Mother Father Revolution

W. Cameron Owen

Description

Mother Father Revolution follows a Scottish nurse and Australian mining engineer, who fell in love in Iran as expats in the 1970s, and were forced to flee in the final days of the 1979 Revolution.With their passports held by local employers, and facing regular bomb threats, shootings and state surveillance, they devised an incredible escape plan that involved coffins and a funeral journey for cover through central Iranian towns that were on the brink of civil war, only to find two tickets on one of the last commercial flights out of Tehran, as revolutionaries seized the international airport and the nation descended into chaos.Together with the events of their early life that led them to Iran, the book provides a concise but comprehensive history of Iran through the 20th Century, allowing readers to understand the chain of events that led up to the Revolution.The biographical and historical events sewn together provide readers with a chance to view the 1979 Iranian Revolution through the lives of two individuals making life and death choices, and gives context to a nation that has slipped behind a curtain in world affairs, and has rarely been seen since. Mother Father Revolution will appeal to readers with an interest in Middle Eastern history, and those who enjoy a heartfelt family story based on true events.

Sujets

• Histoire
• History of the Middle East

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 20 juillet 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781838596736
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

Copyright © 2019 Owen W. Cameron

The moral right of the author has been asserted.


Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.


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ISBN 978 1838596 736

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For my parents


Contents
Foreword
The Birthday Ballot
A Highland Youth
A Teenage Wedding
The Influence Of Outsiders
Australian Goldfield, Iranian Oilfield
The Rise Of Reza
From Exile, To Return
Bullets Fired, The Shah Spared
A Coup In Parts
The Mahdi And The Shia
From The Mosque To The Market
Enter The Ayatollah
The Khomeini Uprising
Philosophy And Oil
A Letter On A Noticeboard
Return From The Wild Years
Tehran, 1977
1978
Ramadan Rebellion
The Fire Burns
Afterword


Foreword
On 19 th August 1978, in the small Iranian town of Abidan on the edge of the Persian Gulf, a tired old cinema began the screening of a popular local film called The Deers . Within the hour, four men had blocked the exits, set fire to the cinema, and sealed the fates of more than 400 people trapped inside.
Mixing solvent and vegetable oil in soft drink bottles, they each bought a ticket, shared a seat in the crowded balcony of the Rex Cinema, and waited for fifteen minutes to slip out and stoke a flank of flames that would link up the lobby, corridors and the main stairs.
So much of that summer night echoed the 1970s: on the drawbridge between the crumbling, unregulated past and the modernity we inhabit today. Abidan possessed the best trained civil fire brigade in Iran, but it counted for little when the janitor and cinema staff couldn’t work the fire extinguishers and fled the scene. The wooden walls were clad in a polyvinyl chloride (PVC), a petrochemical by-product that the industrial town made more than it knew what to do with. Almost certainly more died in their cinema seats from smoke inhalation and the burning PVC gases than the fire itself.
Only hours earlier, the four arsonists had eaten liver kebabs at a local food stand and driven around town looking for a cinema on a Saturday night – seemingly like young men from any city in the world. With one failed attempt due to a poor solvent mixture, and another ticket office shut, they finally found the Rex and tried to raze the picture theatre to the ground.
Abidan had been a British oil town from the days of the earliest discoveries in the twentieth century; an alluvial island flanked by rivers on every side, with palm groves that helped to weather the brutal summer temperatures. Yet in the anarchy of the few days after the cinema fire, rumour and conspiracy theories engulfed the city and the nation.
Many locals suspected the new police chief had ordered the side fire exits to be bolted shut. A woman who escaped saw no bolts on the door, and many today believe the doors were opened inwards due to a design flaw. 1
In the din of Abidan’s grief, the truth in the years after the event mattered for little. A judge in 1980 condemned the elderly owner of the Rex (away in Tehran at the time), the cinema manager and several police officers all to death. Another wild theory alleged fire trucks were deliberately sent with no water; several firefighters were sent to jail, despite their efforts to tear down the cinema’s west wall and save whomever they could. 2
The actions and response to the Abidan cinema fire laid bare Iran’s simmering anger – it was a nation wrestling with a deep fragility it did not know how to repair or resolve. In that same month of August 1978, an infamous CIA assessment from the Tehran Station to the Carter Administration stated that Iran ‘is not in a revolutionary or even a pre-revolutionary situation.’ 3 Within a year, events would turn the Middle East on its head, and continue echoing around the world for the rest of the twentieth century, even to the present day.
Revolutions are nothing new. They come from nowhere, and in a matter of days or weeks they have wrought their own course. Over time, they fossilise into history books and family legends. But to live through one, to know that raw upheaval and watch life change in terrifying, uncontrollable ways – what is that like?
The unprecedented extremism of the 1979 Iranian Revolution is only really comparable to its French and Russian equivalents – two events that now stand like totem poles in world history, taught to schoolchildren all over the globe.
Some years in the last hundred have taken on an iconic resonance in our collective memory: 1914, 1929, 1939, 1945, 1989. In contrast, 1979 does not quite join that company; yet there was very much a sense that those who rose to power in that calendar year – Margaret Thatcher, Pope John Paul II, Deng Xiaoping and Ayatollah Khomeini – were going to the shape the world.
In 1976, all of them were in relative obscurity. Thatcher was a failed British Education Secretary. The future Pontiff was the Archbishop of Krakow. Deng was an outcast Chinese politician removed from all formal positions. And Khomeini was an exiled cleric, preaching a puritan version of Islam that enjoyed little support anywhere. After the Revolution, Khomeini’s actions shaped America’s hand in the Middle East, and recast the daily existence of tens of millions of people. Yet within a single generation, the average Westerner knows so little about 1979.
For the most unusual of reasons, I have been a fortunate exception. Why? Because my parents lived through it all. In the crosswinds of the mid-1970s, an Australian mining engineer and a Scottish nurse took two strange foreign assignments, relocated to the famous old heart of Persia, and met one night over expat drinks. They fell in love, then found themselves amid the surveillance, explosions, rallies and riots of a nation tearing itself apart. History changes at a pace those living through it are seldom able to grapple with. It is a lesson that continues to be relevant, and one that shaped my parent’s lives forever.
The events of the world most vividly come to life when we are connected to the journeys of individuals. For that reason, this book is both the history of those times and a personal record. My motive to write comes from knowing the end to this tale, and the incredible events that led to my parents’ escape.
I hope some will read this eager to know why 1979 rocked the world, and how a storied, eclectic nation like Iran slipped silently behind a curtain; one that many of us have never peered beyond or understood since. But much more than this, I chronicle my parents’ days of the revolution for the children and grandchildren I am yet to have – so they stride into the world knowing how lucky we all are to be here, how life and death are fickle absolutes, and how the world is more impulsive and fragile than we would ever wish to admit.

* * *


1 James Buchan, Days of God: The Revolution in Iran and its Consequences (London: Simon & Schuster, 2012), p.163.

2 Ibid.

3 Ibid, p.203.


The Birthday Ballot
On a late evening in March 1966, the car engine hummed, motionless by a quiet bush roadside. It was a turquoise 1956 FJ Holden, the epitome of post-war Australian car-making. The radio crackled with voices and music and the clock counted down to the moment of truth. Leslie John Woolcock sat quietly in his most prized possession and trembled. With a cigarette in hand and the window down, he waited for the verdict.
It was known as the Birthday Ballot. Introduced in 1964 by the Robert Menzies Government, the military conscription scheme was actually conceived on the fear of clashes between Malaya and Indonesia to Australia’s near north, and the chance that Australia’s sole colonial vestige of Papua New Guinea would be entangled in the conflict. Further north, 15,000 US military advisors were already in Indochina, with bombing raids taking place across North Vietnam. Few in Australia imagined the role they would eventually be asked to play.
Between 1964 and December 1972, over 800,000 young Australian men were asked to register for national service on, or just after, their twentieth birthday. From 1966, many watched surreal black and white TV broadcasts as 181 marbles (representing birthdays) were swirled around a machine and 96 were drawn to ensure a nucleus of 4,200 young men twice each year for the next intake of military availability.
On that balmy night of 11 th March 1966, my father listened in his FJ Holden to the broadcast on the radio; in a quiet place, alone with his thoughts and fears. The Vietnam War had escalated beyond all comprehension. Worse was to come. For all the guidelines and reassurances about part-time service first in the Regular Army Reserve, he knew the number sent for combat duty was likely to rise.
The sound of balls rotating went on for long, agonising intervals. His birthday was 7 th December 1946. He knew the 6 th and 10 th of December had been called in the prior Septem