Sent to you by moya via Google Reader:
on sunday afternoon in a taxi, we drove by men, tied up, being beaten by men with sticks on the side of the road. i look, but cant see. my mouth hangs open, the car window is closed. cars drive by.
this too is the revolution.
i dont know if the men on the ground were looters, or some of the 12,000 escaped criminals from the prisons, or innocents in the wrong place at the wrong time. i dont know what the process was to determine their punishment or what happened to them afterward.
i dont know who the men were who were doing the beating.
i dont know.