بغل کننده ملت⁷ 🫂

Remember, remember, the fifth of November? No. I remember December. I remember January. The massacre. The courage. The treason. And I see no reason why such treason should ever be forgot. Remember the honour of men and women who had been given every reason to abandon it. The hatred they refused to inherit. The greed they refused to imitate. The gluttony that fed upon their poverty, and the wrath that met their empty hands when they stood before the terrorist Islamic Regime occupying Iran and demanded their country back. Remember Abdanan, where people plagued by poverty threw the enemy’s rice over their heads and danced beneath it. They needed that food. They wanted their freedom more. What a magnificent inconvenience for a tyrant: a people he could impoverish, yet could not purchase. Remember the beautiful souls who went into those streets knowing they might never come home. Remember how much they wanted to come home. There were lives to be lived, people to be loved, ordinary tomorrows worth surviving for. My generation wanted the chance to grow old in a free country. Remember the children who lost their parents, and the parents condemned to outlive their children. The friends who lost their friends. The lovers left with all that love and no one to give it to. Remember the despair in Sepehr’s father’s voice as he searched for his son among the dead. Try, if you can, to hold that sound beside every comfortable explanation of what happened to us. And remember Kahrizak. The black covers. The numbers. The wandering families. A number upon a cover. Somebody’s whole world beneath it. Remember that those people had carried the possibility of a free Iran into the streets. And therein lies the tyrant’s predicament: he can fill a morgue with people who wanted freedom, yet must still face a country that wants it. Remember our hope. Remember our despair. Remember the neighbours who opened their doors under gunfire, giving others somewhere to run. Remember that we fought unarmed and defenceless while the world watched. Remember the promises of help, and the help that never came. Let history record the hands that pulled the triggers, the hands that opened those doors, and the hands that remained folded. We owe the dead our loyalty to the truth. We owe the living a history their murderers cannot revise. And when you speak of Iran’s legends, do not close the book at the Shahnameh. I have seen them in our streets. I have seen their honour in the midst of hunger. I have seen their courage with nothing to shelter it. I have heard their names in the voices of parents searching for their children. Some were taken from us. We will carry their names. But my people are still alive. Wounded. Grieving. Exhausted. Alive. Remember that, too. For we remember what was taken from us. We remember whose country this is. And we will reclaim what is ours.