My father is a veteran of the Sacred Defense, commonly and insultingly called the Iran-Iraq war in the West. One in the sea of 17 year old boys who signed up. He had his time in Khuzestan and has seen and felt the effects of sarin.

He tells me that the Iran of his youth is back. It had gone into hiding, under pressure, under despair, under internal and systemic corruption. But it has awakened now. The streets in all the major cities are full of people pledging allegiance to the land.

People ask me “why aren’t they in bomb shelters?”

My sweet summer children, to die is an honor. To die is a privilege. You don’t get us at all. The culture that rerouted rivers to trap Challenger tanks that were bought from the British, but never delivered, and then resold to Saddam by those same British , is back.

The culture that produced endless human waves that cleared minefields. That fought bare handed for eight years has risen.

I am proud. Assassinations are useless. Terror is a sign of despair.

The simorgh has reassembled.