I
spent days trying to write a text about the situation in the world. I realized, as I reread what I had written, that I hadn't written anything about what I felt. As if I were hiding from the depression of these past three years. Yet sharing what I feel is what I have always been about.
Three years and four months ago, with the revolutionary uprising after the death of Mahsa Amini, I tried so hard to translate emotions, to break down cultural barriers. To make people remember that we are still human beings, even if we live under the Islamic regime. Mothers. Brothers. Daughters. We listen to the same music, wear the same clothes under the Islamic uniform, and we sing and dance.
At the end of 2022, I was spending day and night, all alone, searching for videos and translating them. Translating the tears, the screams and rage into the language of the heart, the one with which all humans can still connect. I was trying to be a bridge between the Western world and the tragedy that was happening in Iran.
A tragedy that has lasted since well before the beginning of the Islamic Revolution. Maybe thousands of years before. A tragedy in which Iran and its people are betrayed by their own leaders. Over and over again.
