I See Your Suffering, I Hear Your Voice: A Word About Hope for Iran S. Rouzbeh ۱۴۰۵/۰۳/۲۲ In a time of war, insecurity and loss, what does hope mean? S. Rouzbeh reflects on hope as a force that acknowledges suffering while helping people and nations shape a better future. S. Rouzbeh In days when war, insecurity, economic pressure and the grief of losing loved ones weigh heavily on people, what reason is there to speak of hope? Can we talk about courage when so many people are tired—tired of years of instability, fear and anxiety about tomorrow? And most importantly, what is hope? Is it merely a slogan, or a real force that can change the fate of individuals and nations? On the day Crown Prince Reza Pahlavi spoke of “courage”, “taking responsibility” and “hope”, perhaps more than ever, we need to reflect on hope itself. I think it was timely and necessary, because what many Iranians are experiencing today is not just economic exhaustion; it is a kind of collective fatigue, and even a kind of collective despair. War, insecurity, anxiety about the future, emigration, imprisonment, executions, economic pressures and the loss of loved ones, the government’s persecution and its false propaganda, and so on have worn down society’s spirit and mental wellbeing. Thousands of families are grieving, and millions of people are living under the burden of financial hardship and anxiety. In such circumstances, it is natural for many to ask: “Is there still any hope left?” But psychologists say that hope is not blind optimism. Viktor Frankl, a psychiatrist and survivor of Nazi death camps, believed that those who had a reason to carry on endured longer than others. He wrote: “Those who have a ‘why’ to live can bear with almost any ‘how’.” Hope is not the denial of suffering. Hope means believing that the future has not yet been written and that human beings can have a part in writing it. In general, humanity cannot carry on living without hope; hope is the light and strength that sustain life in the worst of circumstances. The American psychologist Charles Snyder saw hope as a combination of two elements: having a goal and believing that one can find a way to reach it. In his view, hope is not a passive feeling; it is a kind of mental and behavioural skill that sets people in motion. Perhaps hope can be divided into four parts: First, personal hope: the force that enables a person to get up in the morning, work, learn and refuse to give in. Second, family hope: the force that prompts mothers and fathers to strive for their children’s future despite all the difficulties. Third, social hope: when people realise that they are not alone and that they share common sorrows and aspirations. And finally, national hope: the belief that a nation, despite all its wounds, can still build a better future for itself. But how is hope built? Not with hollow slogans and promises without foundation. True hope rests on four pillars: telling the truth, empathising with the people, presenting a plan, and involving citizens in building the future. Perhaps today, more than anything, the people of Iran need to hear these words: “We see your suffering. We hear your voice. We know you are tired. But we believe this darkness is not the end of the story. Iran’s tomorrow will not be a gift from anyone; we will build it through responsibility, solidarity and courage.” Hafez sang centuries ago: “The lost Joseph will return to Canaan; grieve not. The sorrowful cottage will one day become a garden; grieve not.” And Saadi reminded us: “To walk the desert road is better than sitting idle; Even if I do not attain my aim, I shall strive as far as I can.” Perhaps hope, ultimately, is just this: not ignoring the darkness, but refusing to let the lamp go out. Hope means that, though we have learnt every stone on the rugged road by heart, and carry the traces of the wounds inflicted by these relentless years like fiery marks upon our bodies and souls, we still set out on the path; for deep in our hearts we believe that dawn, like a bird freed from the cage of darkness, will at last spread its wings from the heart of the blackest nights, and the light of freedom will settle upon the weary shoulders of this land. We can see freedom; perhaps we have not yet embraced it fully, but its bright horizon glimmers before our eyes like a strip of gold along the shore. We can feel it: in the steadfastness of grieving mothers whose tears have become seeds of resistance; in the courage of young people whose hearts beat with the breadth of tomorrow; in the patience of fathers whose backs have not bowed beneath the weight of sorrow; and in the hearts of millions of Iranians who, despite all their suffering, still shelter the dream of a brighter tomorrow within themselves like a sacred flame. Let us be patient a little longer, and not allow the lamp of hope to be extinguished in the tempest of these times. Better days will come; days when the children of this land will know fear only from distant stories, and Iran, like a garden blossoming anew after a long winter, will once more taste peace, freedom and pride. The road may be difficult, but no night is so long that it can hide or erase the sun for ever: “After the dark night comes the dawn.” Source: https://srouzbeh.com/en/posts/archive-c5c48776-65c1-0134-99b6-aa82b9831cd5 Please credit the author and link to this edition.