did they lodge the caress in curls of the mythical chaste?
Look!
The person who talked with words of her soul,
and stabbed with eyes
and hit with stroke of tender hands
is crucified on the cross of suspicion and doubt.
And your five fingers sketched five letters of truth
on her face.
What is silence, silence, silence,
my sole beloved?
Isn´t it just the chant of buried words?
I am mute but sparrows´ words
are about blunt celebration of the world.
Their song is about leaf, flower and flow.
It is about breeze, perfume and birth.
Sparrows´ words would die in the deal.
Who is he?
He is crossing those void, sacred roads
towards the instance of unison.
He is setting his sorry routine clock
on the indifference of calculations.
Who is he?
His days´ heart never heard
the early calls of young, golden eagles.
Who is she?
She owns the long, gorgeous veil of love
and she has rotten in her bridal gown.
The sun, alas, failed to penetrate
into both of those two lone souls
and that soaring, blue air was drained out of you.
But I am so full, full, so full
that they are praying on the density of my tone.
Happy remains,
dawn remains,
wise, silent remains,
you look like handsome, tasteful ghosts,
you appear in stations of regular times,
you emerge in the suspicious spot of passing stars
and the bore show of futile, stale fruits.
Oh, those people...
They are speculating disasters
around the worried concern of crossroads.
And just when a man should crash under the wheels of time,
a man should indeed crash
they whistle, whistle, whistle to stop
the man who is passing by soaked trees…
Where do I come from?
I told my mom: 'It is over now.'
I told her: 'It always happens when you don´t expect.
We should send a condolence letter to the paper.'
I salute you isolation of solitude,
I donate you the whole room,
I know, those obscure clouds
indicate the closeness of clear skies.
Only the last blast of flame knows
the bright secret of a candle´s life.
Let us believe,
let us believe in the beginning of the cold season,
let us believe in the ruin of garden of dreams
in unloaded, abandoned spades,
and in caged seeds.
Look!
Snow is falling outside…
Perhaps truth was those young hands,
They are now buried under the unending blow of snow.
But when spring makes love
to the blue reflection of sky
and the green stream of fresh grass
flows in its veins
they will flourish, my beloved,
my sole beloved.
Let us believe in the beginning of the cold season.
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