Biography of Anarchist Fighters of Iran’s Geography (No. 4)

I was born in 2000. I was six months old when my father fell from the top of a building while working and died. Because there was no insurance, and we were also destitute, my mother married a man with addiction at my uncle’s insistence. My mother also turned to drugs. For two years, they entrusted me to my grandparents, and after their death, they left me sporadically in state welfare (Behzisti) for orphaned children for several years. I was very interested in theater, painting, and studying. I wanted to go to university, but I had to work.

I was sexually assaulted by my employer when I was fifteen years old, but when I told my uncle, he said that the problem was my own. I went to work somewhere else. Then, I ran away and started working in a bigger city. The restaurant owner who let me sleep above his shop came one night, and my resistance was futile. I returned to my town with a broken tooth and a swollen side—one day at this relative’s house, one day at that relative’s house. I was not always upset with my family because I knew the problem was somewhere else. The pain was rooted in a deeper place.

I hated governments, dictators, and misogynist men. Girls made me feel safe. However, our living condition, even when cried out, is not noticed in this country. As a result, you have to fight for everything. And that was what I was good at. First, I got introduced to some pages on the internet and did some activities. Then, I learned about the Anarchist friend’s page through some girls in our neighborhood. Our enthusiasm and security began here, the beginning of freedom. We had a place to sleep; we had a goal. When I got to know my comrades’ political opinions little by little, I saw that I was born an anarchist like them. We found life when we threw Molotov cocktails into seminary schools. Between the fire and the tear gas, we burst out laughing happily.

The comrade says I should not thank him here. But the bond between all of us, our comrades, is unbreakable. We really want the deprived boys and girls to know that the struggle is theirs. The struggle is not exclusive to a few. We have learned the struggle and rebellion since childhood. We have tasted the bitter taste of rejection, humiliation, being crushed, being traded as a commodity, fear, and blood, and we know how to fight better than anyone. The streets call for us.

Greetings to all comrades

Footnote: For security reasons, changes have been made in the text.

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