My response to invitation to write.
Everyone knows I am no Superman, everyone except me.
I sit at the dining table, feverishly clicking, pausing, sobbing, clicking.
Images march before my eyes, the young guy in a green T-Shirt, the girl with the school girl’s uniform and a backpack, the middle-aged man with a hospital mask, chanting, running, shouting, pointing two fingers skywards, running and shuffling again. I see the snipers on top of the holy structure, shooting down. I see images of pools of blood, injured men and women, scattered brains and popped out eyes, the kid dying under the flickering lights and the chants of “Ya Zahra, Ya Zahra” following him to the other side. I hear the urgent pants of the young student running in the narrow alley with his cell phone camera rolling. Through the tiny screen of YouTube, I smell the fear and taste the defiance. I am filled with dread, pride, fear, and guilt. In my safe cocoon, at my dining table, I watch the pursuit, and touch the hate which comes down with sticks, chains, bullets, and blades. I am caught in the labyrinth of emotions good and bad, without a way out. I want to help the people on the street but I can’t pass through the YouTube screen. I want to object, to protest, to scream, but none of my intended audience can hear me. I want to open a door and let the running crowds in but I don’t live on those streets. I live elsewhere. Sitting here, a grown woman, I wish I could be Superman, flying in, grabbing Neda by the collar of her short manteau, and pulling her out of the way of that bullet, putting her down to safety again outside her own home where her parents and her boyfriend can embrace her and hold her in their arms, soothing her and cooing reassuring words in her ear.
I want to grab all the bullets with the palm of my hand and fly all the injured to safety.
I want to fly Sohrab on my shoulder and get him to an emergency room where his mother can find him.
But I can’t.
For through the tears and muffled screams in my throat, I, too know that I am no Superman.
