A Generation’s Regret: A Conversation on a Rainy Evening S. Rouzbeh ۱۴۰۵/۰۳/۱۵ S. Rouzbeh meets a frail older man at a rally on a cold, rainy evening. Over coffee, the man reflects on a lifetime spent pursuing what he called justice, from his teenage years in politics and revolution to his involvement with left-wing groups. S. Rouzbeh – A fine, persistent rain was falling. The kind of rain that is neither heavy enough to make you run for cover nor light enough to ignore. The drops slid silently down the windows, while a cold wind swept through the streets. At one of the marches, I spotted a man in the crowd whom I had seen several times before. He was in his early sixties, but his face looked more tired than his age would suggest. He also seemed ill and kept coughing. It was as if life had aged him before his time. He walked with a slight stoop. Now and then, he put a hand to his back and stopped for a few moments. It was clear that physical pain would not leave him alone. Even so, whenever the crowd chanted a slogan, he raised his voice too. That day, the rain grew heavier. Many people opened their umbrellas or took shelter beneath awnings. But he continued to stand there. His thin coat was soaked, and the cold showed on his face. He coughed several times and wrapped his scarf more tightly around his neck. I wondered what would bring someone of his age, in such physical condition, out into the street on a cold, rainy evening? I could not shake my curiosity. After the march ended, as the crowd slowly dispersed, I saw him standing beside a wall, staring at the street. He was looking neither at the people nor at the cars. It was as if he were gazing at something much farther away: at years that no longer existed. I went over to him. I said, “Are you all right?” He gave a faint smile. It looked more like weariness than happiness. He said, “As long as Iran is not well, none of us can be well.” That one sentence was enough to start a conversation. A few minutes later, we were sitting in a small café. The smell of coffee filled the air, and steam rose slowly from the cups. Outside, the rain was still tapping against the windows. He clasped his hands around his coffee cup, as if trying to draw the cold of all those years out of himself. He fell silent for a few moments. Then he said quietly, “You know… I spent almost my entire life searching for something I called justice.” His gaze stayed fixed on the steam from the coffee. It was as if he were watching his past through it. He said, “I got involved in politics and the revolution as a teenager. I was a keen reader. I read books. I wanted to change the world. In those days, we thought we could make the world a better place. After the revolution, I was drawn to left-wing groups. For a while I was with the Fadaiyan guerrillas, then with the Communist Workers’ Party, and then again with the Fadaiyan Majority.” He fell silent. Then he went on: “Many of my friends were arrested. Some were executed. Some disappeared. Some never came back.” His voice had grown quiet. “I was on the run for a while, too. From one city to another. From one house to another. There were nights when I didn’t know where I’d wake up the next day. I did construction work. Carried loads. Anything just to stay alive.” Then he gave a bitter smile. “Back then, we thought we were saving the world.” Silence settled between us for a few seconds. Then he said: “But the problem was that we were teenagers. We didn’t know a lot of things. We didn’t understand which way the country was heading. We didn’t understand what the White Revolution was. We didn’t understand what reform meant. We just heard the slogans.” Then he sighed. “When we grew older, we finally realised that many of the things we read about in books as the ideals of the working class were already taking shape at the time. But by the time we understood, it was far too late.” I asked him: “What do you mean?” He set his cup down on the table. He said: “I mean that, very often, we fought against something we didn’t really know.” Then he continued. “In those years, all we heard were the slogans. Later, I realised that many of the ideas presented in books as the ideals of the working class were being put into practice. Workers had insurance and were receiving education, factories were expanding, and the country was on the path to industrialisation. We thought we were fighting injustice, but in many cases we were standing in the way of a process that could have helped the country progress.” Outside, the rain had eased a little. Passers-by hurried past the window, and the streetlights were reflected in the wet glass. He fell silent for a moment, then asked calmly: “But do you know where the real pain lies?” He turned his gaze from the window and looked straight at me. “The pain isn’t that a person makes a mistake. Everyone makes mistakes. The pain is that it takes a whole lifetime to realise you were wrong.” Then he gave a faint smile and added: “Our generation understood many realities far too late.” I asked, “Such as what?” He said, “For instance, that no ideology is sacred. No human theory is perfect. The world changes, society changes, and generations change. If a person does not adapt to these changes, they fall behind the times.” He picked up his mobile phone from the table and looked at its screen for a few seconds. Then he said, “Look… this mobile phone gets updated every so often. If it isn’t updated, it falls behind the march of progress. People are the same. If someone held an opinion fifty years ago and repeats it today without reflection, that cannot be called steadfastness; it is a kind of intellectual stagnation.” He paused briefly and continued: “Some people think reaction means clinging only to ancient traditions. No. A person can become reactionary by repeating slogans from fifty years ago, too. When you are unwilling to understand the new generation, fail to see today’s reality, and still want to govern the country using prescriptions from half a century ago, you too have fallen prey to reaction.” I asked, “Then why do some people say that people like you have changed your position?” He laughed. This time his laughter was warmer. He said, “Let them say that. What matters is not clinging to your past mistakes in order to be called steadfast; what matters is having the courage to accept the truth—even if you have spent your whole life on a different path.” Then he continued in a calmer tone: “Perhaps communism offered answers for part of the world at a certain point in history. Perhaps it explained some issues during the industrial revolution. But what about today? The Soviet Union collapsed. The walls came down. China today follows the same capitalist method. The new generation no longer lives by those slogans. Fifty years from now, perhaps all this will be no more than a few chapters in history books.” He fell silent for a moment, then suddenly said: “You know, we understood far too late what the Pahlavi era meant.” I was surprised by this sudden change of subject. He explained, “I don’t mean the person. I mean the idea that took shape in people’s minds. For years, our generation heard only one narrative. But the people of Iran, under the pressure of poverty, repression, rising prices, prison and despair, began making comparisons for themselves. No one inside Iran was campaigning on their behalf; it was the people themselves who began to ask questions.” Then he continued: “We did not get to know Mohammad Reza Shah as we should have. But we saw his son. We saw that, after all these years, he still speaks about Iran, still defends the people of Iran, and still has not abandoned his country.” I asked, “Then why is he attacked so much?” He replied without hesitation: “Because they are afraid of the people’s vote.” At first, I thought he was exaggerating, but he went on: “Many say their problem is Reza Pahlavi himself. I don’t believe that. If the issue were just one person, there wouldn’t be such sensitivity. The real fear is of the ballot box; of the day when people can choose freely.” He leaned forward a little and lowered his voice. “The Prince has said many times that he will take responsibility for the transition so the country can reach free elections. The disagreements begin precisely here. Because many know that if free choice ever becomes possible, slogans will no longer be decisive; it will be the people who decide.” I then asked him, “So why is there so much disagreement and conflict among the opponents?” He sighed, as though he had asked himself this question for years. He said, “Because many people, in the midst of a historic struggle, forget the main objective.” He fell silent for a moment, then continued: “I have spent sixty years of my life in politics, struggle and defeat. I understood one truth very late: sometimes people become so caught up in small disagreements that they forget who the real enemy is.” I asked, “What do you mean?” He said, “Do all the children in one family think alike? Are two brothers always of the same mind?” He paused briefly and added: “But if a house is on fire, you must put out the fire first—not argue about the colour of the walls amid the flames.” His voice was calm, but every sentence had a particular effect. “I’m not saying there should be no criticism. Criticism is necessary. Dialogue is necessary. Differences of opinion are necessary too. But there is a difference between criticism and wearing one another down, just as there is a difference between debate and destroying one another.” Then he said, “Freedom first. The people’s right to choose first. A free media first. The ballot box first. After that, the people will decide for themselves what they want.” For a few seconds, we were both silent. His coffee had almost gone cold. The rain had stopped completely, too. When we left the coffee shop, the chill of the street still lingered. He wrapped his scarf around his neck and, before saying goodbye, said, “Do you know what the real pain is? It’s for a generation to realise, at the end of its life, what it has lost, and then to do nothing but hope that the next generation won’t repeat the same mistake.” He left. But I stood there for a long time. I wondered whether today’s younger generation, despite having access to so much information, might still repeat another mistake. Or perhaps these stories can stand in the way of history repeating itself? Perhaps the bitterest part of it is this: Generations that imagined they would change the world with slogans, but were ultimately changed by history themselves. And perhaps the most beautiful part is this: That even after a lifetime of mistakes, a person can still accept the truth. Source: https://srouzbeh.com/en/posts/archive-3ef0f761-3819-940f-bcca-ca7ec65c63c0 Please credit the author and link to this edition.