Outside, groups of regime supporters drive through the streets again. Motorcycles and cars carrying Iranian flags. They shout “Allah-o-Akbar” and “Heydar Heydar.” They do not look like mourners. They look like they have just come from a political rally.

The streets feel empty, cold, and frightened. Security patrols are everywhere. Armed forces stand in the streets, sometimes with armoured vehicles... When I hear the jets, I feel a wave of panic. But when I go up to the roof to see where the explosion happened, the panic somehow becomes less intense.

By late Friday, the morgue was full. “We had no choice,” Ahmad says. “We moved the bodies to the dialysis ward and laid them side by side. We even ran out of body bags. We wrapped them in sheets and tied the ends.”

No one knows what will happen next, but everyone knows this kind of life—this suspended, existence—cannot go on forever.

It felt like being thrown back a century — into a time when the only news you had was what you saw yourself, or what you heard from a neighbour.

Iranian literature after the revolution is on the margins of the world system and not global as such. However, it is important in several national systems, because it speaks to several national literary contexts (French, German, American etc.)

If we take the Constitutional Revolution as the first moment when Iranian music closely engaged with a social movement, the last century of political upheaval leaves a clear record in song.

Even if hope is an illusion, we must hold onto it, share its light, however scant and brief, because otherwise we will never change the world, we will give injustice the last word. This much is certain: despair and indifference lead nowhere.

If the “telos” of a historical narrative is 1979, then all roads lead to the fall of the shah and the rupture that occurred in the US-Iran relationship during the hostage crisis. In those narratives, most of which are political in orientation, the shah’s reform program is not taken seriously.