More than 300 hours have passed since the Internet shutdown began in Iran. On days when people can’t even communicate via landline phone, Raha* manages to reach the house of a relative who has a Starlink modem. She hurriedly sends several voice messages on Telegram to report what has happened over the past 13 days. It is shocking: one of her close relatives has been killed. She recites a poem through tears and talks about her experiences.
“How can I understand that a single bullet took you away from me? The river wanted only to be the band around your waist, and the rain fell as if it were intended specifically for your right hand. (…) Spring came to pluck the names of the villages from your right hand. You were killed and had to give up your dream. (…) They brought the news of your death like a cherry branch in full bloom and laid it in the middle of the yard. (…)
This text comes from the weekday. Our weekly newspaper from the left! Every week, wochentaz is about the world as it is – and as it could be. A left-wing weekly newspaper with a voice, attitude and the special taz view of the world. New every Saturday at the kiosk and of course by subscription.
I don’t know how to say this. I never thought I would touch another person’s blood. The thought that I couldn’t wash it off my hands for hours, that it won’t come out of my clothes, drives me crazy. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’t live. Whenever I drift away for even a moment, these images come back.
Mohammad* was shot right next to me. The first bullet hit him in the thigh. And just as he tried to turn around, he was shot again, this time directly in the stomach. Blood ran from his mouth. Someone I didn’t know unbuckled his belt and quickly handed it to me. He told me to tie it over Mohammad’s thigh and disappeared.
We thought we would change something
I held Mohammad’s head with my hands. I don’t remember exactly. All I remember is his face and his eyes and the blood that flowed from his mouth like a never-ending fountain. Mohammad coughed a little, then stopped moving. (…) People helped me drag him several streets away. After that I didn’t understand anything anymore. My nose is still full of the smell of blood. (…)
Our anger reached its peak the day before the first call for demonstrations. People were waiting for an opportunity to show that anger. We all went to the nearest place in our neighborhood. We were all sure that we were about to make a difference. But our confidence didn’t even last three hours. (…)
People were everywhere in the streets, even though they were being shot at from the start. We wanted to stay on the road, but we couldn’t. (…) They brought snipers with them and aimed lasers at people’s heads. One person aimed the laser and someone higher up fired.
We don’t know anything anymore. The satellites are blocked. The internet is interrupted. We are all depressed and powerless. We can no longer return to our normal lives. (…) I have to go. (…) I’m not feeling well. (…) I smell blood. The smell of corpses.”
Protocol: Mahtab Qolizadeh
*Names have been changed for security reasons.