Two Basiji motorcyles are burning. People have learnt how to do it fast. They lay the motorcycle on its side, spilling the gasoline and lighting it on fire. We climb up a pedestrian bridge and watch. People shout from the bridge, 'Down with Khamenei' and 'your aura is gone for good'. A Basiji is caught: He soon disappears under the crowd beating him. As if in a Roman coliseum those on the bridge shout, 'Beat him up!' I shout with them before coming to my senses. What is with me? He staggers away as a group of ten people kick and punch him.
At Gisha, there's a similar scene. Again the people have the whole crossing in their control and you can hear the uproar and horns. Motorcycles are burning in smoke. But I'm suddenly stunned. I see a red object, which later proves to be a man, about 50, his head covered with blood, crouching, people passing him by as if he was a garbage can. Then comes a guy with a long stick who wants to beat up the already beaten Basiji. People gather and stop him. He's furious, 'Why should I not? They beat tiny girls! They beat everyone! Bastard!'
I shout at him, 'But we're not beasts! We're not like them!' Somebody takes the Basiji away as people curse him. I think, 'But the bastard deserves it. To come out of your house in the morning, just to beat up people you don't even know.' I don't recognize myself and my feelings anymore.
You can get in any car to go back home. People trust one another now. The woman in the back seat sitting next to me says, 'It's no longer about Mousavi or election results. We have suffered for thirty years. We didn't live a life.' An old man next to her offers me fresh bread. They tell jokes about the political figures and laugh out loud. They feel victorious. 'I had waited thirty years for this. Now I feel relieved.'
link: Letter from Tehran: To live or to just be alive, that's the question
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