شہ رَگ Tehran Burning: Elegy for a City of Poets and Dreams

Trump orders evacuation—over 10 million souls expected to scatter, to vanish overnight as Israel, that apartheid and terrorist state, unleashes war upon Iran. The audacity is staggering, grotesque. The sheer arrogance, the casual cruelty of demanding immediate evacuation from a city pulsing with life—Tehran, city of poets, scholars, dreamers, and revolutionaries.

Beirut, Damascus, Baghdad, Kabul—they have already destroyed some of the most ancient Muslim cities, an unspeakable loss of history, heritage, culture, and identity. And now, they seek to do the same to Tehran. Although I have never met you, my soul knows you; I am profoundly connected to you.

I write from Chitral, its soil embedded deep with fragments of Persian heritage, whispers of ancient empires, echoes of a language so rich it sings. Here, far yet profoundly connected, my heart trembles—heavy, restless, burning in rage. Numbness battles shock within me; my blood boils, anger sears through every vein.

Iran, a land illuminated by millennia of sophistication, elegance, and profound wisdom. A land that houses fires of Zoroastrian temples and echoes prayers from minarets. Iran, keeper of eternal verses from Saadi, Rumi, Hafez, poets who spoke endlessly of love. And now, their timeless lines are stained by the spilling of innocent blood.

In 2018, I first tasted Farsi—each word, each phrase revealing hidden worlds, captivating my soul. Persian wasn't just a language; it became an intimate confession; a promise whispered deep into my heart. My nephew, Ebrahim, once innocently asked me, "Aboo Jee, when will you visit Iran?" I replied softly, "Beloved, I fear falling so deeply in love, I may never return."

We imagined turning the pages of Ferdowsi’s Shahnameh endlessly, lost in the valour of Rustum and the tragedy of Sohrab. I dreamed of Tehran's dusk, classical Persian melodies drifting through open windows of a modest apartment, my refuge for a year as I mastered the language of poets. But dreams are fragile—they shatter easily, and I accept this.

Yet, it is not dreams but humanity’s failure that sickens me to my core. My stomach churns with disgust at the betrayal of a world indifferent to atrocities, complacent as blood pools in Tehran’s ancient streets. Iran’s courage, its unyielding stance against Western hegemony, has always inspired me profoundly. Now, witnessing another chapter of inflicted suffering, my rage deepens, my sorrow boundless.

I will neither forget nor forgive this crime against humanity. Western complicity, the relentless torment imposed upon Muslims, paralyses me, wounds fresh atop scars never healed.

My nephew's question returns, innocent yet piercing:

"When will you visit Iran, Aboo Jee?"

In silence, I wonder, how do I explain to him the depths of this heartbreak?