Courage. Exemplified.

For the last ten days I've only paid attention to very high level stuff about Iran. I've heard about the election, about Ahmadinejad winning, about protesters. But last night, feeling completely irresponsible when it comes to current events, I went to the New York Times online to piece together what exactly is going on there.
I learned about Neda, the young woman who was filmed dying on the street, shot for simply being at a protest. I heard her father scream her name and watched another man try to stop the blood from pouring out of her face.

I peered into the walled courtyards of civilians, normally a place of refuge from all the rules and social scrutiny, and watched as a camera sneaking over the ledge made a record of those who'd used their voices being carried away.

I looked through photos from the streets of Tehran, where men were hurling rocks at police officers and women were respecting Islamic dress even as they were shouting and pumping their fists. I noticed the prevalence of green wristbands, which has come to signify support of Mir Hussein Moussavi. I was touched by the protesters who rescued a policeman from the crowd before he was killed, even though he was there to shut them up.
I remembered the time I visited Iran. The way the headscarf made me feel like I was suffocating at first and then made me feel exotic. The way Mack's grandmother looked in my eyes to tell me things about being a wife that words couldn't communicate. The way his grandfather rubbed my head and commended me for being sturdy. The way everyone danced.

I also remember how, on our wedding day, I walked from the salon to the car without a headscarf on my head, wondering if I could get in trouble for that, or worse, get my new family in trouble. How that same night, I had to run from one courtyard to the other to have our wedding dinner and then back without being caught in public disrespecting Islamic dress. How the next day Laila and I were walking in slow motion as a game and had to stop because we were getting too much attention for walking provocatively.

When I think of the protests happening in the same Iran I experienced, I am left breathless. If it takes guts to run from the salon to the car without a headscarf on, can you imagine the courage it takes to congregate in the street, shout at the establishment, risk your life and your freedom for change?
I like to think that if I was faced with the same responsibility to revolutionize, I would act accordingly. But I wouldn't. I am too spoiled by a freedom I take for granted. I am too afraid.

But what I would do, and what I will do for those heroic, courageous men and women finding strength in numbers, is publicly applaud those who are doing the right thing, thank them for getting the information to the rest of the world and verbalize my support for their fight at every opportunity. Which is more than they're safely allowed to do in Iran right now.