Every news cycle feels like a riddle written in fire and shadows, but the images coming from Iran these past weeks don’t blur into background noise—they burn through it. Nationwide protests continue to ripple across cities, fueled by desperation, instability, and a brewing collision between state force and public conviction. In what many observers are calling the largest wave of unrest since the 1979 revolution, hundreds—possibly thousands—of protesters have been killed or wounded as security forces tighten their grip.
I watch it unfold through patchy satellite feeds and secondhand reports, fragments of struggle that flicker between blackout zones and digital leaks. The Supreme Leader calls dissent “foreign-inspired,” while streets swell with chants demanding real change. I look at these faces, some so young their futures should have been decades away, and I wonder where all of this will settle—if it ever does.
Here’s the part where my own reflection spirals into questions that don’t have real answers: Could I ever be part of that? Could I, from thousands of miles away with my laptop and coffee, ever touch the edges of Iranian politics without erasing nuance, without imposing outsider fantasies onto people’s real pain?
Honestly, the first thing that comes to mind is the absurdity of it all. I’m here drafting words in Malibu or wherever and trying to imagine myself in Tehran squares at midnight, shouting with hopeful strangers against armored vehicles and internet blackouts. Of course, I wouldn’t really be there. I wouldn’t survive a day beneath armored boots and arbitrary detentions.
Still, my mind wanders: If I could access a negotiation table with the elders of the clerical state—leaders who have spent decades weaving power into every corner of governance—what would I say? Would I raise my voice for economic opportunity, for fairness, for the youth whose funerals fill social media timelines? Or would I ask them to envision an Iran that doesn’t punish dissent with death sentences? Because right now, protesters face the very real threat of execution for their involvement in the movement.
It’s easy for an outsider to fantasize about being a bridge or an intermediary—a Western voice who can point out that poverty and hyperinflation (which have driven people to the streets) would be softer if leadership prioritized livelihood rather than rhetoric. But even as I craft that sentence, I know it reeks of arrogance: I don’t understand the full gravity of living under a theocratic system, especially one where history, religion, and geopolitics have carved out identities and grievances deeper than most of us can unpack in a weekend read.
So what does it mean to get involved in Iranian politics from afar? Is it rallying for sanctions? Is it amplifying voices in exiled communities? Is it praying that this latest wave of unrest yields better outcomes than it has in past cycles? These thoughts are not revolutionary, nor are they particularly clever, but as a writer who aches at injustice anywhere, I feel them pull at the corners of my thoughts like persistent shadows.
I’ll tell you what I think involvement might look like: being willing to sustain attention. Not trending hashtags that vanish after hours, not Tweets that get buried by the next headline—actual sustained awareness that holds the world’s gaze on these events long enough that the lives behind the numbers stop feeling abstract.
Because no matter how distant Iran’s protests may seem, the pain and bravery at their core are human first. Young workers, retirees, families, students—people risking everything because they no longer see endurance alone as a path to meaning.
So no, I don’t envision myself sitting at roundtables in Tehran with grey-bearded leaders sipping tea and bartering constitutional reform. And that’s okay. What I can imagine—and what I can attempt in my own small way—is consistently bringing their voices into the light rather than letting them slip into the background of another forgettable news cycle.
Because if the universe is made of stories that expand outward like the cosmos itself—with no true horizon and no final edge—maybe our role as writers, witnesses, and fragile thinkers is to keep discovering and retelling those narratives, no matter how distant, until someone can finally say there was nothing on the other side of the question.