Humans of New York

(37/54) “The meeting was held in the office of the former speaker of parliament. He’d been executed four weeks earlier. It was an office I’d been to many times before. But everything beautiful had been removed: the paintings, the carpets, the furniture. In the center of the room was a single table, and at its head sat one of the leaders of the Revolutionary Council. It was the body ultimately responsible for deciding the fate of the regime’s enemies. My colleague groveled. He read a prepared statement. He thanked the man for his wisdom. He thanked him for allowing us to keep our salaries. Then when he finished his remarks, he motioned to me and said: ‘My colleague would like to say something.’ I was caught by surprise. I had nothing prepared. I could have just thanked the man. But when an injustice has been committed, I must speak. It’s part of my code. It’s something I hold as dear as my own spirit. Because if we don’t live our ideals—then they don’t exist. 𝘋𝘢𝘢𝘥. 𝘕𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘪. 𝘙𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘪. Justice, Goodness, Truth. They depend on us. We are the ones who must make them real. They only exist when we are living them. Truth is not some abstract concept. Truth is something you say. Truth is something you do. No matter how great the fear, you must follow your code. You must stay true to your ideals. Because if you do not, that fear will stay with you. It will break you. Every day it will remind you: you weren’t who you thought you were. And I’m not ready to lose the rest of my life to a single moment. There was a burnt match lying on the floor next to my foot. I picked it up off the ground. I looked the man in the eye, and I told him: ‘Maybe you should be thanking us, for not allowing this injustice.’ Then I held the burnt match in front of my face. ‘Even if you’d asked,’ I told him. ‘I wouldn’t have given you this burnt match.’”

(19/54) “It has always been my philosophy: wherever I am, I try to make the most of the responsibilities I am given. Managing a factory was not my ideal position. I had hoped to find a place where I could have more of a national impact. But I tried my best to improve the lives of the people nearest to me. I continued to hold meetings with the workers. I studied employment practices from all over the world, and drafted a policy of worker’s rights. It was very progressive for the time. But when I presented the document to the Department of Labor— it was approved for the entire factory. Five thousand lives were made better. In 1975 the king made an announcement that he was dissolving all political parties and combining them into one. He claimed that it was an attempt at unity, but it was abhorrent to me. A country cannot be ruled by a single voice. In the next election I decided to return to Nahavand and run for parliament as my own man. Mitra was against it. She told me that I was too honest for politics, too naive. She said: ‘Even if you win. You’re a single voice. The rest of the parliament will still be controlled by the king.’ Even my father didn’t want me to run. He didn’t think I stood a chance, and he didn’t want to see me get my heart broken. The king had to approve all candidates, and he’d chosen two of his closest allies as my opponents. One of them played volleyball with the king and empress. The other was Undersecretary of Education for the entire country. He was so confident of his victory that he’d already resigned from his previous position. After I announced my candidacy, he paid me a visit. He told me: ‘I want you to know. Everyone in government is supporting me. And this position has been promised to me.’ I told him: ‘I’m very happy for you. I have no intention of winning. But I am going to say what I have to say.”