From a Forty-Seven-Year Night to the Dawn of Freedom

The night beats its drum against the bones of this land.

We stand like a rusted coin balanced on the edge of the sky, looking down at a country that has spent forty-seven autumns tasting lead and sorrow.

Here, calendars are made of ash. Every page bears a name. Every season is a grave. Every year is a mother who still leaves the porch light on—perhaps waiting for someone to come home, perhaps for a child who has not returned in years to suddenly appear at the end of the street.

For forty-seven autumns, the wind has crossed these plains, carrying with it the scent of burned hair and broken songs.

For forty-seven winters, the Karun River has lain thirsty, while the Zayandeh-Rud has wrapped itself in a white shroud of salt.

For forty-seven years, young lives in this country have been cut short before they had the chance to bloom—split open like unripe pomegranates against the stones of a thirsty land.

And mothers—mothers dressed in black—have carried their suns in their arms and walked quietly toward the cemetery.

Without screaming.

Without celebration.

Sometimes without even tears.

Because some griefs are so immense that even tears kneel before them.

Here, smiles have withered at the corners of mouths. Songs have died before reaching the lips.

Fear has galloped through the streets night after night like a black horse, pounding its iron hooves against the doors of homes.

But more terrifying than the night was the dawn.

A dawn that for years has opened its mouth with the taste of iron and dust.

In this wounded geography, morning is no longer necessarily a sign of awakening.

Sometimes the sound of morning is the countdown to the rope—a sound spreading through the gray light before sunrise, announcing that somewhere behind high walls, bound hands are leading another human being toward a cold platform.

Ropes swing in the mist.

Hungry snakes that, for decades, have searched for the most beautiful necks in this land.

In this geography, dawn has long been another name for the execution ground.

Morning is that cold moment when a courageous bird looks at the sky for the last time, while the executioner imagines that by silencing one voice, he has silenced the entire song.

But the executioner knows nothing about songs.

He does not understand that a voice once silenced may return through a thousand throats.

He does not understand that a body carried to the gallows does not necessarily disappear into the earth.

Sometimes it becomes a root.

And from every root, one day, a forest will rise—a forest no axe and no rope will ever be able to silence.

But the question remains:

How long?

How long must we stare at the ruins?

How long must we sit in dark chambers, mourning the dead while forgetting that we ourselves are still alive?

When mourning ends in silence, it is no longer mourning.

It becomes a silent pact with the blade and the rope.

We do not want another hero to bury.

We want young people to live.

To laugh.

To fall in love.

To dance.

To see the dawn not beneath a gallows, but through the window of their own home.

That is why we must stand.

Not for death.

For life.

Not to add another grave, but to make sure that no mother ever again carries her sun to the cemetery wrapped in black.

We must stand beside one another.

We must speak the names of those who were meant to be forgotten.

We must break the silence.

We must keep alive the lights in the homes that darkness wants to extinguish, one by one.

Because fear becomes a monster only when we are scattered.

And that same monster trembles when my hand reaches yours.

Freedom is not a tame creature that kneels at the door of power and begs for permission.

It is not charity tossed from someone else’s table.

Freedom is not given as a gift.

Freedom is won by putting fear aside, by giving up the false comfort of silence, and by standing together.

Freedom has a price.

But the price of freedom is not the worship of death.

It is the choice of life.

To stay alive.

To refuse silence.