Today marks the second day of the total nationwide internet blackout in Iran, and everything has basically come to a standstill—life itself feels frozen.
Shops are shuttered, the city has sunk into an eerie silence, and here I am, deciding to write down memories in the middle of all this chaos! How crazy am I, really…
Anyway, I was saying…Young people were chanting revolutionary slogans, clapping wildly, jumping up and down with energy. Suddenly, tear gas canisters would whistle overhead and explode, scattering everyone in an instant. As soon as those gray canisters hit the ground, one or two brave souls would dash forward—kicking them like soccer balls with their feet or bending down to grab them and hurl them right back at the repressive forces. My eyes were burning, my throat was closing up, and shouting felt almost impossible.
People desperately pushed trash bins toward the crowd, setting fire to whatever was inside to neutralize the choking sting of the gas.
The gathering grew bigger bit by bit—resisting, chanting, refusing to back down—while tear gas rained down relentlessly.
Every second was filled with the shriek of canisters, screams, slogans, running, scattering, then coming back together again.
There was pain, and there was this incredible sense of being together. There was burning, chanting, and deep solidarity. I was standing at the front of the crowd, so I could see the security forces forming up in military lines, preparing to charge. It made my heart race with worry. I had my hoodie on, bracing myself for shotgun pellets. Fully armed soldiers facing people armed with nothing but stones and water bottles—it might not sound fair, but that was exactly the reality we were living.
One canister landed right at my feet. I ran. Then I regretted it instantly—why hadn’t I picked it up and thrown it away from the crowd? Right there, I made up my mind: the next one that comes close, I’m grabbing it and sending it back.
And soon enough, the chance came. I spotted it rolling near me, rushed forward, snatched it up, and hurled it toward the forces. My only mistake? I forgot to hold my breath before getting near it.
Moments later, my throat clamped shut. It felt like I couldn’t breathe at all. My eyes were streaming tears, I couldn’t even see the ground in front of me— but that was the least of my problems.
I couldn’t take a step. I stumbled into a dead-end alley, collapsed in a corner, and fought to draw deep breaths so my airway wouldn’t close completely. For several minutes I lay there, gasping, each breath a battle. But slowly, I pulled myself out of that valley of death and back to life.
I saw a masked man holding a bottle of mineral water. I begged for a sip. That water hit like a miracle—cool fire on burning coals—and my heart started beating strong again. That’s when I finally spotted my friends. The young women and men I’d met in this city, who had come with their partners and little kids, caught up in this sweet darkness.
Their faces were covered, but I recognized their eyes instantly. The solidarity, the shared pain, the unity in their gaze—it felt so familiar.
I asked, “What are you doing here? I didn’t think you’d come!”
They all admitted they’d only planned a casual walk, never imagining the crowd would swell like this.
They couldn’t even dream of seeing so many people united in protest. Everyone was worried, shocked—no one had expected to witness such a massive wave of resistance in one place.
Amid all that pain, excitement, and burning hope, one question haunted everyone’s mind: If this kind of unprecedented crowd has risen in our city, what on earth is happening in the big cities and the capital?
It feels like the whole country has awakened!
And now… looking around, seeing the internet still dead, I wonder: Will I ever get the chance to publish this somewhere? Whatever. I’m writing this completely “hypothetical” text anyway—maybe one day someone will read it somewhere.
(As I'm publishing this, internet is up and running after 3 weeks of total darkness, but it is still very unstable and hard to reach. I can't upload many images and answer comments, but I appreciate them and read them all and like them. Honestly it's so frustrating to wait to upload a single image for half and hour or more. But I'm thankful that we at least didn't lose it yet. And I'm still here,)
