June
12, 2003, 9:00 a.m.
“The Burnt Generation”
The dreams of
Iranian youth.
By Koorosh
Afshar
am an Iranian youth. Like many of my friends, I am also a student. Shortly
after the 9/11 terrorist attacks, I read an article that has stuck in
my mind ever since. Its message was simple: "Nowhere in today's world
can we live happy lives while at the same time, in another part of it,
reactionary, militant despots plot and plan against humanity and civility
from their dens…"
When my peers
and I gather for our regular underground meetings, we often discuss that
article. It helps to remember it as we plan our next moves against the 24-year-long
plague that has hit our homeland, the land of the Persians.
The article did not strike me because I suddenly lost my own security after
9/11. We had no security to lose. My generation in Iran has never known
security or, for that matter, real happiness.
Many of my peers have been lost to the Islamic Republic's dens of torture
or solitary confinement. But, as cruel as 9/11 had been for the world, it
gave me hope that the tragedy in New York and Washington would mark the
beginning of many changes. I sensed that the world would finally seek to
cure the illness, rather than merely treating the symptoms of a disease
we, in Iran, know all too well: clerical fundamentalism and militancy.
But even as we Iranians push against our regime, we wish to share with you
our story, in hopes of arousing in you an urge to lend moral support to
our desire to end the mullahs' regime. Clerical militancy has not only brought
upon us the wrath of the Western world, but has also led to desperation
for the many Iranians suffering under the Islamic Republic.
My generation of Iranians — and there are some 32 million of us —
were born just before or shortly after the 1979 Islamic Revolution. I have
heard that in America, our peers are known as "Generation X."
But in Iran, we are called the "burnt generation."
We started our political lives early. As tiny children in kindergarten,
we learned to march and beat our fists, shouting: "Down with America!"
"Down with Israel!" (or from time to time, depending on the politics
of the day, Britain or Russia). No one ever bothered telling us anything
about why we were supposed to harbor such ill-will towards the "satan-of-the-day."
Years before the world cared about Saddam, we got to know him all too well.
As children we sought refuge in our mothers' arms as his artillery and missiles
rained down on our homes, day and night, for months on end.
My peers all have stories about that eight-year nightmare. We lost fathers,
brothers, arms and legs, cities, villages. And above all, my generation
lost its innocence, to what, at the end, became the mullahs' war of political
convenience.
After the New York tragedy, I remember helplessly crying when I read one
day, on the Internet, about how careful Americans were to protect their
children from emotional scars. Your government experts and teachers recommended
that parents reinforce their love for children and keep their little ones
from watching television.
When we had our tragedies, our leaders — whether "reformer"
or "hardliner" — sought to fill our streets with hysterical
mobs carrying coffins on their shoulders and chanting war slogans. This
we saw live every day, in our streets and on television, for eight long
years.
Can you imagine the "emotional scars" on a 6-year-old seeing the
burnt skeleton of his father, his weeping mother by its side?
I can. I am that child.
My family's "sacrifice" on behalf of the mullahs' "holy war"
is supposed to bring me and many thousands like me certain entitlements
— such as food coupons, guaranteed university admittance, and employment.
At first, we did receive special pensions. But today, there is little left
for those who made the ultimate sacrifice for their homeland.
The "Foundation
of the Oppressed" charged with protecting our interests has become
a multibillion-dollar fiefdom for Tehran's Islamist thieves. Only the
well-fed children and siblings of the clerical elite benefit now. They
retain absolute control over every imaginable moneymaking venture in Iran.
From pistachios and satellite dishes to opium and oil, anything that makes
money is divvied up among the mullahs. Mr. Rafsanjani and his children
can tell you. They lead the list of our Islamist thieves.
Today, however, despite our despair, we have found hope. Hope among ourselves.
Hope in our numbers. Hope in the fact that world seems to finally be caring.
Hope in the fact that we may at last have a chance against the mullahs'
rule.
Yet, we are nervous. Nervous of the endless debate among your opinion-makers:
Shall we, or shall we not listen to the Iranian people? Is their discontent
real or is it not? Should we engage moderate Islamists or should we not?
Axis or no Axis?
Listen to our story. It is the story of life. It is the story of liberty.
It is the story of the unalienable right to pursue happiness. It is the
dream that made America, America. We have been deprived of the very basic
rights which you take for granted every day in your free world.
We, too, want and deserve the freedom to dress. The freedom to speak.
The freedom to assemble. The freedom to love and the freedom to dream.
We do not need military intervention in Iran. We do not need clandestine
operations either. We need nothing but your resolve. Lend us a hand and
we will take care of the rest. How, you ask? Simple: Do not deal with
our mullahs.
It isn't only America's children that deserve to dream.
— Koorosh Afshar is a pseudonym for a student
in Tehran. His name has been changed for his protection.
<% dim printurl
printurl = Request.ServerVariables("URL")%>
am an Iranian youth. Like many of my friends, I am also a student. Shortly
after the 9/11 terrorist attacks, I read an article that has stuck in
my mind ever since. Its message was simple: "Nowhere in today's world
can we live happy lives while at the same time, in another part of it,
reactionary, militant despots plot and plan against humanity and civility
from their dens…"
