Reza grips the steering wheel, the familiar route through Washington, D.C. a stark contrast to the turmoil consuming his thoughts. Fifteen years ago, he fled Iran, but a piece of him remains trapped, watching the unfolding tragedy with a growing sense of dread. He now spends his days driving for Uber, but his nights are filled with monitoring reports of violence and the chilling accounts of protesters falling.
“They don’t care,” he says, his voice heavy with sorrow. “Two years old or one hundred, anyone who dares to speak out… they kill them.” The image haunts him – a brutal disregard for human life that has become the hallmark of the regime. He shakes his head, repeating the phrase, a desperate plea against the injustice.
Becoming an American citizen in 2021 offered a measure of safety, but it couldn’t shield him from the pain. Four family members perished during the Covid pandemic under circumstances he believes were deliberately orchestrated by the government. Now, his remaining sister and two brothers live under a suffocating blanket of censorship and fear.
Communication has become a ghost, severed by government shutdowns of both internet and landlines since the protests ignited on December 28th. The silence is deafening, each unanswered call a fresh wave of anxiety. He feels utterly helpless, separated by thousands of miles and a wall of oppression.
When asked about the Iranian people’s feelings toward the Ayatollah, a wave of emotion washes over him. Words fail him, the depth of their despair too profound to articulate. He estimates a staggering 100,000 deaths in recent crackdowns, a number born from witnessing years of brutality and a deep distrust of official narratives.
While human rights organizations place the confirmed death toll between 3,500 and 5,000, the true figure is undoubtedly higher, obscured by blackouts and deliberate concealment. Doctors on the ground paint a harrowing picture: at least 16,500 protesters killed, over 330,000 injured, the vast majority young people.
Hospital records reveal a pattern of targeted violence – gunshot and shrapnel wounds to the head, neck, and chest, indicating the use of military-grade weapons against civilians. Eye surgeons report a horrifying surge in eye injuries, with hundreds blinded, a deliberate tactic of intimidation and control.
Beyond the immediate violence, a silent crisis unfolds within the hospitals. Blood shortages, exacerbated by alleged blockades imposed by security forces, contribute to preventable deaths. Medical staff donate their own blood, a desperate attempt to stem the tide of suffering.
Reza’s estimate, though emotionally charged, stems from a history of witnessing the regime’s deception. He knows they manipulate information, minimizing the scale of their atrocities. He speaks of the fate awaiting the over 24,000 protesters already jailed – a fate far worse than death.
He describes chilling scenes: workers forced to collect bodies with their bare hands, loading them onto trucks for clandestine disposal. Torture is commonplace, a systematic dismantling of the human spirit. “They don’t just kill with guns,” he says, drawing a hand across his throat, “they break you first.”
The fundamental difference, he explains, lies in the freedom to dissent. In America, disagreement doesn’t carry a death sentence. Citizens can question their government without fear of retribution. “In Iran,” he says, “they just take out the gun.”
He believes that if the Iranian people were armed, they could defend themselves and overthrow the regime. “Ten Iranians with guns could defeat 2,000 soldiers,” he insists, fueled by a desperate hope for change. The lack of means to fight back is a critical factor in their oppression.
The day before, Reza joined a protest in Washington, D.C., heartened by the solidarity shown not only by Iranian expatriates but also by Americans who came to stand with them. It was a small beacon of hope in the overwhelming darkness, a reminder that their struggle wasn’t unnoticed.
Despite finding a new life in America, Reza remains inextricably linked to Iran’s fate. He’s drastically reduced his work hours, consumed by news updates and agonizing over the safety of his family. The weight of their suffering is a constant burden.
“The protests have stopped,” he says, his voice laced with despair. “The government doesn’t care, and people realized they would simply be mowed down.” The hope has been extinguished, replaced by a chilling resignation.
“That’s not right,” he repeats, a simple phrase that encapsulates the entirety of his anguish. It’s a lament for a nation robbed of its dignity, a plea for justice, and a testament to the enduring power of the human spirit in the face of unimaginable cruelty.
