Tehran Dispatch: “What are you doing here with clubs in your hands? Aren’t you ashamed of yourselves?"

(The following report was filed this morning from a Globe correspondent in Tehran who has been participating in street clashes against the Iranian government since the disputed presidential election on June 12. The writer's name has been witheld for his safety.)

TEHRAN _ We had all stayed awake Friday night, after being taunted by the Supreme Leader [Ayatollah Ali Khamenei] who had dared the opposition to come to the streets, thinking over our decision for the next day and what it meant. The choice was to die old and bitter men and endure year after year of brutal oppression, or to die free and for the resistance to move on. As the later events revealed, the choice was no choice at all.
 
All main routes to Enghelab (Revolution) Boulevard were swarming with security forces. There were lines of men in black helmets and personnel carriers and motorcycles blocking the street.
 
Batons and helmets clashing could be heard from several streets over. People were pouring in fast. Again, the diverse crowd of all types, old and young, man and woman. The street was soon full of protesters chanting “down with the dictator”, referring to Khamanei.
 
One rush of the riot police, and a tear gas canister thrown into the crowd, caused panic and retreat. We ran in the opposite direction. But the number of people coming in were too many and the crowd built up again. A number were wielding sticks and stones, and everyone was chanting.
 
A group of riot police on motorcycles came from the opposite direction causing panic. We poured into Enghelab Sreet, which was packed with security forces. A young Basiji (government militia) aimed for my legs, but I easily jumped outside of his reach, despite the stinging of tear gas. I reached another who also aimed at my legs, but easily kicked him in the wrist and his baton went flying in the air.
 
This was when I began to realize who we were dealing with; these were no military force, these were untrained mercenaries who were probably more afraid than we were.  
 
Running across the street, I joined the flocks of people who were cheering on the battle going on in the opposite street. A young man held a smoking piece of newspaper to my face, and the stinging of the tear gas subsided.
 
When I had gathered my wits, I looked towards the street I had just came from. A throng of protesters were pouring into Enghelab Aveneue, throwing stones towards the security forces. They would attack and fall back, attack and fall back. Farther back in the street, at the limits of my vision, I could see that several garbage dumpsters and a pile of rubble had been set up by the people to hold back the motorcycle attacks. A core of resistance had been formed.
 
An either brave or stupid Basiji stormed towards the people from the direction Enghelab Street He was swiftly brought down by the protesters, who let him retreat with blood running down his face. The crowd on my side of the street, most of whom had been harassed and oppressed by the same plain-clothed forces for years and had swallowed their wrath, cheered the protesters on. Teargas canisters were shot towards the crowd and thrown and kicked back towards the security forces. A group of Basij, who had received a dose of one of these returning canisters, were sitting on the ground in a circle, screaming and crying in pain.
 
A group of “Samurai’s” – that’s the name I call the more professional riot police them because of their black armor and oddly oriental shaped helmets – came upon us on our side of the street wielding batons. I fled in between traffic, where they couldn’t easily maneuver. People were honking their horns, while the Samurais would shatter their windows with their batons. I ran down the street towards the west, in the direction of Azadi (Freedom) Square. As I passed the intersection, I mingled into a steady line of people walking with heads down past the riot police in the same direction. Apparently if you weren’t causing havoc, they’d let you pass.
 
I passed another side street, in which a battle similar to what I had just witnessed was taking place. On the corner of the main road, a woman in her 50’s was screaming at a group of young basijis, scolding them as if they were her children. “What are you doing here with clubs in your hands,” she’d tell them, “aren’t you ashamed of yourselves?” The regular local police, distinguishable by their green uniforms, were helping the flow of pedestrians travel along, as we all made our journey towards Azadi Square.
 
I arrived ahead of the throng. Cars were passing and people were walking along. However, it was also swarming with security forces, I’d say thousands of them, prepared and lined up for the showdown as the circle tightened around them. Vendors were gathering money and handing out fruit juice and water bottles. As I stood sipping a glass of cherry juice, a large group of Basij marched while chanting “Hezbollah, Hezbollah” towards the direction I had come from, banging on their shields with their batons. I turned and looked in the direction they were moving. A swarm of protesters, screaming and furious, stormed into the square showing the V sign of victory. They slammed into and engulfed the Basij in a matter of seconds. A young and small-bodied girl slammed a rock into one of their faces, as the boy running beside her plucked the baton from his hand and rushed forward. Troops marched towards the battle from all sides of the square.
 
I pulled my green cloth from my pocket and wrapped it around my mouth. We had successfully stormed down Revolution Boulevard and were destined to take Freedom Square.