All Your Base Are Belong To Us

December 18, 2009 in Selection 88 by P. Umpire

twitter-hack

If last night’s hacking of Twitter was the doing of our Cyber Imbeciles, then I apologize to Twitter users and administrators for the inconvenience. You were caught in the middle of our feud and I hope you understand they are very upset and don’t know how to behave.
We’ll rein them in soon and what we really count on is their stupidity both in strategic decision making, and in implementation.

Let me leave a note for them in case they are reading:

Oog,
Green are thank you. You show world Twitter scary. Hack games not intelligence. Human not like you already, will not like you more. Now bigger humans who not know #iranelection, know #iranelection. More twitterization.
Me tell yous big heap advice: you needing stimulation.

It Will

December 15, 2009 in Selection 88 by P. Umpire

It has been a long time and I would like to ignore the reasons for it and go straight to a belated post on 16 Azar:

We started to roam around Tehran University at about 4 PM, looking for some action, but the protests were confined to university campuses. The atmosphere was tense, as if the dust had just settled after a fight and we knew there had been some skirmishes here and there in the area, but it seemed like we managed to miss them all. In the end, our role was reduced to jamming the traffic and sitting in the car motionless for long long stretches of time, smoking, honking and cussing, and occasionally blocking the movements of Basiji bikes. From time to time we’d see buses pass by on Enghelab Avenue loaded with people who were screaming slogans and disappearing into the darkness.

People did show, to a smaller extent compared to other protests, which was mainly because 16 Azar was viewed as “a student thing”, and just like us, most of those who showed stayed in their cars too. There was no other choice. There were countless security men standing next to their vans and buses, at every intersection around Tehran University.

But you already know all this. You also know that the 16 Azar protests were intense inside the campuses and the fact that it hasn’t really ended yet. So, instead, let me tell you about the piece of action that we finally got: a verbal fight in a bakery.

Sometime around 6 PM, we saw a Sangak bakery in one of the back alleys off Enghelab Avenue, and thought it would be nice to get some hot Sangak. As we stood in the queue, my friend who was more upset than I about the lack of a large protest, asked the baker:

“So how much does a Sangak cost these days?”
“Five Hundred Tomans. (About 50 cents).”
“Ahh…that’s it then. We need to wait a little longer.”
“For what?”
“For bread to hit two thousand Tomans. For the knife to reach the bone (meaning extreme hardship).  That’s when everyone will hit the streets again, not just students.”

A woman behind us turned red and started yelling:

“What do you mean? The knife has already hit the bone. Five hundred is a lot of money for bread! They’re already selling for a thousand at some places.”
“But not enough people are showing at the protests. There are only students today.”
“I showed. I’m here. I tried to protest. Did you see how many security men were out there?”

At this point a man in his early sixties with a trim goatee, who was further down the line said:

“You’re wasting your time. Nothing will change.”
“Why won’t it?”
“That’s how it is with this country. They’ll remain in power and there’s nothing people can do.”
“Exactly as you said. Look at this country. We’re having a major change every thirty or forty years. No?”
“Not until somebody out there wants change. That’s when change comes. So you can go home and save your energy.”
“What do you mean?”
“Until America and Britain want to change this place, nothing happens.”
“Aw…come on, that’s ridiculous.”
“No it’s not. Look at history.”
“Good then. Just stand on the sidelines as usual and forget about it. But don’t say it won’t change.”
“It won’t.”

After a few more similar declarations from the gentleman, the argument got heated and voices were raised. Someone shouted that the gentleman belonged to the generation that got us here, and that he was taking this line out of shame. After this I don’t know who said what to the man, but it went like this:

“You can’t even reason, you just keep saying if so and so want it.”
“You don’t need reason, that’s how it is. It won’t.”
“Yes, it will.”
“No, it won’t”
“It will.”
“It won’t.”
“It will.”
A voice from another side said:
“Maybe if you wait long enough, Emam Zaman (the twelfth Imam) will show up and fix it for you.”
Everyone laughed.
“Won’t.”
“Will.”
“Won’t”
“Will.”
The baker suddenly chipped in:
“Stop arguing. I had dinner with Emam Zaman last night and he told me it will. End of discussion.”

We then got some cheese from the store next door and were on our way to sit in the hellish traffic for another two hours.

Nausea

November 6, 2009 in Selection 88 by P. Umpire

A late post due to the usual post-protest internet jams.
Wednesday 13 Aban

A strange sentiment crept in me today. A man in his late fifties was beaten by a group of people a meter away from me, and I enjoyed it. While I neither had the urge to join in, nor the time to think about it, the delight I took in seeing this man’s fearful face pushed me to encourage his assailants. I am glad I didn’t. In the mayhem, as he was begging them to stop, and kept yelling “why are you beating me?” I only thought to myself “you must be kidding”. He was a member of the Basij.

I had never seen as much violence perpetrated before me in one day.  If another day compares to 13 Aban, it would be the 30th of Khordad, the day after Khamenei gave his gangsters the green light to show no merci to Iranians. 13 Aban was worse, maybe because I stayed on longer, or maybe because it was worse indeed. I had not seen so many security forces concentrated in one area before either. I covered 7-Tir Square, Karim Khan Avenue, Vali-Asr Square and the surrounding area today. Thousands of greens showed, mostly without green signs, and were met with thousands of simians, to whom if one grants the label Homo, their qualifications would not allow them to go any higher than Erectus.

The ape forces had one goal in mind, which was to prevent any crowd from forming. Their strategy: indiscriminate violence. At about 10:30 in the morning, before getting to Vali-Asr Square, we passed by the Beheshti metro station. A group of ten anti-riot IRGC members in camouflage uniforms and wielding batons suddenly rushed the station gate, frightening people who were exiting to flee inside. About seven or eight of the security men ran in while the others shut and held the gates behind them. After that, you could only hear the sounds of screams and thuds. Maybe some greens were among them, maybe not. One was carrying a shopping bag.

Something we have learned in the protests is that when the apes charge, you should avoid running, get on the sidewalk close to shop windows and keep walking, or just stand against the walls. They would normally go past you in pursuit of those who run. Today, the apes would get on the sidewalks on bikes, hold out their batons against the walls and drive on. If they were without bikes, they just ran through and waved their clubs, sticks, or chains. It didn’t matter who or what it hit.

I won’t give a moment-by-moment account of the day. Most of it was an uninterrupted sequence of severe beatings, bruises and blood, from which I remember snapshots. I also remember hearing gunshots on a couple of occasions. Arrests seemed to be indiscriminate as well. We saw Basij members picking on the young randomly, forcing them on their knees, handcuffing and blindfolding them, and then taking them away.

On Vali-Asr Avenue, north of the square, a policeman was shouting insults at an old man for having shown up to the demonstration. A young boy went over to the policeman and handed him a flower, to which his response was to slap the boy and throw him on the sidewalk. The boy picked himself up and left.

In the mayhem, we saw security and Basij forces get beaten up or hit by rocks also. On Karim Khan Avenue close to Vali-Asr Square, an eighteen or nineteen-year-old Basiji, wielding a rubber belt, started chasing a man on the street next to the sidewalk.  The man was big and the Basiji was short, chubby, and his beard had barely sprouted. For the first time I saw a technique I’ve read about but difficult to perform, in action. Mid chase, the man suddenly stopped dead, turned around, grabbed the Basiji who was stunned, and slammed him against the side of a car. It took him a few seconds to get up. When he saw a group of people who were now rushing him, he ran, but they got to him and started pummeling him. At this moment, a fifty-something-year-old Basiji with short white hair, the man I mentioned above, appeared from behind a bus and ran toward the scuffle, with the same kind of strap in his hand, attempting to beat and scare the others to get the other Basiji out. Another group of people appeared and charged him. He fell to the ground a meter away from me and started receiving kicks and punches. This is when a group of Basiji apes arrived at the scene, surrounded the two other apes and dragged them away.

Later on, at 7-Tir Square, a Basiji, an older man again, was holding his head and was bleeding profusely. Another was propping him up and helping him cross the square to where their camp was set up.

The demonstration never took the magnitude and concentration of Qods Day. It was never allowed. Everyone was fleeing from the security forces, regrouping in the side streets, or recovering from tear gas and beatings. The largest group of people I saw walking on Karim Khan and chanting anti-government slogans reached two or three hundred people at best. There were pro-government demonstrators who appeared from time to time, with loudspeakers and chanting. The largest of those were a few hundred people. I remember one of their new slogans: “Death to the velvet dictator.” Whatever that means.

Before I go and crash, as I am beat, grimy, and tired, let me tie in 13 Aban with Rafsanjani’s Super Duper Plan. Since its inception and the supposed detente between Rafsanjani and Khamenei, the plan has been viewed by many in Iran as false hope and a ruse by the Supreme Leader to buy time and create diversion at best. 13 Aban was another promise broken, another U-turn, another glimmer of hope faded.  We are facing a regime in which reform has no practical representative. Neither the leaders of the green movement, nor Rafsanjani or the Marjas, have managed to get meaningful concessions from the Supreme Leader. What I keep hearing is, “What are they going to say now? More of the same?” 13 Aban has left us no doubt about Khamenei’s desire to utterly crush the opposition. Many in Iran view him as a man who does not negotiate, and the perpetrator of all that has happened since the elections.

Something is abuzz in the air in Tehran tonight. It is angry talk about meeting violence with violence. Patience is running out and I am now hearing about switching to the same language as the opponents. How viable that is, or whether we will go down that road will be determined in the future, but 1979 is before our eyes. Take away hope and it won’t be long before reform will give way to overhaul. So far, some are wondering whether reforms have hit a dead end. “Reconciliation” is a funny word now. Maybe it is just a reaction to a brutal day on the streets, or an existential phase, inevitable after six months of going in circles. But one thing is clear. Early on, the movement’s demand was taking back the votes. Today, it is stomping on the Leader for an “Iranian Republic”. He may succeed in crushing the opposition, but may someone save his soul if he fails.

Under The Influence

November 3, 2009 in Selection 88 by P. Umpire

green-13-aban“Green 13 Aban”

green-13-aban2The same, but after a genius only traced the green with white in an attempt to erase it.

The night before a protest is an anxious one, and most of the restlessness is over one question: will they be there? There are long stretches of time between protests now and getting cold is always a concern. So naturally, the conversations tonight hovered around guessing whether the greens will take over tomorrow.

Grassroots campaigning for the rally has been strong again, as it was for Qods Day, but there have been plenty of threats against participating over the last few days as well. While we have witnessed the customary chest thumping by the IRGC and other security forces, a couple of friends said they received strange phone calls supposedly from the Intelligence Ministry today, trying to scare them off. They were told that the Ministry has evidence that they have been manipulated by foreign media and they were put under surveillance.  So we have a new term now: PUI, or Protesting Under The Influence. None of these were the real sources of worry over tomorrow though.

As I am writing this, it is still raining, and although rain is always welcome in Tehran, we wish it gone by tomorrow. That is worry number one. As for number two, tomorrow is a weekday and many do not have the option of ditching work. I found myself yelling at a friend who had scheduled a meeting with a client tomorrow morning. How irresponsible. And worry number three is that the protest is in the morning, which will require many calls to all the slothful to get them out of bed. Other than that, we should be in tiptop shape.

While I sat around thinking that a little boost in morale wouldn’t hurt, the rallying call came. The soothing sound of Allah-o-Akbar was far but strong. We haven’t heard any Allah-o-Akbar since over a month ago, and only get reports about occasional pockets of chanting, mostly from the university dorms.  I opened the window and in a few minutes our neighborhood was drowning out the engines from the traffic in the main street. If my lazy neighborhood is like this, it means the entire city was shouting.

A young man started to chant from the building next door, and I returned the favor by yelling through the open window. We went on for ten minutes. I was out of practice, my throat was burning and I kept coughing. I was louder than him. He had more stamina. At the end of the session, he yelled a “mersi” at me. “At your service”. “Don’t forget tomorrow”.

Back To “Normal”

November 2, 2009 in Reports by P. Umpire

green-money

It has been quite a while, I know, but I had to allocate the past month to catching up with some aspects of life that were neglected after the elections. Remember, no news is good news, and thanks for asking.

After a good four months of stasis at work, it was time to get back into the race and make up for lost time. For those of us who do not have anyone close killed on the streets, jailed, or currently attending university, life in Tehran has started to resemble the hustle it used to be. Once again, we are flurrying around and trying to make a living, albeit plagued with the daily disquiet of a diseased system.

I say “resemble” because although we go to work as usual, curse the other drivers in traffic jams, go on trips and get together for dinner, some things have changed, and I don’t mean just the economy. Everybody is already despairing about the economy. Many businesses in the private sector that do have work are only finishing up with old contracts. New ones are barely being signed. The owner of a large manufacturing company told me recently that they have halted their production line (which is unprecedented in their history), and have laid off 60% of their workforce. “If we manage to sell our inventory by year’s end and pay off some of our debt, I’d be cracking walnuts with my tail”, he said.

Throw in some daily bad news, bouts of despair, occasional roadblocks, and a few new concerns and responsibilities and you’ll see why “normal” is still “different”. Believe me, making a living, partaking in a velvet revolution and waging war against God at the same time can be very trying. You’d think that fighting Allah would be the most difficult of them – rally your troops, draw up the plans, siege his castle and in one instant he snaps his fingers and sends you back to the drawing board – but no, making a living is worse.

You see, I would really like to have my own apartment here in Tehran, and I work hard for it. According to my calculations, I only have another 204 years to go before I can move into my decently-sized, decently-located flat. To simplify the calculation, imagine that I miraculously manage to save $200 a month out of an above-the-poverty-line income drawn at $700. And let’s not argue over whether the inflation rate is 15% or 25%. We will ignore it instead, as the headaches we need to go through to battle inflation will only neutralize it at best. This is how Mahmoud likes it as well. We’ll give him another one too: home prices shall not rise for the next two centuries. Fair? Maybe not, but the situation is hopeless either way.

I said decent in size and place, which translates into 500 Ks of the good USDs, or a 150 square-meter apartment in a nice neighborhood. They go for a little over $3000 per square meter. You think this is high? What if I told you I just paid $15 for two espressos and a slice of cheesecake at a joint that didn’t have seating? Luxury? Okay, how about $43 for yogurt, 2 chunks of strange Iranian Gouda, four small bags of potato chips, two packs of cigarettes, two 1-liter bottles of soda, a pack of instant coffee, six bottles of water, eight large batteries, some pickles, fruit juice and bread?

Five hundred thousand dollars is okay for your own apartment. Some of those are going for eight million. I’ll give you a tour on your next trip.

I didn’t say I was modest, but for the sake of this post, I’ll tone it down to 120 square meters for $3000. That’s as low as I’ll go. And now the best part: this has to be paid for in cash. There are loans, but even if I were the elder son of a Haaj Agha, I would manage to get about $20K, and that’s after a year of killing myself over it. What fool would lend me more with that shopping item and this income? I can also trade in one kidney for a square meter, which leaves me to pay the rest to the owner with a check from my own money. So, save $200 a month for 150 years and bingo.

I can chop more of my wants and needs and go for only a hundred square meters at $2000 each, or ninety for $1800, but I’d still be a rat spinning a mesh wheel. Prices have reached absurd levels to the point that it is soon worth it for every Iranian to move out of the country, go to London and live off the same income. I’m not whining, and I know many have it worse. I just meant to say I’ll be working less now. Better to wage war against God.

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