Roadblocks to Peace... there are a lot of them.
The Israeli government's decision to continue building settlements and taking legally-held Palestinian land is not something I will defend. That is their Trail of Tears. It will stain them for generations.
However, I reject the canard presented by Muslim countries that says there can be no progress in peace with Israel until that issue is resolved. If Kuwaitis were concerned about Palestinian rights they wouldn't deny them citizenship after three generations.
For years this stalement has polluted everything. Watching the scenes from Iran and talking to Iranian women I realized there is another path. I confess I have been oblivious to it. It's not that I'm stupid, it's worse. Stupidity is usually treatable; my condition is terminal. I'm a guy.
But I'm not blind. Watching the footage from Iran and reading the reports, the central role of women in this "leaderless" revolt is painfully obvious. True, there are no prototypical charismatic individuals exhorting the crowds with passionate rhetoric. But make no mistake, the women are leading ... those who want peace should follow them.
If you compare the rhetoric coming from Tehran's streets to the rhetoric issued from Gdansk or even Tiananmen Square, the difference is striking. There are no manifestos. Instead, we hear poetry. Poetry and keening.
Some of the poetry is intentional, some of it spontaneous. The note to "tomorrow's children" written by a young woman named Hanaa captures the sentiment better than any erudite "expert" sitting in an air-conditioned studio thousands of miles away could ever hope to achieve.
Keening is the Gaellic tradition of lamentation. I am still haunted by the sounds of thousands of people taking to their rooftops and crying to God. These are the voices of women. When you look at the photos their presence on the front lines is obvious. And it's not just young women either. Roger Cohen in several of his reports notes the central role of women. On twitter the best comment I heard was
"You can't beat our grandmothers.
If you do, we're ALL in the opposition"
It was written by a woman.
In her column today, Anne Applebaum reaches the same conclusion. In talking about Neda she notes:
Nobody would have murdered a peaceful, unarmed young woman in blue jeans -- unless her mere presence on the street presented a dire threat.
Equality for women; that is the Threat That Dare Not Be Named. That strikes at the root of the fundamentalist clerics who rule based on a decreed divine authority. It is no accident Mousavi prominently used his wife in his campaign. A major distinction between him and Ahmadinejad is that Mousavi was promising to repeal some of the laws that discriminate against women. That scares the hell out of the men running the show.
If you don't think they are scared, then why are they beating the crap out of people who are not armed? Why are they shooting people who are not armed? Why are they arresting people in hospitals? Those are the acts of terrified cowards.
But Iran is not alone here. Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Afghanistan, Pakistan, etc. all have punitive laws that subjugate women. If the women in Iran succeed in their fight for equality that will shake the foundations of the whole area. That is why their struggle is central. That is why their role is central. That is why they must lead the way. Solve that problem and the path to peace opens.
Palestinian women and Israeli women worked together for years in spite of the fact their men were constantly fighting. Why? Because it was their sons they were burying. It's that simple. That's a bond men will never understand. Sure, you can be there while she's in labor...it ain't the same thing as being in labor while she's there.
For me, this is a radical departure from my previous thinking about Middle East peace. It's not about redrawing maps. It's about rewriting the social contract. In her letter to "tomorrow's children" Hanaa says she wrote it so they would know their ancestors surrendered to Arabs and Mongols, but not to despotism. It is appropriate that Iran may be where this revolution starts. After all, Iran is the country that brought us Scheherazade (شهرازاد).
Her story is instructive as a metaphor and a guide.
Once upon a time, there was a king. Every day he would marry a new virgin, and every day he would send yesterday's wife to be beheaded. This was done in anger, after he discovered his first wife betrayed him. He had killed three thousand such women before he was introduced to Scheherazade.
Imagine that anger.
Burning for a decade.
Tied to unbridled power.
And all those innocent victims
ground up in that horror.
And all of them....
women.
But she did not stop the slaughter through force. She was no Lilith.
Scheherazade had perused the books, annals and legends of preceding Kings, and the stories, examples and instances of by gone men and things; indeed it was said that she had collected a thousand books of histories relating to antique races and departed rulers. She had perused the works of the poets and knew them by heart; she had studied philosophy and the sciences, arts and accomplishments; and she was pleasant and polite, wise and witty, well read and well bred."
She came prepared. The first night the King listened to her first story and was awestruck. He asked for another, but Scheherazade said there was not time as dawn was breaking. But she promised to tell him another the next night, so the King kept Scheherazade alive. The next story was even better. He asked for another, but again...dawn arrived. She offered to tell him another. And again he kept her alive. This continued for one thousand and one adventurous nights. By that point the King had not only been entertained but educated in morality and kindness.
Scheherazade became his Queen.
Unfortunately, the current regime is terrified and like the misguided king of legend, it will sacrifice thousands for nothing. Neda is just the one whose name we know, but there are others and there will be more. It is terrible to watch and know this fate awaits more of these proud, strong, beautiful women. I cannot put the sadness into words so I borrow a poem, A Mis Amigos, originally written in Spanish by the Puerto Rican poet José Gautier Benítez.
Because of it's universal appeal, I translated and reworded it for Neda (ندا) and her sisters.
When not even a single grain
of my existence is left in the hour glass
and you carry my frozen corpse
don't forget this final wish:
Do not lock it up in those narrow niches
that fill the walls forming rows
in the gloomy, narrow gallery where
the sun of my country never penetrates.
In the field across from the cemetery
bury my poor bones in the soil;
so the sun that lights and caresses the dawn
will bring forth flowers and grass there.
That I can feel, if there is feeling,
around me and over me, very close,
the living rays of my fiery Sun
and this adored Persian land
breathing free.