Raised Voices

The streets of Tehran have been quiet for the past two days . . . bullets from Basij semi-automatics, dictates from the Supreme Leader, saber rattling from the Iranian president to the President of the United States . . . all these are louder than the exhausted population of the Islamic Republic tonight. But they’re all whispers compared with the Iranian population of Los Angeles. They are saying what they compatriots can’t – “Death to Khameni!” They are cheering for democracy – “What do we want? Freedom for Iran!” Their voices are filling the intersection of Wilshire and Veteran with cries, chants, songs of life. “Neda is my daughter! Neda is my sister! Neda is my mother!” Signs flash her name, fingers flash a peace sign, as children hold their parents’ hands marching up and down the block in front of the Federal Building, and parents hold their parents’ hands – one, two, three generations engaged in a struggle to free their homeland from the grips of corruption, of oppression, of death. The streets of Tehran will soon be filled once again with mourning marchers, with protesters old and young, with human beings standing up for their rights. Until then, though, these mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, cousins and aunts and uncles and nieces and nephews and grandmothers and grandfathers and supporters and witnesses will be here standing up and speaking up for them.