Some friendship leaves an imprint so deep that time, distance, and even fear can't erase it. This is one of those stories. It is stories about loyalty and conviction. It's about growing up in a time when politics wasn't distance debate, but a force that could decide whether you leave or die. We were young, but the world around us was already dangerous. Our lives were shaped by the currents of history, revolutions, wars, and the clash of ideas that could turn neighbors into enemies overnight. Looking back now, I realize we weren't just witnessing history. We were caught in its machinery. Hi, this is Rizwa Sanjide and welcome to another episode of Philosophy of Life. Today's story is about remembering a friend who I lost many years ago. A friend who tried to build a culture of trust and solidarity, only to take before we could see what he might have become. This is not a fiction. This is his story, the story of Qasim. It was the 1970s. Saddam Hussein had just taken control of Iraq's government through a coup, backed in part by the CIA. Soon after, the regime began expelling Iranians who had been living in Iraq for hundreds of years. They were stripped of their homes, wealth, and belongings and forced to leave the country. This happened twice within a seven to eight year period. During the first wave of expulsions under Saddam Hussein, families of Iranian origin were forced to leave Iraq with nothing. That's when my friend Qasem, I will not reveal his last name, for reasons I will explain later, arrived in Iran with his five brothers and one sister. His father had been a successful merchant in Iraq, but in a single move by Saddam, they had to abandon everything and come to Iran with little more than the clothes on their backs. For a while, there stayed intensity. Later, with the help of Iranian government, they were able to rent a small apartment in our neighborhood, Hassanabad. Hassanabad was one of Tehran's oldest districts, known for its famous seven-corner roundabout, which, strangely enough, has eight corners until one was demolished to build a branch of Bangamelli. My own family has just moved in nearby from Shahpur to Hassanabad. My father's business was in Tuhane, where he has worked almost all his life. Hassanabad wasn't a great neighborhood, but it was where life had placed us. Qasim and his family all worked hard to help his father rent a tiny shop in the Tehran's Badar. With his father's experience as a merchant, they began to rebuild their lives. This happened relatively quickly, and at the time, Iran's economy was growing at a fast pace. Soon, they bought a large house right on our street. It was a big house, but because two families were renting the second and third floors, they were able to get it at a lower price. Still, it felt grand. I was shy, only 15 years old, when one day, Qasem, two years older than me, simply said, hello. That one word, friendship, I would never forgot. We became friends in an extraordinary time. 1977, just two years before the Iranian revolution. Back then, we couldn't have imagined what was coming. The government controlled everything. Newspapers, television, radio, even the way people spoke. You could barely breathe under the weight of it. Oppression was everywhere. In workplaces, universities, and high schools. I had just started attending school in the middle of Tehran's Balar, a place alive with whispers and hidden ideas. That's where I first heard of Dr. Ali Chayati whose lecture and books were secretly recorded on the tape and in the bazaar those tapes were quickly passed from hand to hand. Life in 1977 felt like a pot about To boil over. On the surface, everything looked normal. Shops opened, people went to work, students went to school. But underneath, there was tension. You could see it in the faces of shopkeepers in the bazaar. In the cautious way people spoke, and in the way conversations stopped when strangers walked by. Asim and I would often meet after school. Sometimes we'd walk through the bazaar together, pretending to browse, but really listening to the murmurs, the cautious exchanges, the hidden currents of politics and faith growing stronger each day. By 1978, the streets were changing. People spoke more openly about what they didn't like about the regime. School days were often interrupted, sometimes by rumors, sometimes by actual protests. Small demonstrations against the Shah appeared here and there, growing bolder each week. Then came 17 Shahrivar, 1357, Black Friday, September 8, 1978. In Jaleh Square, Tehran, army opened fire on protest. Hundreds were killed. The sound of gunfire that day echoes far behind the square. For many, it was the moment they knew There was no going back. On the morning of 17th Shahrivar, word spread quickly. Something big was happening in Jaleh Square. We didn't have the news on our side. The state-controlled television and newspapers said little or twisted the facts. But in the bazaar, the truth traveled in whispers, passed from one shop to another faster than the police could stop it. I wasn't at Jaleh Square that day, But I remember the fear in people's eyes when they returned from the protests. Shops closed their doors early. The sound of sirens and the distant pop of gunfire hung in the air like a warning. Qasim and I met later that evening. We didn't say much. We didn't have to. We both knew something has shifted forever. The street would never be the same. And neither would we. From that day on, every conversation changed. Every walk through the bazaar carried a new weight, and the feeling that history was moving fast, and we were a catch in it. After Black Friday, the city was different, markets were tense, schools were unpredictable. By winter, demonstration has grown, streets filled with their chant and slogan, and the rhythmic pounding. Sometimes Gossam and I would join the crowd. as distance, standing just far enough away to see without being swept into the chaos. Of the time, we stay in Bazaar, listening to the conversation. We weren't just in Tehran. We were in Hassanabad, right at the city's heart, where the pulse of politics and power beat the loudest. On one side, just a few minutes' walk away in Bahristan, stood the People's Congress. Five minutes in the other direction was the Daftar-e-Nakhos Vazir, Prime Minister's office, and the Senate building, and scattered all around us were military compounds, Patagon, their walls high, their gates guarded, their presence a constant reminder of the regime's power. This meant that even if we weren't looking for trouble, it often came close to us. Demonstrations would pass nearby, Military trucks would rumble through the streets, and armed soldiers stood at nearly every major corner. You could hear chanting from Bahristan on some days, and the others, the heavy boot of soldiers marching on the street. Often, we walked to Tehran University, where there were, and still are, many bookstores. There was one that seemed to carry the whole world on its shelves. It wasn't flashy. just rows of worn wooden shelves and the smell of paper and ink, but the books it held were like fire. They sold works about revolution from every corner of the globe, from China to Russia, from Cuba to the French Revolution. Some were dense and academic, the kind you had to read twice just to follow a single idea. Others were simple and direct, written so that even a teenager could understand them without a teacher. Asim and I bought these books whenever we could afford them. We read them late into the night, sometimes alone, sometimes together, discussing what we understood and skipping over what we didn't. Those books didn't just tell us history, they made us feel like history was a living thing, something that could be changed by people like us. We became inseparable. The situation in Iran only strengthened our bond. The turbulence of the time pulled us closer together. We often brainstormed ideas with each other. Sometimes I would help develop his thoughts, and other times he would shape mine. There were days when I'd come home to find him talking with my mother about the event unfolding in society. That winter in Iran, people truly cared about one another. Family shared food, cooking oil, and other essentials. We'd protest an historic spreading Many people had no income and very little food they could buy. So, they rely on each other help. Some couldn't pay their rent. Yet, the landlord offer waived the monthly payment, knowing the hardship people were facing. I remember it as one of the best time in my life. Not because life was easy, but because kindness and unity were everywhere. If someone had an accident in the street, both sides would rush to us if the other were okay, offered help and even apology before leaving the scene. Yes, it was an extraordinary time to experience not just a revolution, but a society where the empathy was stronger than fear. Even within these circumstances, we could sense but the regime was fragile and broken from inside. In those final months of Shah rule, the changes were unmistakable. There were protests in Tabriz, Tehran, and other cities almost daily. And before Shah left the country, he appointed a transitioned prime minister, Shahpur Bakhtiar, who has been imprisoned for 25 years under the Shah-owned government. Bakhtiar was known As one of the Shah's hardest critic, Shah has offered the position to others who were more loyal to him, but they refused. Bakhtiyar accepted, saying that he loves Iran so much that he was willing to take on the impossible task of saving it. He tried hard to reform many things during his short time in the office. But it was too little too late. On the 22nd of Pahman, 1357, which corresponded to the February 11, 1979, the Shah regime completely collapsed. And from the dust of the foreign order, something new began to sprout.

It

was only few months into the new government. Mehdiyeh Barzaghan has been appointed prime minister and for the first time in years we were full of hope. Hope that maybe finally we had a new government that care about the people. In those first weeks the city felt both liberated and unsettled. The Shah's army had collapsed, and the military compounds, once guarded and untouchable, now stood open. Weapons and ammunition flowed into the hands of ordinary people. At night, young men took turns guarding their neighborhoods. We patrolled the streets, rifles slung over our shoulders, keeping watch in the darkness. The guns we carried had come from the very military bases we used to fear. Now, those bases were empty, their gates broken, their arsenals scattered into the hands of the people. It felt like the start of something new, a chance to protect what we loved. But beneath the excitement, there was also uncertainty. We didn't yet know that revolution don't just end When the old government falls, they begin all over again in ways you can't always see. Qasem and I saw the necessity of getting more deeply involved in what we believed back then to be the right thing to do. I was drawn to the left. My sympathies were with the Cheikh Haifa Dariha, a communist guerrilla movement that stood firmly against a new religious establishment. Asim, on the other hand, leaned toward Mujahideen-e-Khalq, following leaders like Massoud Rajavi and Moussa Khayyaban. Our political paths were different, but our friendship never wavered. Every day we'd talk about what was happening, exchanging ideas, challenging each other, and trying to make sense of the chaos. The streets were alive with debate. Groups gathered on corners, in tea houses, and outside shops, Everyone had an opinion. There were those who defended the new government, often radical in their views. The Mujahideen occupied the middle ground, fighting both the monarchy and the emerging theocracy. Then there was the left, where I stood alongside a few other factions, with the Fadais still the largest, before they eventually split into two groups. We were surrounded by ideas, slogans, and political posters, but also by scarcity. The revolution had upended the economy. Imports slowed to a trickle. Nearly everything had to be produced inside Iran. The rial was falling against foreign currencies and basic goods was hard to find. Grocery store shelves were often half empty. People lined up for bread to feed their families. With the old regime gone, uncertainty grew. Jobs disappeared faster than new ones could be created. It was a fragile, volatile time. And as much as the streets were filled with hope and political energy, they were also filled with the quiet tension of not knowing what tomorrow would bring. In the early months, there was still a kind of cautious optimism. We believed debates in the streets meant progress. that competing visions of the future could somehow coexist. But by the end of 1979, the tone began to shift. Arguments in tea houses grew louder. Street corners that once hosted open discussions turned into battlegrounds for ideology. Leaflets and posters that had once been tolerated were now torn down or burned. Committees aligned with the new government, comités, patrolled neighborhoods. not just to protect them, but to control them. Political rallies became tense. Factions began to organize separately, each claiming to be the true defender of the revolution. The fada'i, the mujahideen, and pro-government groups often held their own events, sometimes just streets apart, each trying to out-shout the others. It wasn't just politics that divided people. It was trust. Friends who once stood together at protests began to keep their distance. Neighbors who had shared food and oil during the strikes now avoided each other's eyes if they supported different factions. Qasem and I stayed close, but even between us, the debates grew sharper. We still met daily, still shared our dreams for Iran, but the atmosphere around us was changing. The revolution changed. that had once felt like ours was beginning to belong to someone else. And we both knew it. In the middle of the shortages, something happened that brought Gossam and me even closer together. There was almost nothing in the stores. Whoever came first bought everything. Eggs, flour, rice. And by the time others arrived, there was nothing left. Families with children were left scrambling for basics. We had read about similar crises in Russia and other countries, how scarcity had forced communities to create systems to share resources fairly. So we came up with an idea. We designed and printed a small ration book for every household in our neighborhood, the first of its kind in the city. Each family's book recorded how many people lived in the home, two kids, three kids, four kids, whatever it was. We went door to door, delivering them ourselves. When families brought the book to the store, the shopkeeper could see their household size and distribute goods accordingly. 20 eggs for a family of five, for example, or a set amount of rice, flour, or bread. That way, everyone got something, and no one went home empty-handed. We also formed a neighborhood committee called Badshahaya Mahali, the Neighborhood Kids. We created a kind of public newspaper on a huge wall of a nearby house we had designated for that purpose. We posted announcements, updates, and news about local issues. People would gather to read and discuss it, and the sense of community grew stronger. Soon, other neighborhoods copied our idea And before long, ration books like ours were being used all across Tehran. But then, something interesting happened. The local mosque committee, which was aligned with the right-wing supporters of the new government, noticed the success of our system. They adopted it. But after a few months, they went to every house in our neighborhood, collected the books we had made, and replaced them with their own. Some families refused to hand over ours. Others kept them hidden. Many people in the neighborhood tried to protect us because they appreciate what we had done. Still, the mosque committee's version became official. We had started something that worked, the right idea at the right time, but we faded into the background and they remained. By early 1980, the excitement and open debates of the revolution's first months had started to fade. The committees, mosques, and new political institutions were no longer just organizing neighborhoods. They were taking control of them. Independent efforts like ours were viewed with suspicion. The ration books we had created had shown people that they could solve problems themselves without waiting for orders from above. To the mosque committee and the comité, this kind of independence was dangerous. They didn't say it outright, but the message was clear. Everything now had to flow through them. The street atmosphere had changed too. Political discussions were still happening, but they were sharper, more polarized. Fistfights broke out between factions. Public rallies were no longer just a mix of different ideas. Now they were dominated by one voice. And if you disagreed, You had to be careful who was listening. The comité were everywhere. They weren't just guarding against crime. They were watching people. They kept lists, asked questions, and quietly noted who associated with whom. In some neighborhoods, friends stopped visiting each other at home just to avoid suspicion. For me and Ghassem, this was a turning point. We still saw each other almost every day. still argue and dream about Iran's future. But the space of speak freely was shrinking. His Mujahideen connection and my ties to Fadai were enough to make both of us target, depend on who was in control of particular street corner or check mark. We began to hear stories of activists being arrested, some from our own groups, some from others. Sometimes they were released after a few days, sometimes they simply disappeared. Even newspapers and bookshops that had once carried a range of political thought were now closing or being shut down by force. It was the slow closing of a door we didn't even realize had been open for such a short time. The revolution had been ours for a moment, but by early 1980, It belonged to someone else. 1980, the closing of the universities. The year 1980 was a turning point. Khomeini issued his fatwa ordering the universities to close so they could be cleansed and reorganized under Islamic principles. The official name for it was the Cultural Revolution, but in reality, It was the regime's way of breaking one of the last spaces where people could gather freely, speak openly, and challenge authority. To me, this was the moment the new regime began taking over every institution in the country. Once the universities were closed, there was no real center for organizing or debating. The opposition was left scattered. At that time, Abul Hasan Bani Saad was the president of Iran. Many believed he was trying to protect students by avoiding direct confrontation with the regime's forces. Maybe that's what he thought, but I saw it differently. I believed then, and still believe now, that the right thing to do would have been to stand firm against the supreme leader, to fight to keep the universities open even if it meant risking lives. Instead, what happened was deeply damaging. Bani Saad has close ties with the Mujahideen-e-Khal, and in the negotiation that followed, Mujahideen pulled the supporter out of the university. This left the leftist group, including Sheikh Ghaifat-e-Khal, isolated and vulnerable. Half the opposition on campus vanished almost overnight. The Mujahideen left the scene. and the remaining leftists had only two choices, fight alone or go into hiding. Most chose the latter because the fear was real. The regime was ready to crush any resistance. Looking back, I think Bani Saad's actions in that moment were crucial in weakening the movement by allowing the opposition to fraction along the faction line. Mujahideen on one side and Fadai on the other. He made it easy for the regime to defeat them both. If the different factions stayed united, we might have stood a chance. Just a few months after the universities were shut down, the situation took a new and deadly turn. On September 22, 1980, Saddam Hussein's forces crossed the border into Iran, launching a full-scale invasion. Overnight, everything changed. The political battles of the streets were pushed aside, replaced by the noise of war, the sound of air raid sirens, the thud of bombs, and the endless speeches calling for national unity in the face of the enemy. For the new regime, the war was a gift. It became the perfect excuse to silence dissent. Anyone who opposed them could now be labeled a traitor. accused of helping Iraq and punished without question. Recruitment centers sprang up everywhere. Posters of young men in fatigues filled the streets and trucks carrying soldiers became a common sight. Food and fuel shortages, already bad after the revolution, grew worse. Prices soared, breadline lengthened. The little we had left from our ration book system became even more important. But by now, it was completely in the hands of the mass committees. For me and Qasem, the war didn't erase our political differences, but it forced us to be careful. Talking openly about Fadai or Mujahideen ideas in public could bring us trouble. To begin to meet more quietly, away from crowd, watch as our friends and neighbors were arrested for their political activities. I remember one evening in the bazaar, seeing Komite Trog stop and drag two young men away. The only crime was handling out pamphlets. No one dared to interfere. The war was supposed to unite the country, but in truth, it united the regime's grip on power. With the border under attack, They had all the justification they needed to crush what little opposition remained. It was in this atmosphere, fear in the street, shortage in the market, and the ever-present shadow of the war, that the next big blow came. The event of Haftatiu, which would change the political landscape forever. The early months after the revolution were filled with hope, street debates, and a belief that ordinary people could shape Iran's future. But scarcity, political division, and the rise of government-aligned committees slowly eroded that space. The closure of the universities fractured the opposition, the war cemented the regime's control, and the revolution's promise slipped further away. Part III began with Haftatir, an explosion that would change the political balance of the country forever. It was the summer of 1981. The war with Iraq was raging on and Tehran had grown used to the background noise of sirens and speeches. But that day, the sound that shook the city was different. It was the sound of an explosion. Haft-e-Tir is the seventh of Tir in the Iranian calendar. June 28th in the Western calendar would be remembered as one of the bloodiest political attacks in the new republic. The Islamic Republican Party headquarters in Tehran was hosting a major meeting. Dozens of the regime's top officials were gathered inside. Ministers, clerics, members of parliament. A massive bomb tore through the building, killing more than 70 people instantly. Among them was Ayatollah Mohammed Beheshti, the head of the judiciary and one of the most powerful men in Khomeini's circle. The government immediately blamed the Mujahideen whether every detail of their claim was true or not. Their political consequences were immediately and devastating for anyone tied, even loosely, to Mujahideen. Overnight, Tehran changed. The regime treated Haftatir as a declaration of war from within. The response was swift and merciless. Comité trucks rolled through neighborhoods at all hours, arresting anyone suspected of sympathizing with the Mujahideen. Friends and relatives of known members were targeted. Posters appeared on street corners showing the faces of wanted individuals. Loudspeakers in public squares announced arrests and executions. The fear that had been building for months now became something you could feel in your chest when you walked outside. For Ghasem, it was personal. His leanings toward the Moha Hadin were well known in our circle. Even if he wasn't directly involved, suspicion alone was enough to put him in danger. We spoke less in public now, always watching who might be listening. Haftatir gave the regime the momentum to do what it had been moving toward since 1980, wiping out organized opposition. The Mujahideen were now treated as armed enemies of the state. The leftist groups, including the Fadai, were accused of collaborating with counter-revolutionaries and targeted alongside them. Anyone who had once spoken in favor of either was at risk. The war with Iraq provided the perfect backdrop. In wartime, the regime said, treason will not be tolerated. Dissent was not just dangerous, it was fatal. From that summer onward, the city was under a kind of quiet siege You could still walk the streets, buy bread, go to work, but you could feel the surveillance everywhere. Those who were arrested often didn't come back. If they did, they were changed, silent, cautious, carrying the weight of whatever they had endured behind prison walls. The revolution, which had once felt like a shared project, now belonged entirely to one faction, and it was willing to kill to keep it that way. Haftitir didn't just change the balance of power. It changed the rules of survival. For me and for Ghasem, it marked the start of a final chapter in our friendship, one shaped by fear, secrecy, and choices we could never take back. Up until then, even though Ghasem and I stood on different political ground, me, which sent Petit towards Shrik Haifa Doikhar, and him, leading towards Mujahideen Khal, we shared a basic belief. Opposition did not have to mean taking up arms to kill government officials. We want to resist the regime, yet, but not through assassination or bombing. When the bombing struck, killing dozens of officials inside the Islamic Republican Party headquarters, the Mujahideen soon claimed responsibility for escalating armed attacks. That was the breaking point for Gossam. He could no longer stand behind them. The strategy had crossed a line, one we were never willing to cross. Two of the most active Mujahideen supporters in our area were both named Muhammad. One we called simply Muhammad, and the other Mamali. They were armed, committed to their cause, and ready to carry out operations. We respected their courage, but we could not agree with their methods. For us, opposing the government was never about revenge or bloodshed. The moment the Mohahedin turned to targeted killings, our political paths split for good. Qasim Qad has ties entirely with them, and I kept my distance from any faction willing to justify such acts. We both knew something has shifted permanently, even without those ties. We also knew they would come for us sooner or later. We spent night talking about what to do, whether to flee to Kurdistan and then to Turkey, or attempt a dangerous route through Sistan and Balochistan. But we had no money and no clear plan. The first move came from them. One day, they took me and my sister. Committee officers searched our house, but thanks to a friend's quick warning, My brother had already hidden the books and papers under my mother's protection. They found nothing, but still took us in for questioning. At the comité, my father, blind but well-known in the community, arrived and refused to leave until they released us. His persistence wore them down. An officer finally told us we could go. From then on, I avoided political activity. I signed up for military service. the war with Iraq was still raging, partly because the Komite themselves suggested it might be the safest move for me to do just that. For me, the Komite ordeal ended with the release. For Gossam, it was different stuff. Not long after, they came to Mamali's house. This time, they found exactly what they were looking for. Books, flyers, the kind of printed material that could seal your fate. For Mamali, Muhammad, and Gossam, these weren't just papers. They were the tools of an underground struggle they had been waging in our neighborhood for nearly a year. Mamali had always been more openly committed to the cause than I was. Under interrogation, we later heard they broke his finger. Rumor had it he gave them names, though we never knew which or how many. Gossam left Tehran almost immediately. taking refuge in a small city nearby. I knew where he was. Nobody else did. Then they harassed his brother, Adnan, and took him to the Bazaar Committee, one of the most feared in Tehran. He was held there for a week. Somehow, Qasim managed to get a message to me. What should I do? My reply was simple. Hide. They'll release Adnan eventually. Stay out of sight. Leave the country if you can, but don't come back here. But he couldn't do it. He's my brother, he said. I can't just leave him there. For the last time, we walked together toward Bazar, from Hassanabad. I can still see it. He stopped and turned to me, and he said, Golan, thanks. If they see us together, they might take you too. You just got from Komiteh. Don't go back there. I haven't done anything wrong. I have no connection anymore. I'll leave you out soon. Before surrounding himself, he went to see Mamali's father, tried to set the record straight. He insists he has nothing to do with Mamali's action and had even warned him not to go so far. But in the bazaar, words move faster than reason. The commission drew attention and soon the police and Komite arrived. They harassed him right there in front of the shop. From that moment on, his trail vanished behind the high walls of detention. This story turned out to be longer than I anticipated, so I've decided to divide it into two parts. What you've heard today is just the beginning, the build-up, the friendships, and the first fractures in a movement we once believed in. Some of the dates and sequences are told from my own memory, which may not align perfectly with every historical record, but the essence and truth of what happened remain. My perspective on these events has also shaped how I recall and interpret them, and that should be taken into account. In part two, we'll move into the turning points, the moments when everything shifted, when choices could no longer be undone, and when survival often meant remaining silent, even when the best of us were missing. Thank you for listening to this first part. As always, these episodes are made for you to remember. to reflect, and to connect the past to our present. Stay tuned for part two. Until next time, be thoughtful, be aware, and never forget that history is lived before it's written.