Remembering the days of January 7 and 8…
Have you ever forgotten a memory, only for it to rush back into your mind all at once, clear as day, at a moment you never saw coming?
And you ask yourself, “Why did I ever forget it?”
I was walking with friends through the beautiful forests outside the city. Some of them rode ahead on their bikes. Me and two others stayed behind, walking on foot, holding the handlebars, moving without a real plan under the thick roof of tree branches that covered the path.
I hadn’t been to the forest in a long time. Its quiet peace settled over me, and the sound of the river running nearby pulled me in completely. As I kept walking, I saw a family in their car trying hard to get through a rough stretch of road. The father shouted at his son to pull his head back inside. The boy refused and kept pushing back. And then the forgotten memory hit me hard.
It was the day of the killings on January 7 in Iran. The day thousands of us from the city poured into the streets to stand against the destructive Islamic Republic. We went empty-handed, never knowing the enemy inside—the regime’s men—were armed to the teeth and ready to cut us down.
I was walking toward the place where I was supposed to meet my friends when I saw a young man arguing with his father. A woman stood beside them—his mother, it seemed. The young man wanted to join the march. His father kept pulling at him, trying to drag him away.
His mother held his hand and begged him not to go. But he would not listen. He kept saying no. The father looked angry, yet you could see the teary worrisome in the corners of his eyes.
Standing there watching them, I kept thinking, “Why doesn’t this father want his son to stay and fight for freedom?”
In that moment I never once believed the regime would carry out such a cold, merciless slaughter.
Finally, the father gave up. He took his wife’s hand and led her away. Now that the memory has returned, I can still recall the pain in their eyes. The young man broke free from his family and stepped into the moving crowd of the march. A short time later he was gone from sight.
His parents got into their car and drove off. I stood there, unable to move. … Back in the forest, walking with my bike under the trees, I suddenly stopped.
My feet would not take another step. And in my head a voice shouted: “Did that young man make it out alive?”
