I’ve only seen the rolling rocky hills from the border.
My friend pointed toward the East, there, he told me, that’s Iran. There were border stations on the horizon and mostly just land, gorgeous Earthy-green and brown mountainous and expansive, right in the middle of a high desert heat.
I lingered. We were in Sulaymaniyah, a Kurdish province in NorthEast, Iraq. And there was a road …that might just have taken us to Tehran.
If only I didn’t have an American passport. If only I had a dual citizenship…from somewhere else, almost anywhere else was allowed. In the heated wind, I breathed slow. I dreamt of it.
We only stayed for a few minutes on the way to an interview.
I lingered East from the passenger seat. The country, the people, the Persian history. Magnificent.
Say what you will about the government. I have plenty to say about their coercive control over women and religious rulership. They are war lords too.
And I’ve spent time with militias they Sponsor in Iraq and Lebanon. I’ve heard the whispers of attacking invasive American military personnel. I’ve listened to everyday people across the region, some in support, some against.
The Iranian people are not their government. And still, Iran has a right to defend itself against the western sponsored bully in the region: Israel.
An Iranian official declared they will “Determine the end of the aggression.”
And yet, and yet, ooofff
The Persian people don’t want this, not from their own, not from Israel, not from the U.S.
Right now, at the time of this writing, the two countries are sparring. Israel provoked it in a ridiculous “preemptive attack” (so 2003), Iran fired back an has gotten a few missiles through the iron dome. Israel vows to keep going. They’ve invaded before, they do it over and again. Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu starts up wars to remain in power, constantly putting his own people at risk.
And still, again, the bomb shelters where Israeli people hide are nothing compared to what is happening in Gaza. Iran becomes a distraction while Israel obliterates more of Palestinian land and its people.
It’s a fucking nightmare. All of it.
War.
It is hell.
And the U.S. is always at the helm, by proxy of Israel.
This shit has got to stop.
As I sit here and keep up with the news, my thoughts linger again, this time, to where there are endings, ah, yes, there are also beginnings, even if we cannot see them yet.
The wars on the domestic front come fashioned in fascist blue shields, riot gear and some wear the label “I.C.E.,” cold brutality attacking innocence.
It’s all terribly uncomfortable isn’t it?
It’s meant to be.
The discomfort is meant to fuel us, not prevent us. The discomfort is aliveness trying to knock the door down. How many more will suffer the wars of men because —western women, in particular, were silent?
This, though, mm, is how we transform.
This is how we wake up. This is a moment of reckoning and I wonder, especially for white Americans reading, darlings, are you willing to riot? For more than just your own children? Are you willing to speak loud?
We must find ourselves and each other at soul level. We must feel it fucking all. We must know the pain in our bones and shape it into movement for justice, for healing, for Iranian women who cried out, “Woman, Life, Freedom.”
Reckoning must lead to reconciled love and love must be the antidote to inJustice.
I admit, I started writing this unsure where I wanted to end up, which is rare, but I wanted to recognize and honor the moment. The heaviness only stays if we sit and wallow in it.
The road to Tehran must be paved with an outcry, to decry the blood spilled in the name of power and privilege.
Crossing borders is more than a tale for a passport holder, it’s the very rhythm we unite protest the borders laid in the first place.
Look around, from Los Angeles to New York to Gaza to Iran, and around the world, resistance is calling, it’s not comfortable and demands we get up. We can’t just look on out the window, East, anymore.
We gotta run toward dissolving our fences and walls and stand together against the ones who drew lines in the sand in the first place.
Ash Gallagher is a writer/commentator and old war journalist analyzing the world body and soul. to see more and work with her, go to ashgallagher.com
