Death.

Reading Lolita In Tehran, by Azar Nafisi.

Excerpts from  Part III, Chapter 33.

"Less than an year after the peace, on Saturday  June 3, 1989, Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini died. His death was not officially announced until the next morning at seven a.m.,... thousands had gathered outside his house on the outskirts of Tehran...

...I remember the morning we heard the news of Khomeini's death. The entire family had gathered in the living room, lingering in the state of dull shock and bewilderment that death always brings with it. And this was no ordinary death. The radio announcer had broken down and sobbed. This would be the way with every public figure from then on, whether they appeared in mourning ceremonies or were interviewed individually; weeping seemed to be a requirement, as if there was no other way of expressing the magnitude of our grief.

It gave us all a feeling of unity and closeness to be sitting in the living room, with the inevitable smell of coffee and tea, speculating about the death: desired by many, feared by many, expected by many and, now that it had occurred, oddly anti-climatic to both friends and foes... I always associate Khomeini's death with Negar's simple pronouncement- for she was right: the day women did not wear the scarf in public would be the real day of his death and the end of his revolution. Until then, we would continue to live with him.

The government announced five days of national mourning and forty days of official mourning. Classes were cancelled and universities shut... Everything felt blurry, like a mirage in intense heat. The blur remained with me throughout that day and all those days of mourning, when we spent most of our time by the television watching the funeral and the endless ceremonies...In death, there was a need to humanize him, an act he had opposed during his life...

... but I remember feelings and images. Like bothersome dreams, images from those days mix with sounds in my memory as they did in reality: the announcer's shrill and exaggerated voice, always on the verge of breaking, the mourning marches, the prayers, the messages from high-ranking officials and the chanting mourners, drowning all other sounds: 'Today is the day of mourning! Khomeini, the breaker of idols, is with God.'

...The events of the frenetic day come to me in fragments. The glass coffin I remember well, and the flowers arranged in the container were gladiolas. I also remember the swarm of mourners-it was reported that hundreds of thousands had began to pour into Tehran, a black-clad army waving black flags, the men tearing their shirts, beating their chests, the women in their black chadors wailing and moaning, their bodies writhing in ecstatic grief...

When I heard that many had died that day and that tens of thousands were injured, I asked myself stupidly what sort of status these dead would be given. We gave people more rank and more space in death than in life. Opponents of the regime and the Baha'is had no status, they were denied headstones and were thrown into common graves. Then there the martyrs of war and revolution, each of whom had his own special space at the graveyard, with artificial flowers and photographs to mark the grave. Could these people be ranked as martyrs? Would they be granted a place in heaven?...

The government had set aside huge supplies of food and drink for the mourners. Alongside the frenzy of beating chests and fainting and chanting, rows upon rows of mourners were to be seen on the roadside, eating their sandwiches and drinking their soft drinks as if they were out on a holiday picnic. many who actively disliked Khomeini in his lifetime attended the funeral... I remember talking to a middle-aged man on the staff at the university, who lived in the poorer, more traditional part of the town. He described the busloads of neighbors, disenchanted with Khomeini and his revolution, who had gone nonetheless, like him, to the funeral. I asked him why he went. Was he forced to go?  No, but it seemed the thing to do. Everyone was going - how would it look if he didn't? He paused and then added, After all, an event like this happens only once in a lifetime, doesn't it?
... The Government in a move to turn Khomeini into a sacred figure, tried to create a shrine for him close to the Behesht-e Zahra cemetery. It was hastily built, without taste or beauty: a country famous for some of the most beautiful mosques in the world now created the gaudiest shrine to this last imam. The monument was built close to the burial place of the martyrs of the revolution: a small fountain gushed sprays of red water, symbolizing the everlasting blood of the martyrs.
... At the start of the revolution a rumor had taken route that Khomeini's image could be seen in the moon. Many people, even perfectly modern and educated individuals, came to believe this. They had seen him in the moon. He had been a conscious myth-maker, and he had turned himself into a myth. What they mourned after a well-timed death - for after the defeat in the war and the disenchantment, all he could do was die - was the death of a dream. Like all great myth-makers, he had tried to fashion reality out of his dream, and in the end, like Humbert, he had managed to destroy both reality and his dreams. Added to the crimes, to the murders and tortures, we would now face this last indignity - the murder of our dreams. Yet he had done this with our full compliance, our complete assent and complicity."

Bal Thackeray died. Ajmal Kasab died (rather, was killed).
Or did they really?

I HAD to post this.