Sounding Freedom
Sara Fazeli
University of Florida
It was February 11, 2023, and I was walking in the United States capital. Iranians were scheduled to gather and support the Woman, Life, Freedom Movement at the Lincoln Memorial. A few blocks from the memorial, I heard groups whispering in Farsi. The sound of my mother tongue being spoken on city streets filled my heart with warmth and a nostalgic familiarity. The soundscape was filled with Iranian protest songs a hundred feet from the National Mall, and many people were waving Iranian Lion and Sun flags, Ukrainian flags, Rainbow flags, and more.
I wore my winter coat over a thick sweater, though it was sunny, and I was soothed by the feeling of the sun’s heat on my face. Before I joined the crowd, I walked toward President Lincoln’s giant marble chair. He seemed calm and quiet and not that much interested in talking politics. I wish I could hear his thoughts. Was he curious about whatever was sonically going on around him or upset that the noise disturbed his peace? I took my selfies with him to record this moment of his company.
I joined the other protestors and made sure that I located myself so I could see the stage and record the event. Upon my arrival, an older woman asked if I wanted a small Iranian flag. It was attached to a short wooden stick that felt harsh and uncomfortable while I was holding it. For the remainder of the day, I had my camera in one hand recording and my small flag in the other.
We began the protest by listening to Iranian protest songs on large speakers and watching video clips on a big screen. When the video clips ended, we chanted slogans in Farsi and English: “Say Her Name, Mahsa Amini.” My goosebumps and tears joined me while I was saying her name.
Guest speakers walked up to the stage and gave speeches one after the other. One of them told us to hold hands as a sign of unity while we sang a song. I raised my hand to hold someone’s hand. He was wearing gloves, and I could not see his face. It was the first time I felt comfortable holding hands with a stranger. It felt beyond body and sexuality.
It was time to march from the National Mall to the Capitol. We had a short stop around the White House. Hundreds of Iranians were supposed to sing our most famous protest song, “Baraye.” I thought, “At least, Jill Biden knows about this song.” She was the one who announced that “Baraye” by Shervin Hajipour won the Grammy Award for Social Change. Everybody started waving their phones with the flashlights on, transforming Pennsylvania Avenue into a concert hall filled with hundreds of singers. The song ends with the words “Baraye Zan, Zendegi, Azadi” (meaning For Woman, Life, Freedom). I saw tears in people’s eyes while they were singing it. Some of them closed their eyes. We were battling with the tradition of holding our tears in public and having an affective response to our motherland’s dark days – days in which we lost many young people who were voluntarily and consciously fighting for the Woman, Life, Freedom Movement.
The soundscape became disrupted and confusing because there was a delay between the giant speakers being carried by dollies, which felt apt due to the turbulent politics between Iran and the United States.
At some point during our long walk, I could smell kabob. I asked my friend if she could smell it as well. She responded: “Yes.” I heard chattering. Almost everybody around me stopped chanting and began talking about kabob with their noses in the air. We were marching towards the Capitol, forgetting our purpose because of an alluring aroma.
The sun was down, and I could see the white of the Capitol building. I was singing a hip hop protest song, “Soorakh Moosh” (meaning “Mouse Hole”) by Toomaj Salehi. An older man seemed impressed that I knew the words and had no fear of shouting them. The consequence of singing this song in Iran’s streets is getting imprisoned and receiving lashings by the government. Toomaj is a symbol of bravery and resistance because of his songs and videos of him fighting in the streets of Iran. So many people were holding his picture with the hashtag “#FreeToomaj.”
We arrived at the Capitol. A lot of people had already left the march. It had been six straight hours that I was on my feet. I sat on the curb while people made a circle and sang “Baraye” and “Ey Iran.” I looked at them and thought about how everybody was asleep in Iran, including the politicians. Suddenly, I felt the ache in my legs and the grief of protesting for nothing.
Marching in the US capital for freedom in Iran seemed paradoxical to me. I almost burst into tears. My friend came to me and asked if I wanted Persian food. I threw the rough stick away, folded my small flag, and started walking back toward the scent of kabob, feeling homesick.