To a grieving brother

Before anything else, I should offer a more personal note addressed to A. I am no writer, but choose my words carefully. The piece on Ganji makes clear that he “is no hero” in my view. He is characterized as “the last of a mostly decimated generation;” better than “many of the rest of us.”

Notice the empty spaces--a pronounced absent presence--in my constructs purposefully left there for those who’d care to see.

Your brother and the thousands of young men and women who perished alongside him were the ones I grew up with and looked up to. They were the ones I played football with, argued and fought with and smoked and drank with. I smelled their smells, touched their skin, cherished their gestures, expressions and coquettishness, and the cadence of their speeches and their laughter, tears and shouts and their temper tantrums and their kindness, fidelity and decency.

They were the dreamers.

They were caught unprepared, as is often the case in these matters, and suffered the insufferable. Regardless of what they did, and failed to do, and irrespective of where I am and end up being on the political spectrum, they were, are, and shall remain my friends, companions, comrades and my inspiration.

It is the eternal shame of the Iranian nation that they were so ill treated and that they so perished.

We mourn them always. In due time—more humane time, we’ll celebrate and honor them in a manner befitting their dignity.