Iran - The Revolution cannot be Photoshopped

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On the subject of modems and phone lines, Martin and his '89er friends still talk about "the Japanese guy." Back in '89, Czech students were trying to coordinate the uprising across the nation, and the technical students, including Martin, were running the telecom angle. They used a 300-baud device with the size, shape, and heat of a kitchen toaster. The Czech secret police were far too stupid and primitive to keep up with digital telecommunications, so the student-radical modem network was relatively secure from bugging and taps. Fidonet BBSes were springing up surreptitiously on campuses whenever an activist could sneak a modem past the border guards. Modems were, of course, illegal. Most of the Czech cops, however, had no idea what modems were.

The police were engaged in the hopeless task of beating the population into submission with billy clubs, without the backup of Soviet heavy armor. Martin's independent student movement was smarting from street-beatings and sensed that '89 was '68 upside down. They had a list of seven demands. They were pretty radical demands: three of them were never met. Everyone knew the situation was about to blow. But getting the word out was very difficult.

And then, without any warning or fanfare, some quiet Japanese guy arrived at the university with a valise full of brand-new and unmarked 2400-baud Taiwanese modems. The astounded Czech physics and engineering students never did quite get this gentleman's name. He just deposited the modems with them free of charge, smiled cryptically, and walked off diagonally into the winter smog of Prague, presumably in the direction of the covert-operations wing of the Japanese embassy. They never saw him again.

There doesn't seem to be much doubt that this Japanese guy existed. I've talked to four different sources who claim to have seen him in the flesh. The students immediately used these red-hot 2400-baud scorcher modems to circulate manifestos, declarations of solidarity, rumors, and riot news. Unrest grew steadily. By late November, Václav Havel and the older-generation dissident intelligentsia were playing a big role in the demonstrations. Then the general populace took to the streets, and without Red Army backing, the puppet regime collapsed like a rotten marshmallow. By mid-December, the Civic Forum was in power.

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Tomorrow is a big day, perhaps I will get killed!

Tomorrow I will participate in demonstrations. Perhaps the protests will meet with violence. Perhaps I am one of those who is supposed to be killed. I am listening again to all the beautiful songs I have heard in my life. I even want to play some LA songs and dance. I always wanted to thin my eyebrows as much as I can. Tomorrow before I go to the hairdresser I will see some super films at Hamoon. I have to take a look at my library. Forugh and Shamloo are worth reading again. I will sit and look at my family album. My friends, I should call them and say goodbye. I have only two bookcases in the world which I asked my family whom they should give the books to. I have two more units left to get my bachelors but to hell with a degree. My mind is seriously distraught. I wrote these thoughts for the next generation to know that we were not manipulated by the atmosphere or just emotional. So that they know for bettering their lives we have done everything we could. So that they know if our ancestors surrendered to Arab and Mongolian invasions, we did not surrender to despotism. This note is dedicated to tomorrow's children. . . .