02/18/2026
To the People of the World,
I write to you as an Iranian.
Not as a politician.
Not as a figure of authority.
But as a human being whose homeland is in pain.
In recent weeks, something unspeakably dark has unfolded in my country.
Across cities and towns, fear has replaced ordinary life. Parents wait without answers. Mothers whisper the names of their children into silence. Young people — so full of hope only weeks ago — have disappeared into prisons, into uncertainty, into shadows.
I have witnessed part of this suffering with my own eyes. Other parts reach us through trembling voices, fragmented videos, hurried messages sent before the internet goes dark.
Reports from inside the country speak of mass casualties on a scale that is difficult to comprehend. Local investigative sources estimate the number of those killed to be in the tens of thousands. Some believe the true figure may be even higher. Allegations of secret burials and attempts to conceal the extent of the tragedy demand urgent, independent investigation.
I do not ask you to accept a number.
I ask you to face a question.
How much suffering must occur before the world feels compelled to see it?
If even a fraction of these reports is true — if even one child has been taken unjustly, if even one family has buried their loved one in silence — is that not enough to demand attention?
We live in an age of satellites, instant communication, global institutions, and promises of “never again.”
And yet, in the heart of the 21st century, human lives may be disappearing in darkness.
If the word “holocaust” unsettles you, it is because it evokes a horror humanity once vowed never to repeat. I use it not lightly, but with the anguish of someone who feels that something vast and catastrophic has occurred — something that history will one day ask us about.
Where were we?
What did we know?
Why did we remain silent?
I am not calling for violence.
I am not calling for revenge.
I am calling for conscience.
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