In late 2006, I took part in a small gathering in Sanandaj for World Children’s Day. We held signs that said children deserve education, not war—hardly a radical demand. Most of us were under 25. Some were students, some workers, some artists. We were thinking about Afghan children without access to school, about poverty, about the direction Iran was heading. What followed wasn’t a debate. It was arrests, interrogations, exile. That memory stays with me—not only because of what we tried to say, but because of how completely it was refused.
Years later, living as a refugee in Greece, I’ve found myself remembering that moment often. Not out of nostalgia, but because the same questions come back in different forms. Who gets to speak about justice? Who is included in solidarity? What happens when political language becomes disconnected from people’s actual lives?
The following texts come from that space between memory and the present. One reflects on how the language of resistance in Iran has been emptied by the regime itself—how anti-imperialism is performed while repression deepens. The other looks at the Greek and Western Left’s response to refugees, war, and Palestine—not as an outsider looking in, but from the position of someone living in the consequences.
These are not essays with a clean argument. They are observations, written by someone who has seen both the violence of the state and the silence that surrounds it.
Their Freedom Doesn’t Include Us
Living in Greece as a political refugee, you begin to understand something quite striking: much of what presents itself as “Left-wing, progressive, and anarchist” is not really concerned with the urgent problems of our lives. They speak of “dignity,” “autonomy,” and “justice.” But when refugees are being beaten at the borders, when migrants are harassed by police, when racist newspapers lie about us, or when the asylum system degrades us daily—these same groups are either silent, or busy with activities which are far from the reality of our lives.
Palestine? This should be the easiest issue to unite people. But while Greece’s government is one of the biggest allies of the Israeli state in Europe, while the Prime Minister shakes hands with war criminals and signs military deals, meanwhile, Palestinian refugees in Greece live in fear, in camps, detention centers, or under threat of deportation. And what does these groups do? Mostly nothing. No campaigns, no mobilizations, not even basic solidarity. What we do see are attacks—not on the state, but on other activists. If someone speaks outside the usual script of them, they get shouted down, labeled, and excluded. It’s like a political hallucination. They are fighting ghosts, while ignoring solidarity.
And then there’s the total confusion of some who pretend to support Palestine while repeating the talking points of Moscow. The Russian Foreign Minister claims that Israel is doing in Gaza what Russia is doing in Ukraine—“de-Nazification,” they say! And now some who support the Russian invasion of Ukraine also claim to be the defenders of Palestine. At the same time, they defend the Islamic regime in Iran, Al-Assad in Syria, even the Taliban. It is a defense of fascism.
Meanwhile, racism is rising. The police get more weapons. Camps get more walls. Israel bombs another hospital in Gaza—with weapons that may have passed through Greece. Palestinian refugees are forced to live in locked camps, often doing hard work just to survive. And still, many of the “activists” look the other way—or spend their time attacking those who speak uncomfortable truths.
Solidarity is not a flag you wave. It is not a performance. It is a daily responsibility. It means standing with people who do not look like you, who don’t speak your language, who may not come from your tradition. It means being serious. It means stepping out of your comfort zone, and stopping the theater of moral superiority. It means organizing for real change, not just repeating slogans.
There are no easy solutions. But one thing is certain: their idea of “freedom” does not include all of us. And that must change.
Image: Solidarity graffiti in Themistokleous street, Athens against the war in Ukraine and the genocide in Gaza. It was defaced by pro-Russian fascists a few days after the painting. It was later fixed by an unknown anarchist.
Nineteen Years After Sanandaj
In 2006, on World Children’s Day in Sanandaj, Iranian Kurdistan, we said something simple: “Children do not need nuclear weapons.” We demanded an end to all forms of warmongering, militarization, and threats of war against Iran. Who we were? With thousands of dreams. Writer, teacher, worker, theater actor, physics student, literature student, archaeology student, simple shopkeeper, etc. And how did the Islamic regime respond to this call for dignity and a better life? With prison cells, torture chambers, and relentless repression that forced some of us into exile. That truth has not changed.
Nineteen years have passed, and who is there to ask why young people—none of us older than 25 at the time—who dared to demand school lunches, healthcare, and access to education for all children and specifically Aghanian migrants, now live as refugees? These were not radical demands. They were basic rights. And yet, instead of progress, what did Iranian society get?
We got a regime that chants “resistance” while playing both sides. Tehran sits at the table with Washington, trading nuclear concessions for sanctions relief. It claims to fight for justice while sending drones and missiles to Russia to fuel the war in Ukraine—a war that has killed thousands and displaced millions. What kind of resistance is this, that props up one military occupation while condemning another? What kind of revolutionary talks peace and sovereignty, then exports weapons to bomb schools and homes?
The war on Gaza has turned playgrounds into graveyards. Over ten thousand children have been killed in just a few months. Their homes bombed. Their parents buried beneath rubble.
The Islamic Regime in Iran has shouted “Down with Israel” for more than four decades. They promised the destruction of Zionism. They waved flags. They sent signals. They built alliances with groups fighting Israel. But when the people of Gaza were burned alive under rubble, when hospitals were turned into target zones, when children were shot in front of their families—what did they really do?
Regime has spoke of “patience.” Of “strategy.” Of “timing.” They staged shows on state TV, paraded slogans, and lit candles in front of cameras. They showed off their missiles like lunatics on the other side and said, “We’re negotiating to reach an agreement! We want to be part of the new order…” But they didn’t stop the bombs. They didn’t lift the rubble. They didn’t bring the children back.
How can a regime that kills, tortures, and jails children in Iran claim to defend the children of Palestine? The people of Iran do not buy this lie. The Palestinian people—those who have lost everything—do not buy it either. And the world must stop pretending otherwise.
Iran is not a victim of today’s militarized world. It is a player in it. Islamic regime fuels wars abroad and silences the young at home. And those of us who once stood in Sanandaj with small banners and big dreams—who asked for books, not bombs—are still here. Still watching. Still remembering. And still speaking.
Image: The photos are on the old blog of this festival. I don’t have a good quality copy of them in my personal archive.
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