The Song of "Myself" --Week # 5

Dedicated to the world’s youth who strive to write their own vocabulary of

liberation and hope.

Los Reyes is hardly on any maps. It is a small town. It has waterfalls, volcanoes, and mountains. It has no cinemas, amusement parks, or grand shopping malls. Its youth are all the same; they walk under the same blue sky. A stream of blood runs euphorically through their brain at the sight of a teenage girl/boy. They spend hours before a mirror, a few minutes doing their homework in the hallway, and many more hours day dreaming in class. They are all the same, I repeat these lines to myself sitting in a cozy, smoke-filled cafe attentively observing the mannerisms of Los Reyes’ youth: the way they share a smoke, crack jokes, sip their beer, and the unique way in which each enjoys the live music and friendly environment of the cafe. And there is this guy, not far from where I am sitting, he shares a striking similarity with a close friend who lives in Shiraz; it’s enough to sink me into nostalgia. I cannot pull myself back together, cannot brush off the blues with any color. I walk outside.

My Iran has been on the news for its support of terrorism, threat to world peace, nuclear development, etc. But the daily realities that I experienced for eighteen years and my friends continue to experience today are nowhere on the list, dismissed entirely. In Iran, we are referred to as the “children of the revolution,” products of a repressive, totalitarian ideology that demands unquestioned devotion from its people, viciously injects its morality into Iranian society, and strives to annihilate any voice of opposition. Our story was narrated for us. Before we could form our own opinion, create our own identity, write our own history, all the answers were spoon fed to us. The grand-narrative demanded that we pray to one Direction, believe in one Truth, follow one Path. And somewhere in the midst of this chaos, there we were searching only for a cozy, smoke-filled café to enjoy some music, crack jokes, and feel youthful.

Writing the “song of myself” is not the easiest of tasks in the Islamic Republic of Iran. The official culture has taken over its own people as the enemy. There is no concept of citizenry reflected in the foundation of the regime and the application of its laws. The concept of democracy is reduced to presidential elections that have been rigged for the past eight years. In the Islamic Republic everything is politicized. A cup of coffee is politicized. Music lyrics are politicized. Women’s body is politicized. One’s sex life is politicized. In a culture where the government has no legitimacy, harms its people instead of protecting them, speaks on behalf of other oppressed nations while oppressing its own people in the day light, everything is the subject of politics. And somewhere in the midst of this confusion and turmoil, there we were probing for an entirely social concept of youthfulness. But we were out of line even before taking the first step. Our existence was out of line.

Iran has a long way to be a pluralistic democracy. Economic grievances need to be addressed first, and the concept of human rights and pluralism need to find their way into the law. And there are many more components that I will not bother writing about.  This blog is not about politics. It is about the youth and youthfulness. It’s about establishing the realm of politics distinctly separate from the social realm of youthfulness. My friends are captivated by a fixed, repressive morality. Their youthful years are being politicized. It's about humanizing them.

Peace and resistance from Los Reyes,

Aria