As nationwide protests in Iran enter yet another intense chapter, I felt the need, in the midst of all this, to look back at the years gone by—to remember the protests from decades past and the quiet, trembling memories I carry from my university days.
First, let me be clear: everything I’m about to share is entirely hypothetical.
It’s not based on any real events, because the last thing I want is trouble down the line. Now that I’ve safely denied everything from a legal standpoint, let me dive into these “hypothetical” memories I’d like to tell you about.
Imagine this: people in your city have poured into the streets to demand their rights. And you—a young female university student living far from home, in a dorm where you have to be back by 9 p.m. sharp—suddenly feel an overwhelming urge to join them. Not just to show solidarity with the vulnerable, no… but because you’ve always been one of those vulnerable people yourself.
Let me say this right away: the protests we joined were worlds apart from the ones you see in the United States or Europe. And if you think the risk of losing your life in them was somehow “hypothetical,” you couldn’t be more wrong. I still remember how, on protest days, the metro stations chosen as gathering points would be shut down by the municipality to keep fewer people from reaching the spot. We’d simply get off one stop earlier and walk the rest of the way. It was just me and two close friends who had agreed to come along—two young women I worked with in the university lab.
I can still picture that moment clearly: as the crowd began to swell, both of them suddenly turned to me and said, “We’re not going any farther. It’s too dangerous.”
My own legs were shaking with fear. I watched them turn tail and push against the flow of people, moving in the opposite direction. Meanwhile, I was being pulled deeper into the crowd with a fierce innocent conviction. Even though every part of my body was flooded with dread, I stepped forward—straight into the heart of it.
(Footnote: I later learned that one reason for that overwhelming fear was the tear gas the security forces had fired. Apparently, in heavy doses, it doesn’t just make your eyes stream; it releases hormones into your bloodstream that spark pure panic and anxiety.)
There’s hardly anything lonelier than being a young woman, a student far from home in a strange city, standing alone in a protest where death feels like a real possibility.
The demonstrations usually would unfold as following: at first, a few dozen of us would walk together quietly. As our numbers grew, we’d start chanting. I remember one time when we were already several hundred strong, shouting slogans and moving down the street—when suddenly a tear gas canister slammed into the railing right in front of my feet, letting out an awful, piercing hiss…
To be continued ...
