Iran is living through days saturated with anger, hope, fear, and an
unmistakable collective will to bring the Islamic Republic to an end. What we
are witnessing is no longer a protest cycle. It is a rupture — one that is
already pushing toward revolution.
For the first time, the streets are not demanding
reforms, recounts, or the illusion of change. No one is asking “Where is my
vote?” No one is clinging to the fantasy of reform from within. What echoes
across the country is something far more dangerous and far more decisive: a
nationwide, unqualified No to the entire system. This is a historic
threshold.
Three truths can no longer be denied.
- The
Islamic Republic has reached a dead end.
- Society
has the right to return to a normal life — one that is safe, dignified,
and humane.
- And
what is unfolding is not a passing emotional storm, but the beginning of
an ending.
It is precisely in moments like this that our individual
and collective responsibility must rise to its highest level. Rejecting what
exists is not enough. The incompetence and darkness of this regime have pushed
people to a point where overthrow feels like the only remaining path. History’s
bitter lesson is that the greater responsibility lies not only in what we
reject, but in what we are willing to name, demand, and build — and how.
In times of revolutionary fever, reason can drift away
from wisdom. Yet the price now being paid in the streets — lives cut down in
their dignity, like tall cypress trees — is so high that silence in the face of
fundamental questions becomes its own form of irresponsibility. Today our
“votes,” our “trust,” and our “support” are no longer symbolic. They are bound
directly to human lives. We can no longer afford to say, “As long as this one
goes, whoever comes next will be better.” We already paid for that illusion
once — in 1979 — with generations lost to it.
Over the past two weeks, a nationwide movement demanding
the overthrow of the Islamic Republic has taken shape and advanced, driven by
the inexhaustible force of the people, by market strikes, and by local
solidarity. Its political message is simple and unmistakable: No to the
Islamic Republic. This movement was not created by a single call. It is
the predictable result of years of accumulated rage, injustice, and
humiliation.
Within this context, political figures issued calls after
the wave had already begun. One of the most consequential came from Prince Reza
Pahlavi, and it had a real impact on the speed and scale of street
mobilisation. This is a political fact. It does not mean that any individual
owns or leads the uprising. But it does mean something else that is far more
important: the moment a political figure’s call increases the number of people
in the streets, that figure’s responsibility for the lives of those people
increases as well.
That is why accountability is not a luxury. It is the
first ethical step toward a free and democratic society.
After a century of bitter experience, holding influential
figures to account is not an act of hostility. It is an act of verification. It
is a demand for clarity, for concrete programmes, and for answers worthy of the
trust people are being asked to give. Accountability is the only honest way to
turn hope into a future that is safe rather than betrayed.
A transition plan does not become legitimate merely
because it exists on paper. It becomes legitimate only if it can answer
society’s questions. One of the most fundamental is this: does concentrating
power in the hands of one person or a small inner circle — even temporarily,
even with good intentions — really lead to democracy?
History tells us otherwise. Concentrated power, even when
it begins with promises of elections, rarely limits itself voluntarily. That is
why every transition plan must answer questions like these:
- How
will this plan prevent temporary concentration of power from becoming
permanent control?
- What
independent body will have the authority to hold transitional leaders
accountable?
- If
an interim leader or government deviates from its mandate, what mechanism
exists to restrain it?
Asking these questions is not an expression of distrust.
It is an expression of political maturity. Democracies are not built on good
intentions; they are built on power that is bound by responsibility and held to
account.
At the same time, any serious transition plan must answer
a second set of questions:
- How
will power be distributed in the first months?
- Who
will guarantee the safety of the streets, the media, and political
competition?
- To
whom will the armed forces be accountable?
- Who
will control public broadcasting?
- What
role will ethnic and religious minorities and marginalised regions play?
- If
the process stalls or fractures, what mechanism exists to correct it?
While arrests and repression continue in the dark,
speaking about Iran’s future without guarantees of transitional justice and
non-recurrence creates a dangerous vacuum. Asking what will happen to prisons,
courts, and the machinery of repression is not revenge. It is the minimum
condition for lasting peace.
History has taught us something unforgiving: empty hopes
and unanswered fervour are the greatest gifts to the next autocracy. If this
time we are truly to move toward a plural, free, and democratic future, we must
understand that Iran’s salvation — today and tomorrow — depends on
binding hope to responsibility, and responsibility to accountability.
Iran is calling her children.
We owe her an answer.
Hossein Ladjevardi
