Then They Came for Me_ A Family's Story of Love, Captivity, and Survival - Maziar Bahari [45]
“I hope they suffocate in those helmets,” my friend said.
After lunch with my mother, I prepared to leave for the demonstration. I could see the worry in my mother’s eyes, and knew that she didn’t want me to go out. But we both understood that nothing could stop me from witnessing and reporting the events that could determine the future of the country. A few minutes before I left, Davood called me.
“I imagine you’ll be going to the demonstration. Do you want a ride?”
I hadn’t heard from Davood since reprimanding him a few days earlier. I asked him if he was sober, and he said that ever since I had gotten angry with him, he’d been channeling his anger at Ahmadinejad’s reelection into playing soccer. “I’ll bring my ball with me so you know that I’m not lying!” he said.
When I went out to meet Davood, he had, in fact, brought his soccer ball. “See, I’m an athlete. Not a drunk anymore,” he announced proudly before hugging me. “I told myself hell’s going to break loose today and I want to be with Mr. Maziar before he gets arrested.”
“Well, thanks for your kindness,” I said. “Now stop horsing around with that ball and get your ass on the motorcycle.”
Davood gave me an army salute. “At your service, sir!”
Along Freedom and Revolution Avenues, we saw Basij members posted on every street corner. Many of them were government employees who didn’t look that enthusiastic about their current posts. Most Basijis are essentially reservists; not much is asked of them, and they enjoy little perks for being in the force, such as extra rations for essential goods. The Basij members of every government office were told by the commander of the Basij that they had to guard a designated corner or they would be fired from their jobs. Revolution Square, the supposed center of the protest, was saturated with guardsmen and their water cannons. Still, their show of force was not keeping people away. Unlike on the previous days, demonstrators didn’t assemble in the main streets; rather, they gathered in the side streets off Revolution and Freedom Avenues. The side streets became so full that people gradually started to walk around Revolution Square. As the crowd around the square grew from dozens to hundreds, the presence of so many citizens seemed to surprise the military forces. They had underestimated people’s resolve to fight for their rights.
Even though the demonstrators were just walking around without chanting or carrying signs, the guardsmen looked intimidated and soon started to beat and arrest whoever had a green scarf or wristband. Soon after, the police started to fire tear-gas canisters into the crowds in the side streets, and motorcycle convoys of guardsmen dressed fully in black barged into the crowds, wielding black electric batons. People knew that if they stayed together in large groups, the guardsmen would not be able to arrest all of them. The guardsmen also stayed together, attacking and retreating as quickly as they could in order not to get overwhelmed by the crowd. I saw a boy caught on his own by guardsmen. They immediately ganged up on him, cuffed him, and took him away. There were hundreds of black prison trucks along the main roads.
Given the warnings I’d received from Ershad, I knew it was too risky to write anything about the demonstration or film it with my camera. However, I could always film with my cell phone and send the images to media outlets, with instructions not to use my byline. I got off Davood’s motorcycle near Freedom Avenue and started to record scenes of the police trying to disperse the crowd with tear gas, and people burning garbage cans.
I stayed with a group of protestors, filming them chanting, “Death to Khamenei”—a crime that in theory can put someone on death row. A tear-gas container hit the ground right next to Davood and me.