We Might Forgive, But We Will Not Forget

When I look at the calendar, it tells me that five years have passed. But then the memories rush back and it feels as if it was only yesterday.

The color green became a symbol of unity and hope for people who had been denied their rights and liberty for 31 long years. There was a real sense of a shared determination for change. Every day, and on every corner of the city, you saw people holding green emblems, encouraging others to vote.

The election took place and I sent my editor in New York the photos I had taken during the day. I continued to follow the news so that I would be ready to take pictures if something unexpected happened. During the night, I heard news that nobody could confirm or deny. I slept a little but was woken up by a phone call at three in the morning. I could have predicted a lot of things, but I never expected to hear the news that Mahmoud Ahmadinejad had received more votes than Mir Hossein Mousavi. Yet this was exactly what my friend, who was a journalist, was telling me, sobbing on the phone.

In the morning the Ministry of Interior announced that Ahmadinejad had won the election. Mousavi was scheduled to hold a press conference at the office of the daily Ettela’at at 2pm, contesting the results. I was on my way there when I got the news that the press conference had been canceled.

More and more people went out into the streets.  I walked with a crowd towards Vanak Square, taking photographs the whole time. Clashes between protesters and the police were just beginning. When police used tear gas against people, the situation quickly turned violent:  protesters threw stones and set tires on fire.

Late into the night, after several hours, I was about to take photos of a burning bus when I was arrested by two plainclothes officers. After being detained for a few hours, I was released.

In the days that followed, I was cautious when out taking photographs, but four days later I was arrested again. This time Revolutionary Guards kicked and beat me with their fists. One stabbed me with a knife. But this was not enough for them: they had to break my cameras, too. When I told one of them I was a reporter, he hit me on my waist with a club and said: “It is you, motherfucker, who take photographs of us and say that we are terrorists!” He hit me again.

They were dragging me on the pavement towards a police van when they were attacked by a group of people, who threw stones at them. At that point, the guardsmen forgot about me. I had the chance to escape and started to run into the crowd. I had almost reached it when I heard two shots. The first one tore through the chest of a young man who was only two meters away from me. The second shot went through the leg of another young man a little further away.

With the help of two other photographers and a nearby motorcyclist, I escaped that night. I continued taking pictures of protests until the last day I was in Iran. But the shouts of the guardsmen, the knife wound from my fellow countryman and the shot that was meant for me–but instead ripped through that young man–have not left my nightmares.