I could just make out “…quum tumultusitas vulgi semper insaniae proxima si.” My schoolboy Latin was being tested, but a couple of the words triggered memories, took me back to a classroom’s endless rote conjunctions. ‘I love, he/she loves, they love’, “amo, amas, amat …” torturing young minds insanely, as the hot summer sun beat through the windows; the buzzing, window-knocking blowflies sharing our desire to be outside that room.
The broken ancient tablet, frail, crumbly. The powdery blue text flaked, was barely hanging on to the whitewashed pottery. ‘Tumultusitas’ gave itself away, but ‘vulgi’, something to do with the mob, the common people, and ahh ‘insaniae proxima’ – ‘madness is close?’ On a whim, I haggled and we settled on a price, but I insisted that the old crone wrap it up for me. She grumbled but found brown paper and secured the parcel with string. My money moved to her apron pocket.
I continued to meander through the Grand Bazaar. The narrow, crowded alleyways, jostling hijab-shrouded mothers quibbling over the groceries, smartly dressed men moving purposely, visitors, like myself, self-consciously and ineffectually trying to blend. By mid-morning I have settled below the vine-entwined lattice of a taverna, a pomegranate juice, a refreshing interlude. The noisy touts, the smells, the sights, the crowds were wonderful: people-watching, par excellence.
Two delightful weeks in Tehran, almost every day this market has drawn me, tempting wares, souvenirs, a suitcase bought to accommodate my trinkets. My Latin continued to elude, translations just out of reach, but intrigue continuing to justify my impulsive purchase. My best effort concluded that the crowd, maybe the unruly mob, were mad?
Three days ago, I had heard loud voices, maybe screaming somewhere, muffled, echoed, distant. There may have been gunshots. There were young women moving past my taverna, intent, hurried; definitely not shoppers. Slight unease replaced my worrisome Latin. A short time later I saw police moving down the alley, purposefully intent.
Midday heat and uncertainty saw me retreat to my hotel. The TV carried a story of some public unrest. The images, not the voice, grabbed my attention, as a group of women were shown publicly shaving their heads. One of the signs was in English and in bold lettering stated ‘It’s not Islam or the West, we want choice.’
Al Jazeera carried a comprehensive coverage, reporting on the martyrdom of a young girl, in custody for defying the strict dress codes. Cars were being torched on the streets, Police, and then the Army were out as the demonstrations grew, women, young and old, some with their men marching in the streets.
My empathy was with the marchers, but without the advantage of language, an incapacity to read the nuanced inflections of the uprising, it was time to leave Iran.
At home, I hung my pottery shard on the wall in my study. In the weeks since my return I have reinterpreted its text:
“Quum tumultusitas vulgi semper furor proxima si – the local people were furious, not insane.