By Saeed Matinpour – August 14, 2006
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| Saeed Matinpour |
Despite my efforts to understand, document, and analyze the neighborhood in my mind, I too forget many things after a while. I am left with an analysis that I may no longer be able to substantiate for our academics. Yesterday, I witnessed another event, one of many I’ve seen before. Two little girls were playing in an alley, one of whom had been taught Turkish and the other Persian. The first girl, in response to something the second girl did, said, “I didn’t do it on purpose — doneste, doneste.” This phrase, “doneste, doneste,” is not used by native Persian speakers. It’s a peculiar phrase only spoken by the children of my city—children whose parents speak Persian to them or whose playmates are Persian speakers.
Now, many children in Zanjan suffer from this linguistic confusion. They master neither Persian, which they are inadequately taught by non-native-speaking parents and poorly trained teachers intent on Persianizing them, nor Turkish, which they are denied the right to fully learn as the language of the city. I wonder how these children, who lack sufficient familiarity with any language, will engage in intellectual production, which is inherently tied to language.
Our city center is filled with young men, and by evening, it’s rare for a girl to escape their verbal or physical harassment. The city center consists of two streets, the only spaces for the 400,000 residents of Zanjan to walk and shop. This area, which has in recent years replaced the old bazaar as a commercial and recreational hub, is where I’ve often seen boys bump into girls and hurl insults if the girls protest.
Years ago, I worked for the Zanjan Governor’s Office. For two years, as part of my role in the public relations department, I attended the Provincial Administrative Council meetings, which included over 120 general directors and heads of provincial agencies. Among them, only a few were from Zanjan, and none held key positions. Those few usually formed cliques with their associates, most of whom were Persian-speaking. I know the situation remains the same today. Additionally, in at least three major factories in Zanjan, Persian speakers have a noticeable presence, even as laborers.
When we combine the employees of various government offices, military, and law enforcement institutions with the large student population at the province’s private universities, the resulting demographic imbalance becomes clear. The number of Persian speakers in Zanjan and Abhar far exceeds what these cities' populations and economic resources can reasonably accommodate. Since the revolution, only one governor of Zanjan has been local, from the town of Hidaj. The current governor is from Lorestan, and the previous one, from Mazandaran, experienced their first provincial management roles here.
About ten years ago, residents of Zanjan, from Mahneshan to Qeydar (Khoda Bandeh), invested billions in shares of the Iranian Zinc Mines Development Company. Yet, a factory to process the rich zinc deposits of the Angouran mines has not been established. Two years ago, a large sum was again collected from residents for shares in the Khamsa Cement Company. To date, there is no factory; even the company itself faces legal issues.
We are losing ground, one step at a time, in both culture and economy. They say there are about 100,000 unemployed youth in Zanjan who are not even engaged in informal work. During the previous administration, the right-leaning Jomhuri Eslami newspaper’s reporter would often cite this figure in press conferences with the governor, who would respond with a lower, uncertain number. This uncertainty became apparent when, upon further questioning, the governor admitted that the figure came from the Iranian Statistical Center, not from him.
Many of us Zanjanis lament these issues in private conversations but rarely speak out publicly. Over the past decade, Omid Zanjan briefly addressed political and cultural problems, and more recently, Mardom-e Nou has focused on economic and social issues. However, there is no active social space to reclaim even a fraction of what we’ve lost.
The reasons why our spiritual and cultural identity, alongside our economic resources, are so defenseless against exploitation are subjects for scholars of the humanities. Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—these scholars are too busy dissecting theories in the confines of Zanjan’s Azad University. I merely report what I see.
Amidst these captured trenches, I saw a soldier whose voice remained strong. On June 27, I was in Tehran. A few days later, I returned to find that Reza Abbasi had been arrested by Zanjan's Intelligence Ministry officers. He is now in the quarantine section of Zanjan Prison. Several inmates who shared a cell with him for a few nights testified that Reza’s voice is still steadfast. His family is under pressure and has been told not to contact me—or anyone else who shares news about Reza. And curiously, they were told to ensure that I don’t contact them. Perhaps this is because my personal documents were taken from my home (I won’t name what they did) and they want to avoid facing me. Perhaps they are ashamed.
All of this is a testament to my friend Reza Abbasi’s unwavering voice. He resists and has boldly told his interrogators that not only will he not express regret for his actions, but he is also willing to sign off on everything he has said again. Today, his family lives in a prison as vast as their own home. And so, we all find ourselves in this unequal battle, defenseless.
Let us remember that they have said (not in the old way of "declared" or "commanded"): you are not allowed to hire a lawyer for Reza.
(The title of this piece is borrowed from the film "Rome, Open City" by Italian director Roberto Rossellini.)
Original Text in Farsi.