More protests Against The Theocratic Regime in Iran

[The Grand Nudger]

Grandnudger:
 
https://www.reuters.com/world/americas/v...026-01-03/

The post redirected to an article article (archived) published by CNC3, a TV news station in Trinidad and Tobago, titled "Venezuela vice president flees to Russia," which attributed the claim to Reuters and "four sources familiar with the matter." Similar claims spread on Threads, X, Facebook and Instagram, similarly citing Reuters as a source.
However, we could not independently verify Rodríguez was in Russia or that she traveled there after Maduro's capture. The claim largely rested on a Reuters report that cited anonymous sources familiar with her movements. However, later Reuters reporting said Venezuelan state television showed Rodríguez speaking in Caracas, contradicting the earlier reports. Russia's Foreign Ministry also denied she was in Russia.
We contacted Russia's Foreign Ministry and the Russian Embassy in Venezuela seeking confirmation of Rodríguez's whereabouts and will update this article if we receive a response.
What Reuters reported, and what it did not
Reuters published a brief article (archived) on Jan. 3 stating that Rodríguez "is in Russia," citing "four sources familiar with her movements." The same Reuters article also said her brother Jorge Rodríguez, head of Venezuela's National Assembly, was in Caracas, according to three sources with knowledge of his whereabouts. But Reuters did not report that Rodríguez had "fled," "escaped" or "sought asylum," and therefore did not imply a motive and a decisive break from normal governing activity.

https://www.snopes.com/news/2026/01/05/d...la-russia/

She wanted to be el presidente, she sought the help of the mad king in the north. If I had to guess, those "four sources" are all magastani officials trying to shape a narrative - and I would be surprised if it were actually four different people. Was John Barron on the call?

[Paraselene]

Let’s forget our individual differences......

I'd rather not. Conformity was never for me.

[Thumpalumpacus]

Thumpalumpagus:
 
I don’t know if what they want is a return to monarchy but protesters are chanting “Death to Khameinei” (the supreme Leader). And “Long Live Pahlawi”.

I may have spoken prematurely above. The Crown Prince apparently got a good reception today to his call for further demonstrations, and the fact that they are touting the late Shah publicly says a lot, considering that such was, in the past, cause for the death penalty.
 

For those of you who are not familiar with the subject I can say that the Pahlawi dynasty (despite its authoritarian nature) was a very modernizing and secular force during the greater part of the 20th century (until the Islamic revolution).

I lived there from Nov 74 to Dec 78, including the final months of the Peacock Throne. We left about 4 weeks before the Shah fled and Bakhtiar was installed, and about 6 weeks before Khomeini returned. You're right, the Shah was trying to lead the country to secular modernism, and was largely succeeding, albeit at the cost of civil and human rights.

One of the pictures in an NPR article shows a bridge that is burned into my memory. On 5 Nov 78, my school, Community, which was very near the Grand Bazaar (we'd sometimes go there for lunch), was surrounded by a huge riot and we students were stuck inside the compound until around six pm when an army platoon came and shot a path clear for us. Anyway, on the drive home I peeked up above the bus's windowsill as it was on this bridge. The bazaar on the street beneath us was in both directions burning fiercely, and swathes of rioters were running amok.

Here's the bridge:



Here's the chapter I wrote about that night:

---

36. A Long Afternoon

I was in Cultural Studies, fifth period. I cannot remember the teacher's name, but his thick brown mustache and heavyset frame stand out in my mind, as does his plodding diction. We were discussing Sumeria and really, I was bored -- and so, I suspected, was everyone else in the warm unvented classroom. I hadn’t seen much of Farah at lunch, either, and was irritated about that too.
Slowly, with no precise moment of notice, we realized we could hear a local demonstration of radicals protesting the martial law. These had cropped up occasionally nearby, and a couple of my friends had seen some from the windows of their schoolbuses; and I’d seen two m’self now up-close. It was an odd assemblage of subliminal sounds rolled into one presence: the murmured chant ("down with America," if I remember correctly); the shuffling of thousands of feet; the dopplered two-tone wail of foreign sirens; the dense rumble of heavy machinery. No gunshots rang out that we could hear, but those are funny things, gunshots. You never knew when they happened.
Mr. Mustache wasn't the smartest teacher I'd ever seen, but he really outdid himself when he tried to get us back on track by announcing: "It's only a riot." Like they ran on schedule, sure. At that point, perhaps a naked woman might have gotten my attention. An overweight guy lecturing on Sumeria would've done better to surrender to the riot and settle into a good book.
As the bell rang the official end of fifth period, I hunted up Leb.
"It's a riot, James."
"No shit, Leb."
"A big one. I hope they didn't get my dad's practice." His dad was my orthodontist, and had done all of the work on my mouth concerning metal, except for Dr. Irvani’s fillings. I suddenly felt much more kinship with radical Islamic fundamentalists than I had previously thought possible.
"Look at it this way, Jerry: they'll only jack his offices up if they know he's Christian, right? Now, as much as I've prayed in there, I can tell you -- God is nowhere near your dad's practice, crucifix or no."
“Shaddup, you. What does a Texan know about good teeth anyway?"
About this time Mrs. Reeves -- oh, you better believe I remember her name -- made a stab at order by calling roll. We answered dutifully, trying to get back to an enjoyable talk. No dice. Reeves pushed on with predicates until I was blue in the brain. I'd often thought that if the Bomb ever dropped, I could see her teach through World War III. Only a twelve-foot brick wall kept thousands of angry demonstrators from learning verb conjugations.
After what felt like an eternity, the bell sounded the end of English and the beginning of the last class -- in my case, art history. I took my leave of Jerry Balassanian in the hallway, and never saw him again.
I ran into Mike Kimmel near The Tank, and briefly saw Angus and Firoozi there as well. The riot had made the whole gang nervous and we found comfort in each other's company for the brief moment between classes, wondering if the crowd were going to disperse soon and why they were picking on us anyway. Then the tardy bell rang and we had to go. I never saw Angus Fletcher or Firoozi Yams again.
Mike and I had seventh period together, so we made some brave jokes at the party going on -- but the haze now suffusing the air added the odor not only of fire but fear as well. The teacher's lecture on color theory was also a brave attempt at denial that I think failed miserably; but we all pretended that it worked, and so it worked just fine. I s'pose we were about halfway through class when an office runner came in and handed Mr. Wood a note. He read the note, and then, his English accent dicing the words precisely, announced, "May I have your attention please? We will be staying here late due to our little disturbance. It won't be too much longer, but, again, we shall be staying late. Please continue with your work."
Well, shit fire and save matches. My feelings about Islamic radicalism took on a decided negative cast, and I wondered if my sister's school was subject to the same tomfoolery. I could really use a night off from her, but I preferred it be her kept locked up at school, not m’self. We went back to our quiet conversation and drawing, which Mike and I kept up even after the final bell had closed the official day out.
The rioting was louder than it had been all day, and the sun was now westering. I wondered if Farah was okay, if’n her dad was involved in this day’s events. The clock on the wall read 4:50 P.M. when the office runner returned, and suddenly I could hear that clock ticking even over the squalling miasma filtering in from outside.
"Okay, children, you may walk to your buses. I'll see you tomo--"
"Like Hell you will," said Mike rather loudly. He spoke my thoughts perfectly. An hour-and-a-half had passed since the final bell rang, and we had still 15 miles of traffic to fight to my bus stop at the intersection of Zafar and Old Shemiran. I wasn’t coming tomorrow for love nor money. I was angry at this waste of my evening . . . for about three seconds. That’s when we stepped outside, and my anger was replaced by fear.
It was still all wrong -- worse, even. The chanting and shouting, the sounds of melee, were as loud as ever, and the haze was now an acrid smoke, much thicker than before -- a surreal frosting on a hellish cake. I suppose I’d assumed that when they released us, it would be after the riot had subsided, but that assumption was quickly dispelled. The rumble of eighty school buses warming up, normally quite loud, was now background for the sound of sirens wailing and a mob chanting. Every so often, a bottle would carve an arc over the brick wall surrounding the bus-loading area, to land in a shattering explosion of glassy dust. Thunderous sounds rumbled my innards like Jell-O, and atop it all rode the chanting of an angry mob. Mike and I stuck together until we reached our respective buses. Farah’s bus was not in eyeshot. I found my bus and watched Mike get on his. As our buses pulled out, he gave the thumbs-up. I never saw Mike Kimmel again.
Through the iron grill of the campus gates one could see a sea of angry twisted faces and raised fists, scuffling chaos held at bay, and I felt keenly afraid for myself for the first time in my life. As the buses waited while the Army troops tried to clear a path, our driver warned us all to keep our heads below window level -- particularly us Westerners. No sooner had he said this than we heard a crack-crack-crack, and the wrought-iron gates swung open as rioters fled in panic and the air filled with the smell of cordite. Protesters fell writhing, flung by the impact of metal on flesh as the armored car at the end of the street added teargas canisters and the brute force of automatic cannonfire to the melee. The shooting died off, but police in riot gear were clubbing those still near the opened portal, beating out a path for us. Shocks of red torn out of dead crumpled humans cut through the gray haze. A kid outside my window clutching his bloody red gut, agony writ upon his face. Anger, fear, hurt, dismay, fierce hate. Soldiers ran alongside beating on the buses and screaming in Farsi "Boro! Boro!" -- "Go! Go!" -- but the shouted orders were unneeded. My bus was already moving and then we were in the crowd, bumping and rocking and rolling over dead bodies and my pants were warm with urine and sheer terror ruled me. Looking on in mute horror, living a nightmare, I heard no more shots, but they echoed through my brain and faces full of pain were frozen frames in my mind's eye. Some of the kids were crying, but I don't think I was a kid anymore. Leastaways, I wasn't crying.
Now we wound our way through the sometimes-narrow, sometimes-broad streets of Teheran and I gazed in shock out the window, barely noticing the burning rubbish, broken windows, torn façades passing over my retinæ, scattered individuals flinging the modern world into the bonfires of ageless anger. I heard the young kid sitting next to me whimpering and crying for Mommy and we hugged each other fearfully as I gazed numbly over the windowframe at the Hell outside. Despite the driver’s previous admonition, I could not keep my head down; the scenes unfolding around us gripped my eyes mercilessly, forcing their way into me, deflowering my innocence rapaciously.
We roll up to my stop, and even here there is detritus from an earlier skirmish.
Now I'm drenched in sweat as well, and I pull off my turtleneck as I race the two blocks to the apartment compound. The guard recognizes me and has the gate open before I get there. My adrenaline is still redlined as I dash through the foyer and into the elevator, punching the button for my floor -- fourth -- perhaps six or seven times.
I was still fumbling with my keys when the door opened. I fell into her arms and started shaking and crying.
"Mom," I said, "I'm home."

That day sounded the death knell for the world I knew. Although the imposition of martial law had impinged on my life, nibbled away at the edges of a broad range of activities, and I had seen a couple of friends leave, it was only when I woke up on 6 November 1978, with the day before resonating in my head, that I realized how far out on a limb our whole existence was, and how furiously the social upheaval we were witnessing was sawing at that branch. And more than that, I knew that my inner life was over too, that I would never be the same again. It was with new eyes that I regarded the bright sunlit morning.
That morning was the beginning of our “house arrest”, as Susan and I called it; but I wasn’t much in the mood to go anywhere anyway. Someone might as well have crumpled up my world and skyhooked it into the nearest trashcan. Even if I had been of the mind to do so, there was no way my parents were going to permit me to carry on as before -- so this automatically put the kibosh on football, ripping up the town with The Expats, Farah, and school. (This last fact was brought home immediately by my sleeping in that morning). The city was strangely quiet and a thick haze hung low. It smelled of fire and gunpowder. Twice that sunny morning was the air rent by gunfire, one outburst being pretty close and lasting almost an hour, intermittently. My mom had called in to her work as well, but I didn’t want the company of her or my sister, so I retreated to the balcony outside my room and mulled things over.

After I’d gotten home the night before and told my parents what had happened, my dad and I went up to the roof. The evening was a regular Fourth of July display, with tracers carving swaths of sky and the surreal flicker of flames reflecting off’n the low clouds which had rolled in later that evening, and we watched the events unfold and intensify. The shooting got closer, appearing to come from the intersection of Saltanatabad Avenue and Old Shemiran Road, and the volume of noise increased concomitantly. Along about nine o’clock we heard but not saw some armored personnel carriers deploy not too far away, and the two tanks that had been stationed near Zafar and Mirdamad fired up their engines and wasted little time in taking up position less than four blocks from our apartment, by Old Shemiran. My dad, seeing this, had just decided that we should head downstairs when those M-60s opened up with their 105mm rifles and I heard the flanged whoosh of the shells splitting air followed by the dense crump of buildings stopping high-explosive rounds, and then Dad scooped me up and sprinted down the stairs.
“Johnnie! Jim!” I could hear my mom calling up the stairwell.
“Ruthie,” Dad called back. “We’re okay. Keep the door open.”
“What the fuck are they doing out there?” she yelled hysterically. I’d never heard Mom say the F-word before, ever, and was stunned. We got to the door and I could see her eyes wide with fear, her brown hair frizzed. Susan stood behind her, trying to look out into the stairwell at us.
We spent the rest of the evening in the bathroom. Aside from knowing (as do all natives of Tornado Alley) that the walls in your bathroom are the strongest ones in the house -- the pipes reinforce the plaster -- in this particular apartment, our bathroom was located almost exactly in the center of the building, and thus, Dad figured, was the best spot to sweat out the night, and so that’s exactly where we did it, all four of us.
Sleep escaped me for most of the night. Aside from the discomfort of trying to sleep in the bathtub while sharing it with Susan, I couldn’t dispel from my mind the memory of my schoolbus going ba-bump over those rioters like they were goddamned speedbumps. The shots I’d heard earlier had followed me home and punctuated the evening with exclamation points at random intervals, but what really haunted me through the night was the faces of the rioters I’d seen, in particular the one who’d been shot in the abdomen and was holding his guts in with one hand, staggering aimlessly on the edge of the crowd near the school gate, and he looked at me straight in the eyes. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen, and he had a lost look on his face, as if he was a little boy who couldn’t find his mom. As he staggered towards the ivy-covered brick wall around the school, he was clubbed from behind with a rifle-butt and collapsed in a heap, his pinkish-orange intestines spilling out through the gaping exit wound in his left flank. Then my bus pulled off slowly and the mob intervened -- I could see that guy no more -- but I’d seen quite enough to torment me all night. As I write this now, I am thirty-four years old, and I can still see that guy’s face in my head as clear as day, the thin mustache, the drawn cheeks, the pronounced dimple in his pointy-rounded chin, the foamy blood he was throwing up after being knocked senseless, and he was left there to die, alone in that spastic chaos.
Where was God in all of this?
That morning after, on my balcony, I figured that maybe there was no god after all. I had beheld evil, witnessed its triumphal dance, and knew that I couldn’t expunge that experience from myself, that my violation was a permanent thing I would carry with me. I didn’t trust any benevolent world anymore, and, by extension, any benevolent God who would permit this. I had spent years putting together the jigsaw puzzle, and now that was on the floor, scattered, pushed off the table by a remorseless reality where the dead were reported by the shock absorbers of the bus carrying me to the safety of a bathtub in the middle of a maelstrom.

I didn’t know when, but I knew we’d be leaving soon -- because there is no way that bullets can defeat ideals. Once spoken, ideals are like viruses that have evolved -- they do not go extinct, but hop from carrrier to carrier until they find someone susceptible. Our time here was short. I didn’t know exactly why the revolutionaries hated us westerners -- it’d be some years before I understood the complicity of our CIA in the Mossadegh Affair and the training of the SAVAK. I only knew that we didn’t belong anymore -- if ever we did -- in this land riven by anachronism. It was as if modern society, with its computers and statistics and shiny cars, was at war with some ancient tribal urge, and the present was losing out to faces with the dust of æons highlighting timeless creases.
That morning on my balcony, as the smoke from last night’s Hell caressed my thoughts, I knew that this was not home any more.
Mentally speaking, I began shutting down my overseas operations. I called Mike and Cory and Jerry and Greg, and Angus and Firoozi, and Kamyar Mehrdani, and we discussed what we’d seen at school yesterday, except for Cory and Greg, who went to Teheran American School -- my sister’s school -- which was largely unaffected. I had had to wait to use the phone, for my Mom was busy on it most of the morning, speaking to travel agents, so far as I could tell from discreet eavesdropping, and I made sure my friends knew this. The parents of my four non-Middle Eastern friends had made the same calls, apparently. After all the telephoning, I crept up to the roof to be alone. Then I returned downstairs and called Farah. It was a long phone call. Her dad was alright, but at work, and had been all night. No surprise there. She was shocked at what we’d seen, I think, although it was hard to hear that much behind her calm veneer. And then we hung up.
The afternoon sun slanted through the haze. I thought about having to leave yet another group of friends behind, and how I’d miss the girl, how I’d miss her, and I leaked a little. But that was soon done.
Our time in the sun was fast drawing to a close, and thus it was that I learned that to be an adult means to anticipate that things tomorrow will go wrong, that security is an illusion, and “goodbye” might be the only word with any real meaning anymore.
And no matter what happened to me, I could never not think again.
I could no longer be a potato.

---

[Leonardo17]

Ivan Denisovich:
 
ok
 
Nudger:
 
The remnants of the Maduran regime are said to have given their green light to American investments in the oil industry and have also started liberating political prisoners. So the Trump admiration is working with the already existing state apparatus and (probably) planning fresh election at some point in the future.
 
The Columbian president who was harsh on Trump yesterday had a phone call with him today and (seemingly) also made new agreements with the US president.
 
So something is happening there and it’s working.
 
Thumpalumpagus:
 
1) 4 hours ago some 40 or more people were killed in the protests. 2000 people were already detained. The government was raiding hospitals and the internet went out.
 
The IRI blocks internet access before releasing more fanatical Basij and other forces (including mitias they had to withdraw from Iraq, Syria and Lebanon) on its own population.
 
So whatever is happening since 4 hours now, it has to be a difficult experience for many.
 
The Shah Regime wasn’t the pretiest thing on earth either, but its their culture, it was a part of their history for the greater part of the 20th century so the Prince might and should assume a leadership during the transition from this murderous regime.
 
2) Interesting story. I am glad none of you were harmed.
 
I never lived that era. But some people in the west saw this Ali Khamenei as “The Gandhi of Iran”. And I hear that Americans couldn’t see it coming because all of them were hoping for a more “investment friendly” government in term of Iranian Oil and Gas if you see what I mean
 
But there are different levels of oppression. In that kind of Iran you could do anything you want as long as you didn’t talk politics or critisise government policies etc. I’m saying this because we’ve had some parallels to that in my country.
 
In a religious dictatorship a young woman can be killed in the middle of the street with everyone looking because of….. hair (!!!?)
 
Also: Mr Pahlavi said that he only wanted to play a transition role to either a parliamentary monarchy or a complete secular democracy with no aristocratic element in it. I don’t think he would repeat the mistakes of his father and Grandfather. 

[The Grand Nudger]

They can give all the green lights they want, the oil industry didn't ask for them and it isn't going to spend it's money on a losers bet in venezuela. There's no doubt that something is happening there, and that it's working..but I'm guessing we wouldn't agree on the what, exactly. I see two coupsters plotting. What do you see?

In a religious dictatorship a young woman can be killed in the middle of the street with everyone looking because of….. hair (!!!?)

Skin in an ethnostate.

[BrianSoddingBoru4]

Let’s forget our individual differences......

I'd rather not. Conformity was never for me.

'When you find yourself on the side of the majority, it's time to pause and reflect.' - Mark Twain

Boru

[Leonardo17]

What I am saying is that populist leaders within a democratic state like D. Trump in the US, Jair Bolsonaro in Brazil or even Belisarius in the East-Roman Empire can undertake actions with rather positive outcomes sometimes.
 
   After all, George W. Bushes (and his father’s) actions in the Middle East did ultimately end up with the End of Kaddafi, the Esat Dynasty and Saddam Hussein.
 
   European experts are very careful on these themes. They say that it may set a precedent and might send the wrong message to Russia and China.
 
   But what happened in Venezuella is actually the opposite of China and Russia. Taiwan is a rich nation with an advanced democracy and what they are rejecting is the Chinese Communist Party. Not China itself. The Taiwanese are Chinese (even their flag is the flag of The Republic of China).
 
   We all understand what’s happening in Ukraine. So Trump taking Maduro in a 1991 Manuel Noriega fashion has also nothing to do with Putin’s 5 year old “Special Operation” in with 300 – 400 thousand Russian men were killed.
 
    Marianne Williamson said that “the American mind is both Republican and Democrat at its best”.
 
   So I think that’s what happening here. Here is a report on CNN. Many Iranians abroad are saying that the world (Europeans too) should do more to make the regime in Iran collapse as soon as possible:




 
   The problem is this: If a regime has caused 6 million of its citizens to flee the country (as in Venezuela) or if it’s hiring foreign Afghan or other Middle Eastern militia groups to kill, torture and repress its own citizens how can you describe such a regime as “a sovereign nation”?
 
   So Trump is totally correct. He described Maduro as a Narco-traffic mafia boss and he treated him accordingly. Again: What’s wrong with that?
 
Having said that, do not think that I approve of everything or even most of the thing he does because I really don’t.

[Ivan Denisovich]

What I am saying is that populist leaders within a democratic state like D. Trump in the US, Jair Bolsonaro in Brazil or even Belisarius in the East-Roman Empire can undertake actions with rather positive outcomes sometimes.
 
   After all, George W. Bushes (and his father’s) actions in the Middle East did ultimately end up with the End of Kaddafi, the Esat Dynasty and Saddam Hussein.
 
   European experts are very careful on these themes. They say that it may set a precedent and might send the wrong message to Russia and China.
 
   But what happened in Venezuella is actually the opposite of China and Russia. Taiwan is a rich nation with an advanced democracy and what they are rejecting is the Chinese Communist Party. Not China itself. The Taiwanese are Chinese (even their flag is the flag of The Republic of China).
 
   We all understand what’s happening in Ukraine. So Trump taking Maduro in a 1991 Manuel Noriega fashion has also nothing to do with Putin’s 5 year old “Special Operation” in with 300 – 400 thousand Russian men were killed.
 
    Marianne Williamson said that “the American mind is both Republican and Democrat at its best”.
 
   So I think that’s what happening here. Here is a report on CNN. Many Iranians abroad are saying that the world (Europeans too) should do more to make the regime in Iran collapse as soon as possible:




 
   The problem is this: If a regime has caused 6 million of its citizens to flee the country (as in Venezuela) or if it’s hiring foreign Afghan or other Middle Eastern militia groups to kill, torture and repress its own citizens how can you describe such a regime as “a sovereign nation”?
 
   So Trump is totally correct. He described Maduro as a Narco-traffic mafia boss and he treated him accordingly. Again: What’s wrong with that?
 
Having said that, do not think that I approve of everything or even most of the thing he does because I really don’t.

You simply play dumb or does crap you spew accurately reflect your intellect?

trump have no right whatsoever to kidnap president of other state (or any other politician or random person to cover rest of possibilities). He may call Maduro mafia boss all he likes but that does not give him right to do anything. Venezuela isn't US colony where fascist in chief can do anything he likes.

What happened in Venezuela isn't exactly like what happens in Ukraine (obviously as there is no war in Venezuela) but in principle these things are similar - both are acts of imperialist aggression against sovereign states. If you don't understand it you're either imbecile or troll.

[Thumpalumpacus]

It is not right for one nation to meddle in the internal affairs of another.

[Ivan Denisovich]

It is not right for one nation to meddle in the internal affairs of another.

If only everyone there agreed on such basics. But when even likes of Germany chancellor spew some bullshit about situation around Maduro kidnapping being legally complicated then, well, perhaps it isn't so basic.