We are all against war—who isn’t? Even Donald Trump’s presidential campaign focused on being a “no-war president.” I am against war, but…

But…

But…

After this “but,” many things follow—for ordinary citizens like me, and even for those in power.

I am against war, but…

I close my eyes and imagine…

I remember Khadijeh Alipour, an ordinary Iranian citizen.

I imagine her writing on a small piece of paper—perhaps quietly, perhaps hoping no one would notice, and probably hoping that no one would ever read it.

In the cold winter, just last month—this very winter we are living through—she stepped out of her home in Karaj.

I wonder what was on her mind as she closed the door behind her, knowing it might be the last day of her life.

We do not know much about her life.

We do not know exactly what happened to her.

But we know this:

She was found dead not far from her home.

And in her pocket was that piece of paper—stained with blood, written in careful handwriting.

Let me share her last words:

“I am an Iranian, a child of the working class. If I am in the streets today, it is because of you—the official who laughs at my pain.

Today, we Iranians are putting our lives on the line to take back our rights.

We are not terrorists.

We are not rioters.

We are not puppets of foreigners.

We are proud children of the working class. We protest with honor. We have come to take our country back from the corrupt, privileged families in power.

We will stay in the streets and shout with one voice: We are Iranians.

We have roots in this soil. We will stay. We will fight. And we will die here if we must.

We are taking Iran back.

Death to the dictator.”

She did not sign her name.

She signed it simply:

“A child of Iran.”

Khadijeh’s story is important—but it is not the only one.

Thousands of people—boys and girls, students, filmmakers, teachers—have been killed in recent months.

Thousands of names.

Thousands of lives.

People who wanted nothing more than a normal life.

I close my eyes and wonder—but war, against those who kill Khadijeh, might be justified?

But not all stories are like Khadijeh’s.

Another girl, whose name is still unknown to the public—but I will call her Arezoo, a typical Iranian name meaning “wish” or “dream” in Persian—she was still in her first decade of life.

She left her house this Saturday.

She did not write a note.

She did not expect to die.

Her mother had cooked lunch, expecting her to return from school.

She never imagined that day would become the day Israel and the United States launched an attack on Iran.

In the very first hours of that surprise, illegal and unprovoked strike, her school was hit.

Arezoo—and many of her classmates—never came home.

Her lunch was left uneaten.

I close my eyes and think of Khadijeh and Arezoo.

Neither the decision-makers in Tehran, Tel Aviv, or Washington seem to count their lives as more than numbers.

They are—

We are—statistics to them.

I was in Iran last year during a previous attack.

I could have been killed.

I could have become a number.

The same could have happened if I had been in the streets last month.

Iranians want something very simple: a normal life.

But even that has been taken from them.

For more than a century—since 1905—Iranians have been fighting for the rule of law and democracy.

Different generations. Different movements. Different visions. But one shared mission:

To live in a country with dignity and honor.

No—I open my eyes and think: experiencing the brutality of the Iranian regime cannot make me less anti-war and make me justify war and killing of yet another innocent civilians.

We must fight against dictatorship in Iran, just as we stand against war.

No—

I am not naïve.

I do not believe bombs create democracy.

I do not believe bombs plant freedom—neither for Khadijeh nor for Arezoo.

We have studied our own history.

We remember how foreign powers overthrew our elected government in 1953 and replaced it with dictatorship.

We have seen foreign interventions in our region.

We know the cost.

And we also know the cost of internal repression.

As I speak, I do not know which city is being bombed or who is being prepared for execution.

I only know that somewhere, another mother is waiting for a child who may never return.

For more than a century, Iranians have fought for law, dignity, and self-determination.

Empires have come and gone.

Dictators have risen and fallen.

But the desire for freedom has not disappeared.

It is older than any government.

It is stronger than any bomb.

And long after those in power in Tehran, Tel Aviv, or Washington are gone—

long after today’s calculations of force are forgotten—

the names of people like Khadijeh and Arezoo will remain.

Because the struggle for dignity in Iran is not written by bombs.

It is written by its people.

And it will outlive them all.

So I open my eyes and say it clearly and loudly:

No to war.

No to foreign interventions.

And definitely, Free Iran. Free all political prisons in Iran, no to war, and yes to democracy.