Iran in Shock Over Rafsanjani’s Death: An Eyewitness Report

The following article was written by an Iranian citizen journalist on the ground inside the country, who writes under a pseudonym to protect her identity.

 

“Hashemi died?” A woman’s voice echoes around the metro carriage and several heads turn toward her.

 “Which Hashemi?” the woman sitting next to her asks. The woman looks up from her phone. “Hashemi Rafsanjani,” she says in the same loud voice. Everyone in the car can hear her.  She has barely finished before people bend over their phones, checking if it’s true. The car is filled with exclamations of “No...It can’t be!”

It was around 8pm when Iranian official media confirmed the news of Rafsanjani’s death. Like an earthquake, the news ripples across Iran, and thanks to social media — especially Telegram and Twitter — in less than half an hour every Iranian learned that this veteran politician of the Islamic Republic has passed away. You can see bewilderment in the faces of most — and this look is not limited to those who are sympathetic to Rafsanjani. The bafflement is reflected on everybody’s faces. Throughout the years he has been called many things, from a revolutionary hero to Iran’s de facto king to less laudatory epithets. And now he’s gone?

...But has the BBC Confirmed it?

As I check my phone for tweets confirming Rafsanjani’s death, a woman asks: “Did he die of illness?” 

“They say he had a heart attack,” says another, adding, “only god knows!” 

A young woman sitting a little further away from me raises her finger above her mobile phone as a sign of disbelief. “Ma’am, it is just a rumor,” she says. “Don’t you believe it. Every day Telegram is full of such rumors.” 

The first woman replies: “No, no. It was not just anybody. It was on the Telegram channel of ISNA [the Iranian Students’ News Agency]. ISNA doesn’t lie!” 

Another woman talking on her phone takes her mobile away from her ear and says: “But they say that the BBC has not yet confirmed the news.” 

The other woman answers, “Look, do they know better in London or on Iranian channels? See here. It says that he had a heart attack at Martyrs Hospital in Tajrish [in northern Tehran]. It says that people have gathered outside the hospital.” 

I look at my watch. It is a few minutes past nine. The Martyrs Hospital of Tajrish is at the opposite end of the line. It will take about half an hour to get there.

The heads of most people are either bent over their mobiles or are close to one another, whispering. As I climb up out of the metro station to change lines, I hear more whispers. “Did you hear the news? The say Hashemi is dead... Is it really possible that he is dead? Who could believe it!.” 

True, it was hard to believe. The scene reminded  me of movies where people exchange news only by murmuring into each other’s ears.

The door to the Tajrish-bound train closes. The car is less crowded than the one going the opposite direction. A woman  sits across the aisle and talks on the phone. Suddenly she looks up and asks, “Is it true that Rafsanjani is dead?” Everybody confirms it’s true. “When was it?” she asks. 

“Just 10 minutes ago,” the woman sitting next to her says. I look at my watch again. It is more than half an hour after the official announcement. She doesn’t wait for next question. “They say he was at the parliament and was going home when he had heart attack at Tir Seven Square and was taken to the hospital,” she tells the other woman.

Yes, the BBC Confirmed it!

Another woman confirms the heart attack theory. “What was he doing at Tir Seven?” she asks.

“My brother works at Tir Seven Square,” answers the first woman. “He says that it was around six when he saw three or four limousines and Mercedes sedans going towards Modarres Avenue. You know, Hashemi lives around Tir Seven Square. My brother says he had gone to parliament because of the disagreements. Most probably he got into an argument and his heart couldn’t take it because they say he had a heart attack. He died only 15 minutes ago. My brother read me the BBC news.”

“He must have had the heart attack because of the nervous pressure,” says the second woman. “What I don’t get is why he was crossing Tir Seven? Parliament has nothing to do with Tir Seven.” 

When someone tells her that parliament is at Baharestan Square, she says,“No, no, it was the shah’s parliament that was there. These people’s parliament is at Sepah Avenue.” She says this in a tone that implies disbelief that anybody could not know that the parliament building has been moved.

The talk moves from speculations about Rafsanjani’s death to comments about his wealth and all the unsavory things said about him. People talk about what he owned and the big inheritance that his children are going to get.

“What Difference Does It Make?”

I move closer to the men’s section of the car. A few men are also talking about Rafsanjani’s death. “What difference does it make?” a younger man is saying. “They are all alike. This same gentleman prolonged the war and got many young men killed. After the war these same guys came, took the money from everywhere and built themselves towers.” A middle-aged man sitting next to him nods, but another man sitting a little further away does not agree. “It was not the way you are saying,” he says. “Most of the thievery happened under Ahmadinejad. He was hostile to Hashemi and tried to vilify him. But in the end it was him whom people came to dislike.” 

“But it is hard to believe that Hashemi is dead,” another man says. “Who could have imagined that Hashemi would die now?”

The train arrives at Tajrish station. The bewilderment felt during the journey now gives way to bustling. Everybody rushes towards the exit. News has arrived that Rafsanjani’s body has been moved from Martyrs Hospital to Jamaran Congregation Hall. Still, most of the people rushing up the five floors of the metro station are headed for Tajrish Square. As the escalator moves up, I hear whispers of “Condolences! Condolences!” A few young women ahead of me are having a heated argument. “Bosses of the TV and the supreme leader are not expressing condolences,” one says. “They are now bursting with joy.” One of the young women, whose hair is showing from under her headscarf, says, “No, it’s not like that. People would not let them do that.”

“People can’t do anything about it,” her friend says. “When the Saudi king died didn’t these same hardliners say to hell with him? They are so shameless that they would write the same thing about Hashemi.” 

A woman with braided hair answers back, “No, that was the Saudi king. This is Rafsanjani. He had many supporters. He was a pillar of the revolution.”

“One of the Good Politicians”

As I listen to them and continue to check Twitter, suddenly I hear the voice of the girl with braids addressing me. “Are you a reporter?” she asks without preliminaries. 

“Is it written on my face?” I ask. “No,” she says, “but you were so carefully listening to us.” 

Her power of observation impresses me and I can’t deny it. We get to talking as the escalator continues moving up and up. Her name is Shirin and she is a university student. She says they are going to Martyrs Hospital. 

“Why?” I ask. “Most of your generation does not like Hashemi very much.”

“That is not so,” she says. “In 2009 he stood with the people and this changed people’s opinion toward him. This is important, especially considering that his daughter Faezeh and his son Mehdi have been imprisoned.” Shirin and her friends said they believe Iran has good politicians and bad politicians. “Mr. Hashemi was one of the good politicians,” they say.

Tajrish Square is packed with cars and people. As we approach Martyrs Hospital, the number of people increases rapidly. Groups of people stand behind the guardrail on the sidewalk opposite the hospital, and watch the crowd directly in front of the hospital. Two rows of policemen try to keep order.

As I move toward the hospital gate, a woman with bags of shopping bags walks next to me. “What is going on?” she asks. When I tell her that Mr. Hashemi Rafsanjani has died she says, “God have mercy on him” without any emotion. But then, suddenly she is shocked and shouts out: “Who? That Mr. Hashemi? When? How did he die? It’s not a rumor? I can’t believe it. He was not supposed to die...” 

A young policeman approaches me and says “No photos!” As he speaks, blue flashes go off from hundreds of mobile phones around us.

Trending on Twitter

The people right in front of the hospital are chanting, praising Rafsanjani and expressing sorrow for his death. The chanting is spontaneous; whoever has the loudest voice persuades others to accompany him. Everyone is waiting for the ambulance carrying Rafsanjani’s body to arrive, but the ambulance left an hour earlier and most people do not realize that his body is no longer in the hospital. A man climbs to the top of a parked car and, after thanking the crowd, tells them they must go to Jamaran Hall to pay their respects to Rafsanjani. “This is a hospital and the patients need quiet,” he says.

As far as the eye can see, Tajrish Square is packed with cars and people. The street is impassable, but people start moving towards Jamaran. Somebody tweets that the hashtag “#HashemiRafsanjani” has started to trend on Twitter in just an hour. I look at the crowd going towards Jamaran and think: thanks to social networks, the death of an ayatollah who symbolized the Islamic Republic has now become a trend.

 

Zohreh Zolghadr, Citizen Journalist