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OpinionIran This article is more than 16 years oldI was a teen revolutionaryThis article is more than 16 years oldMasoud GolsorkhiWandering the streets, joining in protests and learning

about politics was the best education I ever receivedThu 15 Jan 2009 11.30 CETLast modified on Wed 14 Jan 2009 18.36 CETShare I had quietly abandoned school in favour of revolution long

before they were all closed due to martial law, taking the opportunity to wonder from one demonstration to another, fancying myself as a sort of existentialist flaneur before I was familiar

with the term.

The word we used at the time before the revolution had realised it was a revolution was "rahpeymayee". Literary translated it means walking. It involved more than just walking of course,

which itself was technically illegal under the terms of martial law by the way. It also meant occasional rock throwing, a lot of spraying of walls with revolutionary slogans, sometimes in

English and often with horrendous spelling mistakes, and so on, the whole thing spiced with tear gas and the experience of occasionally being shot at. Strangely, I never felt particularly in

danger – nothing seems that "real" when you are that age.

Having grown up in the Shah's police state, under the very real shadow of its monstrous Savak, there was very little debate in my head or in the country as to the causes and legitimacy of

revolt (especially after the regime itself had exposed its fallibility by firing at unarmed citizens, killing and maiming scores), only 35 million solutions as how to go about it, and what

it should bring.

It the best education I have ever received, a crash-course in a range of colourful political theories and some idea of the political realities and social conditions of my country, a real

eye-opener considering my sheltered upbringing.

I spent most days hanging around the campus of the University of Tehran not far from my grandparents house. The central campus of Tehran's oldest university had quickly turned into a

gigantic Speakers' Corner. In between "walks" we would listen to speeches and attend discussions groups and shouting matches of every imaginable shade of political opinion, from radical

feminism to the competing theologies of Marxism and "Whether the Khmer Rouge or Enver Hoxha were the only true friends of the Iranian proletariat"! Most of the time I was too young to speak

or have anyone really listen to me and was grateful enough to be allowed to be hanging out with older students.

Thinking back, the turning point happened on yet another march which I joined, not entirely sure of its destination. I reckoned I would walk down with the group for as long as they walked in

the direction I was going, chanting and chatting with the demonstrators. After a while I noticed that these weren't the usual groups I would see leaving the university. There weren't many

students but a mix of ages, fewer leftist moustaches and rather more Islamic beards. These people were poorer, the sort you would see hanging around squares in south Tehran looking for

casual work.

Quickly the group I was with joined what turned out to be a stand-off in front of a bank, (one that was deemed to be closely associated with the regime and in those days a legitimate target

of the mob). Already a makeshift bonfire was raging in the middle of the road, consuming filing cabinets and furniture. Soon after and as if choreographed to perfection some demonstrator

arrived with bundles of cash and fed them to the fire. They were shouting slogans to the effect that they weren't thieves but thief-catchers. The regime's media used to accuse the

demonstrators of being looters. But by burning the money, they were making a most profound statement.

Later that evening I retold the event at a family gathering composed mostly of uncles and aunts, drawing the bold conclusion that the Shah was finished. A bit brash for a 16-year-old with an

audience made up of veterans of struggle against the dictatorship, some going back as far as the 1940s. The desperately poor migrant workers burning bundles of cash! And in a country where

we knew that everyone from traffic policemen to cabinet ministers could be bought as a matter of course. This level of rejection of the regime was absolute and total and new.

A couple of years later I was a student in London, still a supporter of most of what the revolution stood for. Back one summer for the holidays, I was playing tennis at the Central Bank's

rather plush private club with an old school friend when our game was interrupted by a young guy with a machine gun. I was getting hot playing under the blazing sun, and without thinking

removed my tracksuit pants. The young man insisted that my tennis shorts represented an affront to Islamic values – as interpreted by him, I pointed out – but since he had a machine gun and

I only a tennis racket, it was a short discussion.

But it was and remains difficult for me (but not for most of my friends family and compatriots) to fully hate an oppressor for whom you have a measure of sympathy. The Iranian revolution was

partly a class struggle in the classical mould. Those who wrested the leadership of the revolution may have squandered its momentum and energy in spectacular fashion, but they've

nevertheless kept an eye on their support base, still now as then manned by the poor, who would step forward to place piles of cash on bonfires. Ahmadinejad is only the latest in the line of

leaders who have understood and exploited this. Like the French revolution, the Iranian revolution came to devour its children, and the rest were consumed in the hell that the

Uncle-Sam-armed Saddam visited on us.

Living in London for nearly 30 years, I quickly learned to avoid discussions with fellow Iranians who live abroad as almost entirely futile. The discussions are akin to the dialogue of

Vladimir and Estragon anticipating the imminent arrival of Godot. I find finer, more real and astute analysis in the lyrics of Kiosk.

As a hopelessly sentimental and homesick person, I do seek the company of those who still live in Iran or have only recently left and avidly read blogs while meticulously avoiding political

groups and their publications. The political life of the exile community has ossified into static ritualism in line with other groups such as the White Russians or the Cuban Americans. The

revolution was a heterogeneous and vastly popular movement, and its noble intentions paved the way to hell. My personal highly impaired and limited sense is that despite all their vows

Iranians aren't ready to retread that road any time soon.

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