33 years.
Since 1979 it has been crystal clear that the Iranian Revolution was neither Iranian, nor was it a revolution. Aragh Saggi drinking, Cabaret shots with Hayedeh going, velgardi loving, eysh o ayashi worshipping Iranians suddenly became overnight devout moslems?
Please. Save yourself the embarrassment and do not try to sell me that. How could a country filled to the loving cup brim, FULL of fun loving, joke telling, western leaning, good natured, internationally disarmingly charming people suddenly turn sour, dour, and all too artificially mosque-straight?
Well that just ain’t natural. That dog won’t hunt. The shoe does not fit. The Doogh has no foam. And any other metaphor for what something that isn’t, that you prefer to use. The simple reality is that we were all gullible. Believing that a deal with the devil to unseat the Shah would work.
It didn’t. It backfired horribly. And here we stand today with the most stupid of looks on our faces. Lost. On the side of the road. With our collective dicks in our hands.
Diaspora a word which used to be impressive, has lost it’s glimmer thanks to our 33 year old pathetic apathy. We have become an international embarrassment. Our caviar spoiled. Our carpets auctioned on eBay. Our own TV show “LOST”. A collective of Iranians on the outside of Iran, peeking hungrily back into Iran, curious, like sad orphaned children looking into a sausage shop window. Worse and sadder, we are rich orphaned children. Spoilt children. Brats. Brats waiting for our American (or Israeli?) chauffeurs to open the door home for us again. Even worse and even sadder, we stand hapless and look at each other in disconcerting mistrustful consternation, standing like this, by this side of the road, staring into the sausage shop, hating each other, for 33 years now.
It is stunning to comprehend the extent of this mass psychosis. This seeming self-hypnosis. Even though and not that deep down we really do, we simply do not know what to do. Paralyzed by the invisible. Well, some know what to do. But we immediately “Shush!” them into silence and muffle their screaming reason in order to avoid waking up the imaginary Giant OZ we have made the Green Islamic Republic of Envious Iran into. Even in our minds we capitalize those letters. Even and especially in our sleep as we dream the same nightmare over and over and over again. We have now successfully dreamt this nightmare into a full on 33 year coma.
Although we in Diaspora have nothing left in Iran to lose, we “act” as if we have everything left to lose. Those of us that dip the toe into the freezing waters and visit Iran, act as if we are brave, adrenalin junkie risk takers. what cunning Secret Agents we are! Oblivious to the fact that we are merely capitulant zombies, traitors supporting tyranny with our 1800 toman dollars. Cowards betraying the real Iran for a 90 cm Kabab cooked slowly over coals of anguish, licking one-meter high ice screams, and incredible Shirinis sweetened by sweet pain. Your average summer vacation in Tehran. Courtesy of Lufthansa.
Meanwhile the rest of us sit in air-conditioned HD Satellite TV fed rooms surrounded by the empty soul filling surround sounds of silence amplified by Beshkans from LA. Wringing our perfumed, Lancome moisturized, perfectly manicured, and sanitized hands. Say Nothing. And more importantly DO nothing. Sit and wait.
Most of us voted for Obama last time around. Mostly because we could actually finally relate to the campaign slogan, “Hope for Change”. “Hey! That’s exactly what we’ve been doing for 33 years! I think I’ll actually go and vote for that!”
So eager for a “moment”, some of us gleefully ran to the local Mosques in 2009 on Iranian election day, and cast our preciously cute pointless votes for Moussavi/Karoubi. So darling. So desperate. So foolish. Such gullible children we are.
The point of this semi-tasty sermon you say? Sometimes there isn’t one. Sometimes I just think of shit, and then feel the urge to say it.
Stand
Speak
Object
Protest
Act against Wrong
