The Voice that Changed My World: My Voice
By Soraya Mohamadi (Read by Lin Anderson)
There is a sports stadium full of people. There must have been about 4000 people. Young boys and girls, men, women, parents… Teachers… workers…
All are paying full attention, waiting, curious to hear more. On all sides red banners and placards are seen, with ‘8 March 2003’ in large letters, and more about it: March 8. International Women’s Day.
It’s my turn. The programme presenter calls me by name on the microphone. I am in black, my head covered with a horrible black shawl that I am forced to wear. I feel its heaviness on my head, but you can be sure I will just use it as a weapon against them. However much they want us to be made invisible by it, they can never stop me from voicing my beliefs.
I step toward the stage: light, heavy, anxious, proud, tall, straight and firm. For a second I glance round, scanning all the eyes and ears waiting to hear from me. Wow, this is just amazing and exactly what we wanted. I know I need to speak with my biggest voice to be heard by the world. I
start loudly, saying “Happy 8th of March, the symbol of freedom and equality, to you all great comrades and to the world.”
I really want the world to hear me. I am sure it is my loudest voice – but not sure if it is loud enough. But I am certain that it will be heard again, on five continents through satellite and social networks, by tonight at the latest.
I am quite anxious to let people hear all I want them to before I’m forced to stop by the enforcers of authority. I carry on, loudly announcing that the execution of prisoners by the Islamic regime is systematic murder arranged by a system that is supposed to be in power to protect citizens’
life. Moreover, it’s against human rights law, which condemns execution.
I feel, and hear, such strong power in me and my voice. I feel as string as a mountain and loud as a waterfall. Such an amazing moment. That day passed and we said what the public needed to know, before the darkness returned to enfold the daylight.
My comrades and I wanted our voices and strength to stir up a storm that would disturb the sweet dream of oppression. And before we were squashed back in to silence, at least we had broken the icy wall of fear that had locked the voices in our chests over more than 20 years of the regime’s power.
We still have a hard battle.
But WE ARE STILL ALIVE…
