Hello and welcome. My name is Reza Sanjideh and this is another episode of Philosophy of Life. Today's episode is called Indoctrinated, a word that traces back to the Persian terms talagin, a concept that lives somewhere between instruction and and imposition between teaching and programming. It's an exploration of the beliefs we never chose, the ones handed to us before we even knew we had a mind of our own. And I want to begin with a story from a book three of Romi Masnavi, a beautiful poem about a very, very kind of experience He recited over 750 years ago, and yet somehow still speak to the moment we are living in today. Here's how it begins. In a dusty corner of a madrasa, an old schoolhouse, children once sat in perfect rows, silent and obedient. They weren't learning. They were being molded. It begins not with enlightenment, but with repetition. In a dusty schoolroom, quiet and gray, children sat still as though carved from clay, not learning but repeating again and again, words without meaning, knowledge without flame. Then one day the teacher faltered, fell, and silence broke with a questioning swell. What if truth is not taught but found? What if wisdom need doubt? to resound. I must say that poetry in the Persian language has a distinct sound. Although I am not in a position to assess the quality of the translation, there is no doubt that translating poetry is a challenging task. Still Rumi's original Persian poems are quite exceptional. Indoctrination doesn't wear a uniform. It doesn't knock on the door and announce itself. It arrives quietly, in bedtime stories, in classrooms, in prayers whispered over our heads while we're still in the crib. It begins with love, and that's what makes it so hard to question. A child is born with open eyes, open hands, but not with a worldview. That gets built by those around them. Parents, teachers, television, religion, nationalism, all pour into the cup before the child knows how to hold it. And the child drinks, not out of faith, not out of logic, but because they must, because they trust. Indoctrination hides inside that trust. It speaks in the language of, this is for your own good. And it's not always malicious. Most of the time it's inherited, passed down like a family heirloom. This is who we are. This is what we believe. This is how the world works. These phrases build identity, but they also build walls. Rumi's classroom is a symbol. The students who repeat and obey without understanding, that's us before we wake up. And the teacher who falters, that's the crack in the system. The first doubt. The moment something doesn't add up. when the story we've been told starts to sound off. It could be a small thing, a question in school, a contradiction in scripture, a moment when we realize that our beliefs are identical to our geography, that if we were born elsewhere, we might believe the opposite. That's when indoctrination begins to lift, not because it's removed, but because we see it. Indoctrination isn't always loud. Sometimes it came through stories. And when I was growing up, those stories were part of everyday life. Stories about God. Stories from history books. How kings ruled Iran. How empires rose and fell. The teachings of Rumi. These weren't just bedtime stories. They were blueprints. Blueprints for belief. For identity. For obedience. These stories taught us what to think long before we knew how to think. But today, we don't live inside those stories anymore. We live inside screens. WhatsApp, Instagram, TikTok, Facebook, Twitter. We scroll and scroll. And somewhere in that scroll, we've lost the rhythm of deep memory. The small window to reflection, to culture, to meaning is closing. And if we don't act, it might close for good. So maybe it's on us now to bring the stories back, not to control, but to awaken. We need Rooney again, Omar Khayyam, Abbas Sana, not to repeat them blindly, but to revive their spirit, their questions, their humanity. Because at the end of the day, we may have different religions, different languages, different skin and stories, but we are all sons and daughters of this earth. And if we want to survive, if we want to understand each other, We need stories that don't divide us, but remind us who we really are. Not just followers, not just consumers, but humans. Let me tell you the full story Rumi shared in his poem, Talghin. Indoctrination. A school teacher, healthy, content, and strong, walks into class as he always does. It's an ordinary morning, but something strange happens. One by one, his students come to him. Not all at once, but spaced apart, like a ritual, as if time itself were conspiring. Master, are you feeling alright today? You look pale. The color of your face is faded. Are you sick? The teacher brushes it off. But the words keep coming, again and again. 30 students all planting the same seed. And that seed begins to grow. The teacher's posture weakens. His steps slow. His confidence fades. By the end of the day, he believes he is sick. He leaves early, dragging his feet like a man already halfway to his grave. And when he arrives home, His wife is alarmed. What happened to you? You left this morning full of life. But instead of clarity, he blames her. Why didn't you say something? You saw me this way and let me go out without a word? The next day, friends and neighbors visit. They remember seeing him healthy just yesterday. But the teacher tells them, The students saw something in me, and I didn't see it. Now I do, and I feel worse every day. This is the quiet horror of indoctrination. It turns suggestion into self-perception. A healthy mind convinced it is sick. A free person convinced they are bound. Not through violence, but through repetition. This is how control works in the softest, most dangerous form. Indoctrination doesn't need force. It needs only authority and time. Doubt is not a failure. It's a door. For those indoctrinated, that first doubt feels like betrayal, like you're dishonoring your parents, your faith, your country, your culture. But in truth, it's the beginning of freedom. Indoctrination teaches obedience, but philosophy teaches inquiry. And the moment you begin to question, the spell begins to crack. How about, for many of us, the cost of unlearning is high? You don't just lose ideas, you lose belonging. You risk being called rebellious, ungrateful, a traitor. In some cultures, questioning is confused with corruption. You're told, don't ask too much, don't think too deeply. But Rumi, like Socrates, like Buddha, like Jesus, all asked too much, all thought too deeply, all disturbed the comfort of certainty. And they were punished for it. But what they discovered was a deeper kind of knowing. A knowing that doesn't need to dominate others. A knowing that can hold contradiction. That can evolve. That kind of wisdom can be indoctrinated. It must be lived. It requires silence and solitude and courage. The courage to say, maybe I was wrong. The strength to ask, what else have I believed wrong? We begin our lives repeating others, but we are meant to discover ourselves. In the next part, we'll explore that discovery, how to rebuild what was broken, and how to choose belief over inheritance. Why you stay in prison when the door is so wide open? Rumi The prison is built from borrowed beliefs, from fears inherited, from truths untested, from rules we never agreed to. But the door is always there. The door is awareness, not rebellion for the sake of pride, but inquiry for the sake of truth. Leo Tolstoy the great Russian writer who gave us war and peace, has everything a man could want. Fame, wealth, family. And yet, in his 50s, he fell into the spiritual collapse so deep, he locked away his own hunting rifle. Fear he would use it on himself. He wrote, I felt that something had broken inside. within me on which my life had always rested. I could not call up in myself a single desire. I had no answers. That's the moment the spell broke. He realized he had inherited a life, not created one. And so he began again, from silence, from simplicity, from faith that wasn't handed down, but chosen. He didn't find certainty, but he found peace. And then, there's Nietzsche. Born into the house of a devout Lutheran pastor, he was expected to carry on the torch of tradition. Instead, he shattered it. God is dead, and we have killed him. That wasn't mockery. It was grief. Nietzsche mourned the way belief had become hollow, automated, deadened by ritual. He wanted something real. something that could survive pain, contradiction, and chaos. He said, They build something their own, and so can you. To reclaim your mind, you don't need to know all the answers. You just need to stop pretending you already do. That's where it starts. One honest question, one painful realization, one moment when you say, this idea lives in me, but it is not mine. When indoctrination phase was left is often silence, and that silence can feel terrifying, because for the first time you must choose what to believe, not because it's safe, not because it's familiar, but because it feels true, even if it's still unfolding. That's what it means to be free, not certain, not untouchable, but awake, awake enough to ask, what kind of life do I want to live? Who would I be without their voice in my head. Rumi once said, Try to learn who you really are. What kind of person are you? Know your own essence. That is the work of a lifetime. And maybe that is what freedom actually is. Not doing whatever you want, but becoming someone you trust. Someone who questions boldly and chooses gently.

Thank

you for joining me. My name is Reza Sanjide and this has been another episode of Philosophy of Life. Today, we explored the quiet power of indoctrination. How ideas passed down without question can shape our lives more than we realize. But we also remembered the stories. the stories that wake us up, that help us trace the path back to ourselves. These stories from Rumi, from our ancestors, from our childhood, hold the keys to real freedom. They remind us how we became human. They carry precious truths about our existence, not to trap us, but to teach us how to discover entire worlds inside ourselves. And that's how I want to end this episode with the belief that if we bring those stories back to life, we just might learn how to live more deeply, more honestly, and more free. Until next time, stay awake, stay questioning, and stay free.