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Screams of a mother

I hear the excruciating screams of a mother, whose young son was hanged publicly for wanting to live in a free Iran; I swipe through Instagram, seeing his athletic body climbing up a rope, then the news of his public hanging, and then the dirt over his grave.


They say his mother visited him in prison the day before, and was told he’ll be released. She woke up the next day, and had to rush to the graveyard, where his lifeless body was being buried.


I don’t know her, but I’m sure she would tickle him when he was a toddler, would make him eat everything on his plate, get worried with every single fever, and make sure he had a scarf around his neck when he went out to play in the cold. She would cheer for him at every single wrestling match, whether he won or lost. She had dreams for him, wanted him to find love, become the world champion, experience the joy of becoming a parent, and grow old. All that is gone, flashing before her eyes in a quick second. She will never hear his voice, calling her “Maman”. She will never get over this, life will never be the same, this wound will never heal.


This is the most premeditated form of murder. To put a rope around a person’s neck and to let them suffocate is the most hideous way of silencing a human being. But it is also in vain. A mother who has lost her son will scream louder than any man ever could. She will never forget, and she will never forgive.

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