The Protest...

Yesterday evening I went into DC for the first time since the Metro crash. Partial service had been restored on the Red Line, and I was tired of sitting in my hovel. I had heard about an Iran protest march that had been organized, and I wondered what it would be like. So I went.

The march began at 2209 Wisconsin Avenue, the location of the Iranian Interests Section of the Embassy of Pakistan (the U.S. and Iran have no formal diplomatic relations), and proceeded into the heart of Georgetown, then turned left on P Street ,and, eventually, on to Dupont Circle. When I caught up with them, I immediately felt more like an observer than a participant, and I decided to keep it that way. I was merely curious. These people were committed, passionate. I watched.

I have never seen a protest conducted with such dignity. In long lines, they followed sidewalks, and walked calmly, slowly. Police cars blocked intersections as they passed. Organizers drove ahead with cases of water, and stopped to distribute bottles to marchers as they passed. The evening was warm and the march long.

They chanted slogans as they went: Democracy in Iran. Freedom for Iran. No More Bloodshed.

Passing cars realized what was going on, and drivers waved or honked their horn in support. Pedestrians all along Wisconsin Avenue and P Street paused to look. People sitting in sidewalk cafes lost interest in their wine. Some clapped. Some snapped photos. One older man stopped on the other side of the street where I was. When the procession was close enough that he could see the signs and the green ribbons and T-shirts, he cracked a slight smile and nodded in silent agreement.

Once they arrived at Dupont Circle, they gathered around the familiar fountain, and read a statement. Then they requested that everyone pile their signs on the grass and return to the edge of the granite pool for a candle light vigil in honor of Neda, the young woman whose death has become symbolic of their struggle for freedom. When the candles finally dimmed and the protest crowd began to dwindle, the usual loiterers and stragglers appeared in Dupont Circle, willing to preserve the mood of the moment.

Even the street musician who strolled up and plugged in to play seemed to select music suitable for the tribute. His first two songs were, “Fire and Rain” by James Taylor, and “She Talks to Angels” by the Black Crows. The third song seemed most appropriate of all; the Beatles song, “Let it Be.”

And when the broken hearted
people living in the world agree
there will be an answer, let it be.
For though they may be parted
there is still a chance that they will see
there will be an answer, let it be.