My mind is in a few different places at once now. I can’t decide whether to stay up tonight on Twitter following the protest scheduled in Iran or get some sleep so I can be up on time to go to the protest in Westwood.

The last couple of days have been quite difficult for me. Difficult in the sense that it was very hard to concentrate on anything but Iran – everything else, work, life, even food just seemed secondary. Everytime I complained about something, like the fact that my car had a malfunction, followed by a towing, I regretted it. My concerns, my pet peeves or insignificant struggles could not and can not compare in any way, shape or form to those in my hometown.

At times, I can’t believe this is all happening, unfolding in front of the world’s eyes – I keep imagining how those who voted for change feel, how upset and angry and passionate they must have been to say, “you know what – NO, I will not stand up for this, I will stand up for what I believe in.” That takes real courage, courage that many of us have never known in our lives.

Every day, while I read the tweets, listen to the news and watch the videos, I am reminded of the situations my parents and entire extended family must have been in during the 1979 Revolution. I cannot even begin to fathom what life was like, it many ways it wasn’t a life at all, but then in other ways, it was like they were REALLY living. I’m not sure how to fully explain what I mean by that last sentence. I mean, it’s as if everything in life that didn’t matter just melted away and the important things hung around. The ones you love, the fight for social justice, morality and human rights – that’s what took over.

For example, this is a personal blog and although I can post whatever I choose at this very moment, I cannot bring myself to do it. Something is getting in the way. Something is telling me, “No, it’s not appropriate. There are bigger things in play. There are lives at stake.”

Things worth mentioning in regards to the Iran Election 2009:

1. The outpour of support from around the world, especially the U.S is just amazing to me. It is so touching and amazing – everywhere you look in Twitter, you see a green tinted icon and messages offering all in Iran their support.

2. Social media – All hail the power of social media. I hope Maureen Dowd realizes how wrong she has been about Twitter.

3. Journalism – You can stop buying newspapers, pay us close to nothing, but let’s face it- you still need us. We’re important. When the times are really tough, we are the most important profession on the face of the planet. And it’s amazing.

My mind is racing. I just read that someone received a “goodbye” email from Iran. My mom told me earlier she had heard that many people decided to write their wills and send out their goodbyes, because they knew if they went into the rally, they wouldn’t come out alive. This entire thing is weighing heavily for me and I’m hoping for the best, and fearing the worst. My thoughts and prayers are with all with enough courage to stand up for what they believe in, even though it might mean death.

“Mousavi we support you. We will die, but retrieve our votes,” they shouted, many wearing the green of Mousavi’s campaign- BBC

By now, mostly everyone around the world, that is if you care for the news and utilize Twitter, not counting those who fall into my age group who do not see the resourcefulness of such a powerful tool with the world’s voices at your fingertips has been following the election and subsequent protests, rallies and chaos taking place in Iran.

The rehashing of events by the likes of me would be more than unnecessary and not very useful, since I have no first hand knowledge of the events that occurred. What I lack in personal experience, however, I make up for in personal connection.

Born in Tehran, I am a post-1979 Revolution child, who slept through bomb sirens, spent nights in the basement with my parents and eventually left as a refugee to Los Angeles by way of Greece.

At 24, I don’t even have to worry about more than half the things my parents did when they were my age. I’ve been told more stories from those fateful years where a once revered and liberal Iran – the Paris of the Middle East, turned into a extremist country with no regard for human or women’s rights. My uncle, who was one of the Shah’s guards, saw so much violence that he used to tell my mother the smell of iron from the blood would not leave his nose.

And now, I feel as though whatever I did not and could not  retain as a very small child is replaying before my eyes. There is something so deeply personal about watching the passion, commitment and fury happening in the streets of Tehran, where my parents grew up and my grandparents before that. I wish I could be there, as a writer and as an Iranian citizen – these are the moments in the world and in life where I realize why I wanted to become a journalist. These are the moments when I think, I want to be where the action is, I want to talk to those involved, to be a part of something so instrumental in causing change.

I still have relatives in Tehran, and a call to them tonight didn’t go through but I’ll try again soon. Hearing first person accounts would be amazing and the only vessel I have to do that now is Twitter, which has been the most useful tool in this entire process.

First three photos by .faramarz, last one by Hamed Saber

I turned 24-years-old yesterday. It was a strange feeling waking up in the morning, with a slight lump in my throat. Turning 23 was much better, in fact, in my opinion it’s the perfect age. You’re over 21, so you don’t have any real laws against you, yet you’re still considered “young.”

It was like any other day really, except I got treated to a lunch outing, card and cupcakes at work – that was nice and unexpected and really made my day bearable and lovely. When I came home, there was a cake waiting for me, a gift from my sister, in addition to the fact that she wallpapered my entire door with the dazzling Edward Cullen. I’m bordering on psychotic, I know.

I was going to write about what I accomplished this year, but I’d rather do that for my New Year’s post. I don’t like to count my accomplishments by age, doing them by year is much better and it doesn’t remind you that there are millions of people in the world being more productive than you, while they’re younger than you.

It’s hard to believe that I’ve lived for 24 years. It’s harder to believe where my life would be right now if my family hadn’t moved to the U.S. If I had stayed in Tehran, as I was in the photo above. It’s still harder to think about what my life is going to be, that’s honestly the hardest part. I thought I knew, but I have no idea. We like to think so, but we’re not always the controller of our destinies.

More than anything, what I’d like for my birthday is to share it with my grandpa. I wish he could have seen what I’ve become, what my sister and cousins have become. I miss him immensely and would have liked to share so many moments of my life with him. Sometimes I remember him and realize what a passionate man he was. I think I might have gotten my passion from him. When he would sit near the dining room table and speak about Armenia, his motherland, his home, his love, his eyes would well up with tears. I used to laugh it off and tell him to stop, but almost 15 years later, I understand. I completely understand.

Here’s to another year. I hope it will be better.

Esha Momeni, the California State University Northridge journalism graduate student, who was arrested and jailed in Iran’s Evin prison while in the country to work on her thesis, has been finally released. The release comes 25 days after Momeni’s initial capture, which I wrote about here.

Below is the message released on the official Facebook group, “Free Esha.”

Hello Everyone!!

ESHA HAS BEEN RELEASED!!!

We got the news this morning. We have no other details but are happy that she’s safe and back home with her parents.

We would like to thank everyone from the bottom of our hearts for all the support, work and prayers. Every bit of your efforts made this happen.

The official blog for Momeni includes a list of 90 professors, educators and chairs of departments who have signed to expedite her release.

I will follow with more details once they come in…

If you watch or read the news, you know by now that there are many countries around the world to this day that do not honor the notion of freedom of speech. It is a routine occurrence for journalists to be arrested, kidnapped, jailed and tortured while doing their jobs. Unfortunately, even though we are living in modern times, not all countries have adapted to the notion of the freedom of press.

Last week, I came upon some very disturbing and disheartening news. Esha Momeni, a graduate student who was doing research for her thesis on the Iranian women’s movement was arrested and jailed in the Evin prison run by the Ministry of Intelligence in Iran. Esha was enrolled in the School of Communication, Media and Arts, from my alma mater, California State University, Northridge.

Perhaps if she had attended any other school, or if she was arrested in any other country, it wouldn’t have compelled me to write a blog entry. But this wasn’t the case. She very well could have been me. Many of her professors were my professors, most of her interests are probably my interests and her country of origin and arrest is where I was born.

On Oct. 15, Esha was stopped on suspicion of a traffic offense. The people who stopped her identified themselves as undercover police officers. She was taken to her parents’ home, where they seized her laptop and footage of interviews she had conducted. She was then arrested and taken to prison.

Evin prison, where she is being held, is known for its political prisoners wing. It’s also known for executions and torture. In 2003, Iranian-Canadian photojournalist Zahra Kazemi was arrested for taking photographs in front of the prison. She was held there until she died, which the Iranian government claimed happened because of a stroke she suffered. However, doctors who examined her body found evidence of rape, torture and skull fracture.

Esha was researching the “Change for Equality” campaign, which was launched by Iranian women activists in September 2006. Her graduate professor Melissa Wall, whom I met once, has posted information about Esha on her blog. Her friends have also set up a site for her here. If you have a moment, please sign the petition demanding her release.

Esha’s goal was to help the United States and Iran understand each other better, and I’m sure that before she even ventured back to her country, she knew the risk involved. But she did it anyway, because that’s what journalists do. I hope she gets back home safe.

Here is an excerpt of her writing, which was translated from Farsi, from the “Change for Equality website:

I am dressed in white, head to toe. I am aware that the serenity and peacefulness of white does not represent my city, but when I am dressed in white I feel like a dove that is free, one that has not been earmarked and was never kept captive. As I stroll along the streets of my city, I feel like a bride, a bride that is walking towards a new promise, the dream of equality.

Iran and all that makes it unique – steep streets, narrow alleys and unmarked homes – is still the land of promise that we hold dear to our hearts. The women of this land are peacefully writing a glorious end to the bitter long story of inequality and injustice. Iran is still the covenant to those hands that would like to wash the mud of distress from the yarns of this land in the stream of peace and unity. Only then we can resurrect equality and knit white wings for the dove that represents unity. Meanwhile, behind every closed door, a young girl dressed in white is making history so that she can embrace the future with pride and honor.

My grandmother everyday practices her signature, as evidence of her existence and her uniqueness. Here in Iran, I, you, and our mothers are all brides dressed all in white, and with our peaceful approach we dance in the alleys from house to house so that our promise of equality and unity transforms the sounds of the chains on our feet to the melodies of an anklet.