Cambridge, MA
September 10, 2006

Mr. Khatami,

I am not here to protest your presence in America nor your right to speak your mind, no matter what you have to say.  But I am here to remind you that in Iran now, as when you were the President, people are still punished for exercising the same right. 

You speak of the Dialogue of Civilizations and Democracy among nations.  How about dialogue within a civilization and democracy within a nation? Why are you not practicing what you preach?

Your ascendance to the office of Presidency was made possible because the majority of Iranian people, many of whom university students, pinned their hope on you to reform a corrupt and tyrannical state.

Let’s not forget that on your watch the same Iranian student movement, which rose with bare hands to topple an armed-to-the-teeth and ruthless regime, and on whose blood the ship of your Islamic Republic sailed to shore, demanded of you not to sit on the fence, and stand up against the continued oppression they in particular, and the society at large were receiving in return for their sacrifices.

Let’s not forget that on your watch students were murdered and imprisoned, intellectuals were silenced and newspapers shut down.  And you did nothing to reverse permanently this murderous course, even though you had a huge mandate to do so, a mandate that you squandered.

Today, history is giving you a second chance as an emissary of the United Nations to stand up and demand the release of all political prisoners in Iran starting with Ahmad Batebi, the brave student from University of Tehran.

Because if you don’t, Mr. Khatami, I must conclude, that you and Mr. Ahmadinejad are the two sides of the same rusted coin, a coin that no Dialogue of Civilizations will shine up, a coin by which the only thing that merchants of deceit and tyranny can buy is more time before their murderous bazaar collapses, and collapse it shall sooner or later, and what will count at the end, the only thing that will count, is the stand you take today.

 

(Ala Khaki then read a poem.)

REMEMBRANCE TWO: NAMES

I lay
against the mid morning shadows
of the window bars
in my cell,
- a fragile refuge
in a fortress of hell
- for a caged prey
staring at the beige metal door,
rubbing my torn soles
expecting more
of the same,
today.

Echoes of steps
shatter my glass peace.
The door opens.
Blindfolded, I am painfully led
to the basement
for the ritual of bloodshed.

I end up in a large room,
no different than any no name
government offices I have seen before.
The Great Leader
sternly looking down at me
from behind a gilded frame
over a large desk.

We have company for today’s game:
There is of course Karimi,
the butcher most familiar with my wounds
sitting on this side of his desk facing me,
Tehrani, the unmasked good cop of yesterday
is putting a new magazine in an Uzi,
preparing for another hunt maybe,
and a distinguished man
dressed after Steve McQueen
my favorite American
looking at me so loathingly
as if I am to blame
for all the world’s sins.

“Ready to tell the truth now?” Karimi begins.
“I have told you nothing but the truth.” I bravely lie.
-“I want names, whore mother, names,”
not fairy tales, this time.”
“I know no one”, I mumble,
“guilty of any crime”.

"Take them all off, fagot" Karimi rants,
definitely unmanned by yesterday's torture rite.
The army T-shirt
- glued to my skin by blood
doesn’t come off as easily as the threadbare pants.
Standing naked on swollen soles
I spent nearly all my remaining strength
to clothe me in my pride.

Six savage eyes needle my flesh
but I stand tall
on pins of pain
Taller than them all
silent, and ready for the slaughter
strangely I feel at peace.

 “Turn around and bend” Karimi rattles,
I only turn, and face the wall.
The hyena pack bursts into laughter
"Don’t you like it in your ass?"
Rape will follow if they detect fear,
pleasure, they will never give.
I shrug.

The prick
bruises my back
with his kick,
throwing me on the floor,
as Steve McQueen
yells "Mohammad"
and in
walks a boy my age
in a soldier's skin
"Blindfold this queer,"
he orders in a phony rage
"and tie him up to the bed next door".

I enter darkness
expecting to die,
my body ready to be broken,
my spirit soaring high.

© Ala Khaki