Didaar's photostream  

On the first night of the prison they throw us to a solitary cell. There are three women here. We say that we are sisters. Th middle-aged woman points at her daughter. The other young woman, wearing very ordinary glasses seemed confused, she is looking for her sister. She describes her but we haven't seen her. They were separated when arrested in the morning. My sister and I look anxiously at each other. In the morning before the protest we promised we would stay together whatever it takes.
How childish we were.

Why should I blame myself for being childish?
She made drawings of me.
I brushed her hair.
We went to school hand in hand.
That was happiness.
That was life.
But prison isn't for promises.

We are stuffed in this cell. Not even a bed in it. We wrap ourselves in the dirty blankets like other. We haven't eaten since the morning and now it is night. It is cold and we have no idea where is next. I gradually realise that we are going to be separated. The waves of fear fill my chest. We tell each other how we were arrested. The lonely girl starts to cry.
I say: why are you crying?
She says: I want to go out.
Words come up to my mouth and I hear the voice of my very inner self which doesn't speak usually: outside is no different from here. It is just a bigger prison. We are prisoners everywhere. Have you forgot how difficult the outside is?
In the prison only your true self is going to persist, all other social masks drop off, my shaking voice continues: I'm tired of seeing my most talented friends becoming drug addicts, tired of seeing child labours in the street, tired of seeing depressed anxious friends working like hell for nothing, I want change. change. change. didn't you want that?
She admits that outside is just another prison.
The light goes off and the daughter of the middle-aged woman screams. My mad sister kicks the door shouting turn on the light! turn on the light!
The soldiers swear but the light comes back.
We try to lie down and sleep but there isn't enuogh space.
There is no window and we know that we are somewhere underground. It is hard to breathe.
In prison it is very hard to keep an idea of the outside world. One will be crushed the moment the outside world seizes to exist.
The middle-aged woman starts to sing. Oh Lord! a leftist! She sings a song which belongs to the Iranian Marxists of the 70s.
We listen.

S goes around: How horrible Soviet buildings were! There was no privacy!
I try to explain: Do you remember the post-election protests in Tehran? Don't you remember that non of us wanted to go back to our fucking homes? Because there was such a joy in the street with others? Did you think of privately enjoying yourself during those days?
S: what's the relation?
I: Maybe we should think of enjoyment differently, then we need to make spaces totally different to what we are used to.
S pointing at fotos: but they failed.
I: but they tried a dream. How far have we gone in dreaming?
S: but we have seen what Islamic Republic has done to private space, do you agree with what they do? what if you impose your enjoyment to others?
I: did anyone impose the enjoyment of post-election protests to us? who didn't like it? who opposed it?
...
S: how could we make that space again?
That's the question really...

For the start we steal the foto from Building Revolution exhibition at RA.

photographer sisters. I've always wondered which one of us inspired the other for photography.

Reading Petersburg by Andrei Bely