Imperial England seals her fate as Tarquin's successor.
It is often said, in historical as well as political circles, that those who do not study the past, are doomed to repeat it. (Un?)like most aphorisms, there’s some truth to this one, in that the great events in human history tend to blend together at the periphery. This is not to say that one history is like another: each is equally poignant, more rather than less so for conforming to a pattern. Humans are motivated by the same things, producing a basic commonality, a well of shared experience between societies, in which we can, sometimes, find shared truth.
We need look no farther than the tragedy continuing to unfold in Iran. Bottom-up revolutions often begin with an expectancy of change that fails to materialize. The gravity of the expected change is almost immaterial. Thus, in early 1776, the men who would become our Founding Fathers waited months, expecting clemency or a compromise that never came; rather than halting revolution, Mikhail Gorbachev’s half-steps to freedom precipitated the death of the USSR; and the “defeat” of the quasi-reformer, Mir Hossein Mosauvi, evokes on the streets a yearning for change far beyond what the fairly moderate man ever even pretended to offer.
Similarly, revolutions often find a single martyr, an individual who, in death, encapsulates the spirit of the age. Rome had Lucretia; America, the victims of the Boston Massacre; abolitionists, the (imaginary) Uncle Tom; and Iran, Neda Agha-Soltan. Anyone with a computer, TV, or friends will recognize the traumatic footage of a peaceful protester shot, seemingly without cause. Neda was “political” only in the way that every citizen of a repressive regime has to be – she broke the rules, in an attempt to find freedom, and hoped they’d change. Her story is sad because it’s so common; the natural result of oppression, expected but still shocking.
Unfortunately, although such tragedies often impel action, successful revolution is not a natural result. Rome and Boston both benefited from an active and powerful revolutionary elite, and never had to face the technology that sustains modern tyranny. Iran is not so lucky, and Twitter is a poor substitute for a Washington or a Brutus (note that, for what it’s worth, Mousavi does not appear ready to fight). Nonetheless, Iran’s people deserve our support – popular, rather than formal – because, despite the differences that divide our countries, our shared story is so uniquely human. We Americans built our legacy on the theory that humanity can learn from its mistakes and, after fighting a prototypical war, find an atypical peace. Maybe Iran can, too.
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