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  • Anonymous

The sun after a long dark night

I wake up, check my social media about the news on Iran, I brush my teeth while watching the violent video of police hitting the protestors,

I strap my daughter in her car seat, to take her to daycare, thinking about the mother who was shot in her car, in front of her seven year old child in the back seat;

I try to call my parents back in Iran with no internet connection while driving to work. I round and see patients…. I feel alone,

I get home, watch more terrible videos on my phone and cry as my 2.5 year old is playing with her Legos. She kisses me and says “mommy why are you sad”,

I don't tell her that it's because I am looking at the picture of an 8-year-old who was shot on her way to school. I just hug her tightly

This all seems so raw, like a nasty wound that had not healed, was just covered with a bandaid. A nasty wound that is now open, and I’m pouring acid into it.

I see schoolgirls, wearing the exact same gray uniform that I hated so deeply as a kid, bringing down the picture of the supreme leader which is above every blackboard in every school in the country.

I see my classmates getting killed in my university, the same spot we would go to eat, chat, and study before an exam.

I see the police that is supposed to protect people, assaulting, and shooting them in broad daylight.

I see people being arrested for speaking up, and their families are then called to come pick up their lifeless bodies; and that is if they are even lucky enough to get to see their loved ones one last time.

My dad wasn’t, he only got his brother’s belongings. A medical student killed 40 years ago by the same regime. He was fighting for the same values.

Then just before I fall asleep, I start looking at my phone from a different perspective,

This time I see a picture of bravery, a picture of unity, a picture of women leading,

a picture of men fighting alongside them, a picture of every single Iranian in the world coming to the streets to demonstrate their support.

My eyes fill up with tears, but these are not tears of sadness or grief or loss,

These are tears of feeling proud, proud to be an Iranian.

Tears of seeing hope, seeing the sun after a long dark night.

I wish I could tell my uncle that your sacrifice was not in vain, that we’ll keep fighting for equal rights, life, and freedom; it is not a dream anymore, we are making it a reality this time;

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